Page 35 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
“What the—” Mr.Cline startles so suddenly, the chair he’s leaning back in topples over, his head smacking against the chalkboard with a thunk. He groans, rubbing the red mark forming on his bald spot as he stumbles to his feet. “Let’s hustle before—”
Too late. Before he can warn us, the sprinklers engage, showering the classroom in a fine spray of ice-cold water. My stoned prison mate makes a dash for the door, leaving behind his bag and half-eaten Twinkie. Once the downpour starts, Mr.Cline abandons professional bravery, not even bothering to check on me or Cannon Boy before darting out of the room too.
I clutch my notebook and backpack to my chest and rush into the hallway, my stuff already soaked. The halls are thankfully dry except for the puddles Mr.Cline and Stoner Goon left behind. I’m halfway to the exit when the world turns upside down, my foot slipping and sending me hurtling toward the ground.
Before my head can crack open like an egg, something—someone—catches me by the waist, leaving me suspended in midair. I open one eye, a familiar face backlit by the hallway’s horrendously unflattering fluorescent lighting.
“Joaquin?” I croak out. Did I hit my head and go to heaven (or hell, who am I kidding?) and this is some kind of mirage?
“Ivelisse,” he responds with a sly smirk. It’s not until then that I realize just how close we are, his face a breath apart from mine. My cheeks immediately flame as I realize I’m definitely not the most attractive sight to behold right now.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask once he’s pulled me up, discreetly attempting to flatten down any flyaways the water may have caused. His hand continues to brace my waist like I may collapse in shock. Which, to be fair, I might. The amount of caffeine and fear-induced adrenaline pumping through my veins can’t be healthy.
“Saving you from ‘the fire.’ ” The air quotes throw me off, buthe answers that question before I can ask it. “Needed to break you out of detention somehow.” He points his thumb in the direction of the triggered fire alarm beside the detention classroom.
“Quin!” I smack him on the arm. “What the hell?! You could get in massive trouble!”
“Relax, I’m a fire-alarm-pulling pro.” When I open my mouth to protest, his arm comes up to rest around my shoulder and tug me toward the exit. “Unless you want to keep standing here and let me get caught.”
Fair enough. I lean into the warmth of him, chasing away the chill from the water that’s slowly soaking through my hoodie and jeans. He doesn’t let go of me until we get to his car. He pops open the trunk, rooting through one of the dozens of gym bags he keeps around in case of emergencies for a spare T-shirt. He gives the handful he finds a sniff, his nose scrunching in disapproval before he ultimately reaches for the hem of his own shirt and pulls it over his head.
My face goes hot as the core of the earth. I’d scoffed at the Emilys for gawking at him when his shirt rode up, and now seeing his impressively-defined-for-a-teenager’s abs on full display makes my world spin. How the mighty have fallen. “What’re you—”
“Here, get changed,” he interrupts, tossing me the shirt off his back and a pair of shorts from his trunk before opening the door to my illustrious changing room: the back seat.
“Why?” I ask as we slide into the car, and I shrug out of my wet clothes as quickly as I can. Thank God for tinted windows, Herb’s sole upgrade. “And shouldn’t you be at baseball practice?”
“Turns out Coach did go way overboard on the trainingschedule. Half the team couldn’t even stand up today, so we get the night off.” When I focus on him in the rearview mirror, I see the dark circles under his eyes. Usually he’s only this exhausted during finals week.
“Well, if you’re about to go off on a crime spree, can you at least drop me off at home first? I don’t trust my mom to postbail.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he taunts as he flips on the radio, keeping his eyes carefully averted from where I’m struggling to pull off my damp skinny jeans. “If I was about to go on a crime spree, you’re the last person I’d call.”
“Excuse you!” He’s lucky I’m pantsless, and therefore in no position to fight back. “I’d be an excellent partner in crime.”
Joaquin scoffs, reading something on his phone that he makes sure to keep out of my line of view. “Please. You can’t lie to save your life. Ten minutes into an interrogation and you’d rat me out for a cheese sandwich and a ride home.”
“Well, is it a grilled cheese or a regular cheese sandwich?”
He ignores my question in favor of paying attention to whatever’s on his phone. Meanwhile, I eye the damp notebook I threw onto the seat beside me, my half-written apology mostly smudged away thanks to the sprinklers. I’m a better liar than he gives me credit for, but he’s not entirely off base either. I’m definitely quick to break under pressure. All it took was a few unread texts for me to start spilling my guts on paper.
“So, whatisyour plan for tonight, then?” I ask after I’ve finished changing.
Joaquin waits until I give him a tap on the shoulder, signaling that I’m decent again, to reply. He leans across the console toopen the glove compartment, pulling out something that I narrowly catch when he tosses it to me. A black eye mask with the wordsSleeping Beautywritten in hot-pink gemstones.
“If this is supposed to be an answer, it’s not a very good one.”
Rather than reply, he throws the car into gear, waiting until we’re stopped at a red light down the block to face me.
“We’re going on an adventure.”
Chapter Twelve
“The lost city of atlantis.”
My latest guess as to where we’re headed is met with a negative buzzer sound from Joaquin. I groan, smacking my head against the headrest like a toddler who was just denied McDonald’s.
“C’moooooon, can I at least get a hint?”
