Page 62 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
Isabella frowns. “That sucks—seems like he really liked her.”
I shrug, and I make the mistake of attempting to glance at her for her reaction, only for our eyes to meet for a flash of a second. My cheeks ignite as I focus on the road, hoping she doesn’t see the blush spreading down to my neck like a terriblerash.
If she does, she doesn’t comment on it. But I don’t miss the smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she turns to look out the window.
We fly through the last of the drive, chopping off a solid twenty minutes thanks to a shorter route Isabella knows to get us to Elmwood more directly. We’re still too late to catch the beginning of the game, but with something this down to the wire, every minute matters. The game is well underway by the time we pull into the Cordero parking lot, but the tailgate party is still in full force out here.
“You’d think they were playing in the World Series,” Isabella says as we make our way through the parking lot. She narrowlymanages to dodge a beefy guy I can’t believe is a teenager tossing a hamburger bun across the lot like a frisbee.
To be fair, thisisthe World Series of high school baseball. Especially for the seniors—this is basically our last sports hurrah. Unlike Isabella’s graduating class, we actually have a shot at the championship title.
“Watch your head,” I warn her as another bun comes flying our way, both of us narrowly ducking in time.
“God, I do not miss this place.” She scowls right after she steps on a ketchup packet, sauce oozing beneath the soles of her sneakers.
Once she’s wiped her shoe clean, we brave the crowd and head for the bleachers. The sea of fans decked out in Cordero T-shirts, hats, and sweatpants isn’t any less rowdy. Popcorn and gummy worms litter the concrete as we scan the crowd for empty seats.
We manage to find two spots way up in the nosebleeds. Navigating our way up there is trickier than expected, with people getting knocked over or forcefully throwing debris every which way. I give the WAGs a polite wave as we walk past their premium seats close to the field. For once, I was hoping they’d welcome me into their midst, but all they give me are tight-lipped smiles as they huddle closer together in their seats. Guess they noticed my platonic separation from Quin, and a good view is reserved fortrueWAGs only.
Isabella and I link hands as we narrowly squeeze past a group of rowdy boys from the lacrosse team to take the seats beside them. Whatever happens on the field sends the lax brosjumping up in excitement. I watch in horror as one of their hot dogs goes flying into the air. Isabella, struggling to regain her balance after the boys nearly sent her flying into the seats below us, is standing directly in the flying hot dog’s path.
Without thinking, I reach out and pull her out of the line of fire by swapping our places, pushing her toward my seat and taking relish, mustard, and a half-eaten wiener right to the face.
“Oh shit, my bad,” the boy apologizes while sauerkraut drips down my cheek and under the collar of my sweater.
Somewhere behind me I can hear Isabella gasp before starting to curse the boy out in rapid Spanish.
“It’s fine,” I say with a plastered-on smile, accepting the napkin he offers me and returning to my seat.
“You sure you’re okay?” Isabella does her best to help, swiping the napkin from my hand and dabbing at the gunk caked on my cheek and neck.
“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble, and it’s actually not a lie. I’m here, covered in sauerkraut and sitting in awful seats, but the fact that we made it at all is a miracle. It’s not what I pictured when I woke up soaked in sweat at three in the morning, but it feels pretty perfect.
Everything except for the score.
“We’re down by two?!”
I whip around to glance down at the field, Isabella seemingly as shocked as I am.
“He must be off his game,” she mumbles, going back to biting her thumb.
Even from high up in the stands, I can see the sweat dottingJoaquin’s forehead. The easy confidence that carried him through the season is long gone, replaced by pinched brows and a tight-lipped frown.
“Get your head out of your ass, Quin!” Isabella shouts, and I pinch her arm, even though there’s no way he can hear us from all the way up here.
“You’re supposed to be a surprise!” I hiss as she drops back into her seat with a groan.
“Well, the surprise won’t be good if he doesn’t win.”
A fair point. My plan isn’t contingent on Joaquin winning the championship, but realizing his sister is here to watch him lose the final and most important game of his high school career won’t exactly be the heartwarming moment I want it to be.
Things aren’t much better going into the eighth inning than when we got here midway through the game. The only minor improvement is that we manage to snag ourselves some snacks before they sold out. Cordero is down by one, and Joaquin is definitely off his game. Hits he should’ve been able to catch in his sleep go whizzing past the tip of his glove, and his usually razor-sharp instincts fail him, leaving him scrambling to pivot and run in the correct direction. Watching his frustration boil over to the point that he starts taking it out on himself is a cruel sort of torture. If I wasn’t at risk of being booed by everyone within a five-mile radius, I’d sprint onto the field after he earns his third strike, and the team their second out for the inning, and hug him so hard he’d have no choice but to unclench hisfists.
But seeing me would likely make everything worse.
The self-centered part of me that landed us in this situationwonders if he wouldn’t be in a slump if his best friend hadn’t wrecked their friendship a week before the championship game. While I’d gladly take the blame for him, thinking this is about me is flattery. Nothing else.
“Come on, man!” Isabella shouts as Cordero’s next at bat earns himself a swift first strike. “This shit’s painful to watch.”
