Page 45 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
I brace my hands against his chest, my heart racing as we both blink rapidly through the shock. Our chests rise and fall together, our breath mingling in the barely-there space between us. Close enough for me to smell his peppermint ChapStick.
His eyes find mine, wide and filled with something that might be terror. His lips part, but the words are caught in his throat. Everything I should say has gone out the window, and everything I want to say feels too dangerous to utter out loud.
It’d be so easy to close the distance. To do the one thing my heart wants, but my brain won’t let me. It would only take one inch to change everything.
“Can y’all move?”
The cashier pokes his head out of the to-go window, pulling off one side of his headset as if that’ll help him glare harder at us.
Joaquin and I go as red as the bag in the cashier’s hand, jumping to our feet so quickly it makes my head spin. “Sorry, yeah, thanks,” I mumble incoherently as I struggle to wipe dirt and grass off my hoodie and grab the slushies at the same time.
A twentysomething couple hovering beside us cover their grins behind their hands, waiting patiently until we’ve collected our order and left the cashier a ten-dollar bill as a tip to step up and place their order.
“You okay?” Joaquin asks as we head back to his car.
“No, I’m mortified,” I say with a groan. “This moment is going to come back to haunt me in the middle of the night for the next forty years.”
“I meant, did you get hurt?” he clarifies with an unusually somber expression. “Like, in the fall.”
“Oh.” The lack of humor on his face throws me for a loop. Normally he’d quip back with some one-liner about how I have worse things to be embarrassed about. Which I do. “ ’M fine.You?”
“Probably a bruised butt, but I’ll live.” This time there’s a hint of humor, and the pressure in my chest eases up.
We sit cross-legged on the hood of his car, spreading our bounty between us. Joaquin pokes at the blue raspberry slushie like it’s a suspicious unlabeled package before taking a cautious first sip. His entire face screws up like he just swallowed a dozen lemons.
“Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.”
“You’re such a baby,” I tease, knocking my knee against his and swiping the cup out of his hand.
A piercing, sour taste rushes through me the second the slushie hits my tongue. My face scrunches up just like his, unable to resist the shock of the unexpected flavor. “Okay, never mind, you’re right. That’s vile.”
Joaquin waves his arms in a way that screams “I told you so” without actually saying it.
We set aside the noxious blue raspberry in favor of the lime—which, somehow, is nowhere near as sour as the blue raspberry is. Even combining our slushies together doesn’t do anything to save the overpowering flavor of the blue raspberry. Definitely not shimmy worthy.
“All right,” I announce after we’ve taken a few sips, pulling out my phone and opening the Notes app. “What’s your ranking?”
Joaquin takes one more sip before making his final judgment, swirling the plastic cup around like a sommelier. “I’m feeling generous. Four.”
“Very generous indeed,” I reply, adding Blastoff Burger to the location column, and adding Joaquin’s rating to his column. I reach for his cup, taking another sip to be sure before giving my ranking. “The blue raspberry is trash, but the lime isn’t half bad. And I’ve gotta give ’em props for having this many flavors. Four and a half.”
Joaquin nods in agreement as I add my own rating to the final column. “Sorry this place turned out be a dud.”
I shrug. “I mean, it probably would’ve been better if I ordered flavors we actually like.” He lets out a soft, quiet laugh.“AndI’mthe one who should be sorry. We wasted your macaw on a place that kinda sucks.” I hold up a rubbery mozzarella stick with my phone-free hand. Neither of us are huge fans of deep-fried cheese, but these are thin, chewy, and an insult to mankind.
“Okay, now that we’ve sampled all our contenders, the winner is…” I scroll through our list. “Marco’s. Shocker.”
Iggy’s Ices put up a commendable fight, but no one stands a chance against Marco’s—the only establishment we gave tens across the board. Sure, it’s probably the sentimentality speaking, but it really is a damn good slushie.
“All hail the champion,” Joaquin says with a smile as he leans back against the car’s windshield, gazing up at the full moon. After a beat, I join him, carefully situating myself so I’m not leaning against Herbert’s wipers.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Joaquin asks once I’m settled.
“You’re a flat earther?” He gives me a confused frown. “What? That’s exactly the type of thing you’d want to keep a secret.”
He rolls his eyes. Then he stays quiet for so long I start to wonder if he’s actually waiting for permission to tell me, or if I’ve ruined the moment by making a joke out of it. I open my mouth to apologize when he finally speaks up again.
“I heard you. And your mom. Earlier.” The words come out in clipped staccato, as if he’s measuring out each syllable before he says it.
