Page 4 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
I stick my tongue out at him as he wheels his bike into his garage. His shoulders are engraved with dozens of crescent-shaped moons my nails left behind. I’d apologize if he wasn’t the exact reason I had to cling for dear life.
“This is why I need a car,” I proclaim to the universe. “To save myself, and innocent bystanders, from reckless cyclists like you.”
“You’re such a saint,” he replies dryly, even though we both know a car would make our lives here in Jersey substantially easier. Herbert, the car his mom passed down to him before she moved back to Puerto Rico last summer, was ancient when she bought it. Now it can barely handle the twenty-minute drive to school every morning.
Joaquin nods his head toward his place. “You coming?”
Thanks to the fear and adrenaline coursing through my veins during the ride home, I started sweating in places whereno oneshould sweat.
“I desperately need a shower. Meet at mine in ten?”
He gives me a thumbs-up before disappearing into his house, and I lug up the driveway to my own.
Opening the door, I’m met with a round of earsplitting barks.
My twenty-pound terror of a dog, Nurse Oatmeal, comes tearing through the living room, growling and snarling beside me as I step into the entryway to take off my shoes.
“Cállate!” Joaquin’s grandma, Doña Carmen, bellows from the kitchen, even though there’s no point telling her to be quiet. Nurse Oatmeal is the only terrier on this planet that can’t smell her humans coming a mile away. In the four years since Joaquin and I found her, she’s never once let anyone come through the door without giving them a symphony of high-pitched barks for at least thirty seconds.
Sure enough, she settles down once she realizes “Oh yeah, this person fills my bowl every day” and returns to the very important task of chewing on a throw blanket in the living room. It’d be one thing if she just barked at everyone who comes through the door, but no, she’s a chewing menace too. Her massive pile of destroyed stuffed animals, shoes, and old T-shirts is practically part of the living room décor.
“Thank you again for walking her,” I say to Doña Carmen after our usual cheek-kiss greeting.
“Claro, claro,” she replies, waving off my thanks. Doña Carmen had jumped at the chance to watch the dog when I’d mentioned it in passing over dinner at their place last week, insisting that we didn’t need to pay a sitter when she knew how to tame the beast herself.
Both she and Joaquin have been over at our place more often lately. Probably since theirs is unusually lonely now that Mrs.Romero is back in Puerto Rico taking care of her mother, who has rapidly progressing Alzheimer’s, and Joaquin’s older sister, Isabella, left for her freshman year at American University in DC. Without the cacophony of Isabella yelling at Joaquin to let her use the TV, or Mrs.Romero singing along to the radio in the kitchen, the house feels deserted.
Doña Carmen hoists herself up and starts gathering her things. “Hiciste mucho chavo?” she asks with a raised brow, waiting for me to show off the spoils of my labor.
I frown, pulling the few crumpled dollar bills out of my pocket. Barely thirty bucks. “Nah, slow day.”
Doña Carmen gives me a consoling pat on the shoulder. “You’ll get there,” she whispers before shuffling over to the living room to give Nurse Oatmeal a parting scratch behind the ears. “I made arroz con gandules, if you want any.”
I cross the kitchen to the pot on the stove, lifting the lid and taking in a deep whiff of her signature rice. The intoxicating scent of her top-secret sofrito blend makes my mouth water. Watching our goblin of a dog while Mami and I are at workandmaking us food? Forget me, she’s the real saint around here.
Pulling my tongue off the floor, I head to my room to store my tips, then go to the bathroom to scrub away the smell of a hard day’s work. By the time I make it back to the living room, hair in a clumsy braid and dressed in my finest semi-clean sweatpants and concert T-shirt, Joaquin has made himself at home.
He and Nurse Oatmeal are sprawled out on the couch, her body flopped on his chest while he rubs her belly and talks to her in his signature For-Nurse-Oatmeal-Only baby voice.
“Who’s the best girl?” Her ears perk up. “You are!” Her tongue rolls out of her mouth in delight.
It’s a cruel twist of fate that Nurse Oatmeal lives at my house instead of Joaquin’s. She’s always preferred him over me, even though my belly-rubbing technique isfarsuperior. Even the day we found her freshman year, eating oatmeal next to the dumpsterbehind the nurse’s office, she ran up to Joaquin the second she saw him and completely ignored me and the hot dog I offered her to lure her in. The only reason we wound up taking her in was because Isabella is allergic to dogs. Now Joaquin has an empty house, and I’m in an unrequited relationship with ourdog.
“Can you please tell the best girl to stop chewing on all of my stuff?” Last week the little shit destroyed my favorite pair of sneakers.
Joaquin leans in close to Nurse Oatmeal, his brow furrowing as if the two are having a heated discussion. “She says no.” He ducks his head close to hers again. “And that you should give her more treats.”
“Shocking how she always says the same thing whenever I ask you to translate,” I reply as I stand between him and the TV with crossed arms and a raised brow. “So.” I pause for dramatic effect. “My souvenir?”
“Yeesh.” Joaquin groans as he sets Nurse Oatmeal aside and stands up. “It’s like you’re only friends with me for the gifts.”
“Duh, wasn’t that obvious?”
He ignores my reply in favor of covering my eyes and guiding me carefully into the next room. “Keep ’em closed,” he whispers before letting go of me and walking off. I hear what I think is the fridge door, then his footsteps approaching before he rests his hands back on my shoulders. “Okay, open.”
My eyes fly open and my jaw almost hits the ground as I take in the surprise. “You did not.”
With a flourish, he waves his arms toward the dozen slushies spread across the dining room table. “I did.”
