Page 64 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
“You ready?” he asks in lieu of pleasantries. He gestures for her to follow him toward the door that leads to the dugout but Isabella whips around to face me first.
“Aren’t you coming?”
The joy inside me flickers like the light strip in Joaquin’s room. Bright, jubilant yellow fading to dull, muted blue. “Nah. This moment’s just for you two.”
Isabella crosses her arms and gives me the same glare she’d given our rowdy seat neighbors.
“It’s fine, I swear!” I insist, throwing in a laugh for good measure. Over her shoulder, Coach Mills taps the nonexistent watch on his wrist. We’re already running on a tight schedule and getting down here from the stands was more of a process than we’d thought.
“Go be with your brother before we get kicked out,” I say quietly enough that Coach Mills can’t hear before turning Isabella around and pushing her toward him.
She groans but doesn’t protest this time, and jogs to catch up with the others. “Don’t think this means you’re getting out of coming to the celebration dinner!” she calls over her shoulder.“We’ll go to your uncle’s place—so you don’t have any excuse for skipping!”
I roll my eyes and wave before they disappear behind adoor markedTeam Only. There’s no point in telling her Joaquin won’t want me around for this moment, and definitely not for a celebratory dinner. Tonight is about him, about them, aboutbasking in the glory of the moment he’s worked his entire high school career for. Not about us—if there even is an us anymore.
Fighting against the swarm of people trying to head out early to avoid the inevitable parking lot traffic takes more out of me than I would’ve expected. By the time I make it back to the stands, snagging a free seat closer to the field, I’m dripping sweat and the Diet Coke someone spilled on me. I’m just a walking Happy Meal today, aren’t I?
As Coach Mills and Isabella appear on the opposite end of the field, I press myself up against the railing separating the stands from the field, ignoring the burn of the sun-warmed metal on my palms. The celebration is going just as strong as it was when we left, the entire Cordero team huddled together at home plate bouncing and screaming and jumping over one another until Coach Mills appears from the shadows, carrying a trophy the size of my entire body.
Finding Joaquin in the sea of white uniforms is easy, even without the extra few inches he has on the rest of the team. My eyes lock on him in time to see his mouth gaping as Isabella races toward him. His teammates part like the Red Sea, letting Isabella launch herself at her brother.
He’s unsteady on his feet, stumbling under her weight as she wraps her arms around his neck. The team helps keep them up, clamoring to get their hands on Joaquin’s back and push him upright. He still seems paralyzed by shock when Isabella lets him go, whispering something to him that I can’t make out. When she finishes, cupping his cheeks and smiling at him, he lunges at her this time, burying his head so far in her neck I can’t see anything but his curls.
It feels intrusive, watching him unravel in his sister’s arms, tears streaking their cheeks. I don’t even realize tears have started trailing down my own face until someone hands me a napkin.
There’s not much that I’m proud of from the last month, but at least I can be proud of this. Creating a perfect moment, captured by the photographers buzzing across the field, for the most perfectly imperfect boy.
Dabbing my cheeks, I head back to the parking lot.
This moment is exactly the way I’d planned it. Like withThe Taming of the Shrew,I busted my ass to pull the strings and set the scene for something beautiful, knowing I’d hide behind the curtain when the spotlight turned on. That’s what I’m good at. Crafting the happy ending for someone else. Joaquin got the reunion he never saw coming, and a memory he’ll hopefully cherish forever. A memory that won’t involve me.
If I thought the party we’d walked into earlier was a rager, it’s nothing compared to the absolute madness at the end of the game. Boys with shaved heads and red-painted faces sing the Cordero anthem at the top of their lungs while music blasts from a dozen different speakers. Grills are lit up again for a secondround of burgers and hot dogs, with people passing brown paper bags that I’m sure aren’t hiding juice boxes or RedBull.
“Good Lord…,” I whisper to myself as the boy next to me rips off his T-shirt, revealing a Cordero Ram painted onto his chest.
Clearly, the Cordero student body doesn’t know how to do anything low-key.
It’s a struggle to make it to my car at the farthest end of the lot. While the excitement is infectious, a part of it is also unnerving. Boys who didn’t even know I existed yesterday urge me to join them for Jell-O shots while girls who have gotten my name wrong on multiple occasions pronounce my name correctly for the first time in years. It’s as if the shine of a championship win has mended any old wounds. Petty fights and breakups and cheating scandals are forgotten in the name of getting sloshed in the parking lot.
Tessa sits primly in the open trunk of her car, watching the pandemonium unfold in front of her like a queen overseeing her kingdom. She takes a careful sip of her drink—a green smoothie in a hot-pink tumbler—and straightens the bow holding her ponytail in place. Her uniform is still pristine and there’s not a drop of sweat on her even though she was doing backflips less than twenty minutes ago. She’s as beautifully otherworldly as always.
I linger on her longer than I should, but for once it’s not because of some spite from freshman year holding me there, wishing my glare could wither her into a husk. It’s because of her smile, soft and easy as she teases her friends and laughs after oneof their jokes. No biting comments or tearing people down. Just being a regular ridiculously cool, attractive teenager.
Her eyes catch mine before I can turn away, the corners of her lips twitching into a small smile. She gives me a wave, earning the attention of her gaggle of friends as they stand on their tiptoes to see who she’s gracing with her attention. The fourteen-year-old trapped inside me yells to flip her off and move on, but I don’t listen to that part of myself anymore. So, I wave back.
A rumble spreads through the parking lot. The music and shouts crank up to maximum volume and I can feel the asphalt vibrating beneath my feet. I quickly wonder if we’re about to break into a stampede when the crowd shifts beside me. Someone grabs my wrist, a flushed and panting Danny breaking out of the throng.
What the hell?
“What’re you doing?!” I snap, yanking my wrist out of his grip. It’s the most we’ve said to each other since our breakup four years ago.
“Joaquin’s looking for you,” he says through labored breaths, sweat dripping from his forehead to his cheeks.
“Oh.” Every part of me goes warm, and suddenly I don’t mind the sweat Danny left behind on my wrist.
Maybe I misheard. The music and the excitement must have gotten to me. There’s no way Joaquin’s been looking for me when he’s surrounded by people who want to give him a shot to celebrate or take a picture with him.
No way.
