Page 70 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
“What is he doing here?” I don’t remember pressing the speak button on my headset, and I don’t even know if that was meant to be said out loud or privately obsessed over in the recesses of my mind, but Anna’s response grounds me.
“He’s here for you.”
He’s here for me, like he always has been. And, maybe, he always will be.
“Thought you might want to know now. Instead of hearing it from one of the Emilys gagging over him.”
While I know I should thank her, I can only focus on him.The curve of his lips and the way he taps his foot along to the music. His glossy brown curls. The peonies, blush pink and ten times more beautiful than the dried petals that used to sit on my living room mantel.
I have to talk to him. Hug him. Tell him I never want to let him go again.
“I’ll be right back,” I say into the headset before whipping it off and rushing to the stage exit.
The clock is ticking until curtain, but I’ve wasted enough time running away from what I feel. For once, I want to face it head-on, and I can’t risk letting that feeling fade when the lights go down, and I lose him to the darkness.
The backstage area is a maze. Props and costume pieces litter the ground, and at one point I stub my toe so hard my life flashes before my eyes. Once visions of my third birthday party have faded, I take a careful step forward, only to trip over my backpack.
“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath as the contents of my bag go spilling all over the stage. Professions of love get pushed onto the back burner as I scramble to scoop up my things and shove them back into my bag. Unless I want Tampax to be scattered across Padua, I need to act fast. My attempt to cram everything into my bag at lightning speed falters when I get to the last item—my yearbook.
The book is facedown on the ground, a dog-eared page catching my attention. I definitely didn’t do that. I only had my yearbook for a matter of minutes before tucking it into my bag, and the only other person who had it was Joaquin…
Lunging for the book, I open to the flagged page so quickly I cut the tip of my finger on the stiff paper. I let out a hiss and suck my thumb, catching any blood before it can drip onto the page.
The page is a familiar one—Joaquin’s memorial-esque spread. In the lower left corner, there’s a message written beneath an image I didn’t notice earlier. Joaquin and I in the Dino World photobooth, him licking my cheek, sandwiched between a photo of him running through the outfield, and a selfie of him and Doña Carmen before junior prom. A photo he must’ve asked them to include.
Ive—I’ll always want to be next to you.
Every part of me swells with a type of exhilaration I’ve never felt before. Better than every roller-coaster drop combined, and more dizzying than any corkscrew turn or inversion loop. The words ring in my ears like a song on repeat. The boy I never want to let go of doesn’t want to let go either.
An idea pops into my mind—a chance to give Joaquin the promposal moment he deserves.
An idea thatcouldmajorly backfire but is worth the risk.
Eileen, the stage manager, appears out of the darkness like a ghost—her face and arms the only thing left visible thanks to her all-black ensemble. “Are we good to get started or—”
“One second.”
Without giving myself time to overthink or doubt, I dash toward the stage as fast as my jelly legs will carry me. I grab the AUX cord for the onstage speaker, plugging in my phone andpulling up the playlist Joaquin sent me weeks ago with only a single song on it—a song I’ve played enough times to know all the lyrics by heart. Whose lyrics have never felt more relevant than when I stared out into a crowd of hundreds and only saw one person.
Whipping the curtain aside, I burst onto the stage and directly into the blinding spotlight like an overeager ingenue as the opening notes of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” ring throughout the auditorium.
At first, I wince against the harsh glare and heat of the light. Anyone who can dance, sing, and act at the same time under this kind of pressure deserves a gold medal. Anna, God bless her, must notice the way the light catches me off guard, the brightness dimming until I can slightly make out the audience.
Joaquin comes into view just in the nick of time, our eyes locking as I lunge for the microphone seconds before the first lyric of the song.
“You’re just too good to be true,”I mouth along, careful not to actually sing so as not to destroy everyone’s eardrums. Instead, I commit to the bit, doing my best to match Frankie Valli’s energy as the crowd giggles and hides smiles behind their hands. Who knows how long I have before Eileen tries to pull me off the stage with a cane like a vaudeville gag, so I’ve got to sell it while I can.
Anna, a true angel, gives me a hand. She quickly reprograms the lights, allowing the spotlight to follow me as I attempt to sway my way off the stage and into the audience. As I near the edge of the curtain, I narrowly dodge Eileen’s outstretched hand.
“What’re you doing?!” she mutters to me from backstage, still attempting to grab the back of my shirt.
During the instrumental interlude, I take advantage of the brief break from having to mouth along to dart across the stage and away from Eileen. The crowd breaks out into scattered laughter as I two-step my way to the other end of the stage, and it takes all of my willpower not to get too into my head about how mortifyingly embarrassing this could be. Eileen slowly edges out onto the stage, cloaked in darkness as the spotlight continues to follow me. Being generous, I probably have about thirty seconds until she tackles me and drags me backstage.
With what little time I have left, I give everything I have to the performance. I throw my head back and lip sync along to the chorus, faux-belting like I’m gunning for a Tony. I’m not much of a dancer, so I throw my free arm into the air and let the spirit of Frankie Valli take over. It’s easy to give myself over to the music when the lyrics feel so relevant—true in every sense about the boy I’m singing them to.
Eileen is tight on my tail, her hand just barely missing me as I kick ball change and jazz hands away from her, using every musical theater dance move I’ve picked up to put distance between us. I hazard a peek over my shoulder, my performance faltering when I realize how close she is to catching up to me. She rears back, as if she’s going to football tackle me to the ground. With one last literal leap of faith, I jump into the audience and slide on my knees until I’m directly in front of Joaquin.
“Let me love you…,” I say just for him.
