Page 68 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
“Sorry,” I mumble, sweat starting to form on my brow as I turn back to the empty page. “Writer’s block.”
Joaquin doesn’t reply, leaning up against the nearby lunch table instead.
Thousands of ideas come to me, one on top of the other until my brain starts to operate like a greeting card factory. Writing a yearbook message shouldn’t be this nerve-racking, but it’s never felt so loaded before. I’ve only got one shot to come up with something, and I don’t even have the luxury of an eraser. Something that says “I’m sorry, I miss you, please tell me we can be okay” without being longer thanWar and Peace.Or, maybe, something that doesn’t say any of those things. Because how am I supposed to know what he wants me to say?
Goddammit, this is too much brain power for a Monday.
I inhale sharply, grounding myself and shaking off my doubts and panic and go with my gut. It’s been pretty traitorous this year, but I have a good feeling about this one.
Quin,
You’re my favorite person too.
Ive
Short, simple, and says everything I wanted to say but didn’t have the courage to. Before I can overthink it, I hand the yearbook back to him before he can notice my sweaty, shaking palms. Mercifully, he doesn’t immediately read the message,sparing me the mortification of having to watch his reaction in real time. Instead, he tucks it into his backpack, and I do the same with my own.
“Ready for opening night?” he asks once he’s zipped his bagup.
The start of a new conversation startles me. Everything about this interaction has caught me off guard, but especially the fact that it seems so…normal. Like there isn’t an ocean of unaddressed feelings between us. “ ‘Ready’ might be an overstatement.”
“You say that every year,” he teases. “You’re gonna kill it, though. You always do.”
The compliment makes me feel weightless, but my feet remain firmly planted on the ground. “Thanks,” I reply, holding up my crossed fingers. “Fingers crossed.”
“Good luck.” Dread washes over him. “Wait, shit, that’s the one thing you’re not supposed to say, right?”
“You’re fi—”
“Did I just curse the whole show? Should I throw salt over my shoulder? Knock on wood?”
Before I can reply, he takes it upon himself to knock on the faux wood lunch table.
“I think we’ll be fine,” I say between laughs as he rips open one of the abandoned salt packets on the table and tosses it haphazardly over his left shoulder, salting a disgruntled cheerleader walking past him. “It’ll take a lot more than a curse to mess withus.”
My reassurance soothes him. “That’s the Ive I know.” As he beams at me, it feels like everything might be okay. Like we canbe who we used to be. And, for once, it doesn’t feel like wishful thinking. “I’ll see you?”
He starts to back away slowly, and I wish I could hold on to this moment, tohim,for a little longer. But his words feel like a promise. The kind I’d hoped for but never would’ve dared to ask for. A chance to start again. “I’ll see you,” I reply.
He turns on his heel and disappears into the throng of seniors swapping signatures and snapping selfies with their yearbooks held proudly. Calm washes over me, a type of peace I haven’t felt in months. There’s still so much up in the air—about him, about us, about who we’ll be when we’re hundreds of miles apart in a few months. But even if everything falls apart, if he decides staying friends isn’t what he wants, I’m glad I was honest.
Because he deserves to know that my happiest memories all end with him too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
If we can getthrough opening night without this balcony falling on someone’s head, it’ll be a miracle sent by Shakespeare himself.
“How many minutes to curtain?” I shout into my headset.
One of the screws holding the balcony upright disappeared at some point, and I can’t in good conscience have people running around next to a structure that’s missing a vital screw.
I can barely make out Anna’s voice over the steady hum of Lucentio muttering, “I burn, I pine, I perish!” behind me.
“How many what?” she asks.
“Minutes to curtain!”
One of the ensemble members glares at me as my shout interrupts her vocal warm-up. I give her one right back that screams, “Shove it and let me work unless you want to break an arm tonight.” With a startled squeak, she scuttles off to the opposite end of the stage where her castmates have started a round of hamstring stretches.
