Page 39 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
I narrow my eyes at him, scrutinizing every inch of him for any tricks he may be hiding up his sleeve. The flash goes off, only one picture left until we’re done. Reluctantly, I slap my hand into his and accept the bargain.
“Smile!” Joaquin shouts, gripping my hand so tight he knows I won’t be able to pull away. His free hand cups my cheek and pulls me in close enough to lick the other cheek, the flash going off right as I let out a squeal.
“You. Are. The. Worst,” I mutter as I wipe my face with my sleeve.
“Weird way to say ‘you’re the best, and I’m constantly in awe of how great you are’ but sure.”
I huff out of the booth, swiping the two photo strips we—actually,he—paid an inhumane $15 for.
I’m only properly facing the camera in one panel—the one where I shoved Joaquin out of frame. But the expression on my face as Joaquin licks my cheek, somewhere between disgust and the purest type of joy, is worth the grossness. I wouldn’t change a thing about it. The photo or the moment.
I can already picture it taking prime placement above the bed in my dorm room—wherever that might be. I peek over at him, knots twisting in my stomach at the thought of the future. Rutgers isn’t the fresh start I wanted, but it could mean more nights like this one. More nights withhim.
The lights across the park begin to dim, an unspoken announcement that the End of Day Lightshow is about to start. We keep quiet as the fountains before each ride entrance ignite, spraying Technicolor jets into the air, an explosion of colorsurrounding us. Lanterns strung along the food stands come to life, bathing our picnic area in a warm peach glow. Above us, fireworks spark across the stars to create patterns and dinosaur outlines, pulling oohs and aahs from every corner of the park.
Behind us, the speaker system crackles. The music switches from an upbeat pop track to something more familiar.
“Isn’t this song—”
Joaquin cuts me off by sweeping me off my feet—literally. He lifts me up from my seat like he’s gunning to be on the cover of a romance novel, setting me down gently before wrapping an arm around my waist. My head spins, our chests pressed together as he takes my free hand in his and sways to “I Want You to Want Me”—a song Mrs.Romero used to blast almost every time we got into the car.
“What’re you doing, dork?” I tease, holding back a giggle as he struggles to follow a basic three-count waltz.
He beams as he guides me along. “This song demands to be danced to.”
“If this is you trying to distract me so I won’t make you go on the Triscareatops, it won’t work.”
The hand on my waist comes up to pat my head. “Shhhhh, just sway with me.”
While usually I’d quip back, this time I shut up and go with it. His hand returns to my waist, our movements slowing down as we find our rhythm with one another. Cautiously, I lean my head on his shoulder—wait for him to pull away. But he doesn’t flinch, just holds me tighter.
The song is as cheesy as I remember, like something straightout of the end of a ’90s rom-com. And with the gentle patter of Joaquin’s heartbeat against my cheek, I feel like I’m in one.
We stay there, wrapped up in one another, even after the song fades. Fireworks blend into our soundtrack, pops and explosions and cheers as the lights over our shoulders dim from one pastel color to the next. The smells of the park—sweat and popcorn and powdered sugar—fade under the scent clinging to Joaquin’s collar. Irish Spring body wash, the lavender dryer sheets his abuela loves, sofrito and cilantro.
The smell of home.
“So, I was thinking…,” he says so quiet I almost miss it.
“Mmm…” I could keep my hands on his chest, lean into his touch like this, forever.
“What if I asked Tessa to prom here?”
And, just like that, the bubble bursts.
Cracks echo in my ears as the illusion I’d let myself get swept up in shatters. His hands drop, the light show comes to an anticlimactic close, and all that’s left is my racing heart.
“W-what?” I ask, reaching up to rub my temple. The whiplash of the topic change leaves me with the first signs of an oncoming headache.
“DeShawn’s been asking around if anyone has any ideas for what StuCo should plan for senior skip day next Friday, and I was thinking we could come here.” He waves his arms toward the spectacle of rides and games and food vendors behind us. “One of the guys on the team has a cousin who works here. Maybe we could get him to take Tessa on a scavenger hunt thing that ends here before the light show. I could probably askthem to play this song over the loudspeaker too. It’d be perfect, right?!”
What hurts more than the thought of Tessa is the way he still sayswe.As if this is a joint venture, something we’re both doing because we’re in love with Tessa Hernandez. As if these past few days haven’t made me feel like we’re less of awethan ever. I’m not strong enough to maintain eye contact, the ache in my stomach making me slump. My gaze falls to the photo strip poking out of his pocket.
“Y-yeah. Pretty perfect,” I mumble because I don’t have it in me to say no. To tell him that I feel like everything is crumbling. To tell him that I’m in love with—
“Sweet,” he says, interrupting that dangerous line of thought. “I’ll talk to DeShawn tomorrow and see if we can make it work.”
He turns away from me and takes in the park with new wonder in his eyes. Clouded by the shimmer of what must be visions of Tessa and her perfect glossy hair and perfect designer minidress kissing him as a dozen fireworks spark.
