Chapter Four
on my senior year bucket list, and getting up at 6:00 a.m. to set up roses in the senior parking lot definitely isn’t one of them.
At least Joaquin comes bearing breakfast.
“Caramel iced coffee with skim milk,” he says in lieu of a greeting when I make it to his driveway, rubbing sleep crust out of my eyes. “Upgraded to a large as a special thank-you.”
“You’re too kind,” I reply, though the statement lacks enthusiasm. It’s too early to be anything other than exhausted.
“And this”—he pauses to hold up a foil-wrapped breakfast sandwich—“is because I like you.”
I lunge for the sandwich like I haven’t eaten in weeks, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of grease, melted cheese, and bacon. “From Marco’s?”
Marco’s may be the greasiest place within fifty miles, but their food is a religious experience. They’re not afraid to smother their fries in every type of cheese known to man, and a single sip of their coffee could make you bulletproof. And, most importantly, their cherry and piña colada slushies currently have an iron grip on the top slot of our ranking list. It’s a hot spot for truckers like Papi, who first brought us there when we were six, just a few months before he and Mami split and he disappeared to Florida.
“What am I, a monster?” he replies with a roll of his eyes. “Of course it’s from Marco’s.”
Any annoyance over his inhumane call time melts away when I take my first bite, all gooey, cheesy goodness and perfect crispy bacon. It’s impossible to stay angry when you’re eating a Marco’s sandwich. All that’s missing is a piña colada slushie, but I can understand his reluctance to give me a cup full of sugar at six in the morning. I’d crash by fourth period AP Lit.
The sandwich is gone in record time, nothing left but a crumpled foil wrapper when we pull up to Cordero twenty minutes later. I was able to stash the roses in the drama club’s prop closet instead of lugging them home on the bus. With everything we need already at school, and my keys to the auditorium in my bag, I was able to buy us an extra half hour of sleep.
“This is spooky,” I say as we make our way back from the auditorium. I’ve never seen the lot so empty before.
Having your own parking spot is a mark of pride that most Cordero seniors take very seriously. Some graffiti their names onto their assigned spots on the first day of class while others spend months creating intricate murals dedicated to their senior year. Anna designed a galaxy on hers, complete with glow-in-the-dark paint. Joaquin, on the other hand, just wrote his name in plain, boring white.
Tessa’s parking space is impossible to miss, though. Her name is written in hot-pink bubble letters, messages from her various admirers scrawled in every color of the rainbow with chalk paint.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” I ask Joaquin as we struggle to hold the bouquets of roses we’ve just grabbed from the auditorium’s cramped storage closet. They’re still in surprisingly good condition.
“Totally,” Joaquin replies a little too quickly.
Sweat dots his brow and the collar of his shirt.
“You just look a little…nervous.”
And that’s what’s so concerning—he’s never nervous. It’s part of what makes him such a fantastic baseball player. He never lets the unexpected throw him off his game.
Joaquin is the cool cucumber, the level head to my chaos. The one who always reminds me that the things I’m worried about are valid but stuck in my mind. If he wasn’t so set on becoming an electrician, he’d make an excellent therapist. I guess therapists have their days, too, because he seems to be moments away from popping like a balloon.
“No, nope, all good here,” he rushes out, and starts working on laying his bundle of roses across Tessa’s parking spot. He flits back and forth between the P he’s constructing to the mostly finished M at lightning speed.
I set down my stack of roses and block Joaquin’s path. He’s too preoccupied with counting the roses to notice, walking right into me and nearly toppling both of us over. It does the trick of getting him to meet my eye long enough to hold him steady.
“Hey,” I say, gripping his arms once I’ve caught my balance. “Talk to me. Because right now you’re in Energizer Bunny mode, and it’s kind of freaking me out.”
He exhales slowly, taking the time to push his damp curls out of his eyes. “Right, sorry,” he mumbles, and shakes his head. “This has to be perfect, and it feels like I’m already running out of time, and what if she hates it and—”
“If she doesn’t love it, then she doesn’t deserve you,” I interrupt before he can finish, squeezing his shoulders. “You’re amazing, Quin. And anyone who can’t see that is an absolute dumbass.”
He snorts, and such a gross sound has never sounded so charming. “You’re pretty amazing too.”
“Oh, I know.” I let go of his shoulders to squat down and start rearranging his hot mess of an R. “Only a truly wonderful friend would wake up this early for someone as annoying as you.”
He squats beside me, picking up one of the roses and poking the end of its stem against my arm. “Dick.”
I swipe the rose from between his fingers, careful to avoid the thorns as I tap the petals against his nose. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”
Instead of replying, he bites his lip but can’t hold back his smile. Something in me wants to stay there, holding on to this image of him backlit by the glow of the sunrise. But I pull the flower and my attention away and get back to the task at hand.
Everyone knows you can’t stare too long at the sun unless you want to get burned.
Considering our very sweaty start to this whole fiasco, the finished product is actually pretty swoony, if I do say so myself. The hit to Joaquin’s meager summer job savings was well worth it for the sheer size of the spectacle alone, the question PROM? stretched out past Tessa’s parking space and toward her neighbors, who hopefully won’t mind. It’s usually a free-for-all in the name of romance this time of year.
“Are roses too cliché?” Joaquin asks, as if he has time to return to the florist and buy a fresh truckload of daisies.
“I mean, I’m more of a peony gal, personally, but roses are classic. Can’t go wrong.”
“I should’ve gotten another two bouquets,” Joaquin mumbles as he goes to fidget with the question mark for the hundredth time.
“And force yourself to declare bankruptcy?” I snap before smacking his hand away. “It’s more than enough. Now, go get changed unless you want to prompose to Tessa in sweatpants.”
I had the foresight to tell Joaquin to pack a change of clothes last night. Coming up with this plan on his own was impressive, but I had a feeling he’d forget that presentation isn’t everything. Tessa would sooner drop dead than accept a prom invite from someone who looked like they just rolled out of bed.
While Joaquin heads off to change, I handle the finishing touches to the display. Weaving battery-operated fairy lights through the roses was a pretty good idea. Good job, Joaquin. The gently flickering lights pull his vision together. Spelling something out with roses isn’t as easy as it sounds.
People start trickling into the lot. A group of stoners camped out on a nearby picnic table see me and giggle to themselves. For a second, I’m worried they’ll start asking about the display, but they quickly become distracted by a more important debate: who’s next in their blunt rotation.
A car comes barreling toward me at way too high a speed for a parking lot. I only have a split second to jump out of the way of the SUV, narrowly avoiding ruining our hard work. Whoever my oh-so-kind classmate is has the courtesy to blare their horn at me. The car finally slows down to a crawl in front of the roses, and I read the Gud Vibes vanity plate.
Nothing about this car or its driver says good vibes to me.
The bass of an EDM song keeps the car vibrating even when the motor turns off and the window rolls down, the music so loud it pushes me back like a tidal wave. A head pokes out, a boy in a letterman jacket who pulls off his sunglasses slowly, like he’s some kind of action hero. Hank “The Tank” Azario. The meatiest meathead on the football team.
Hank runs a hand along his stubbled jaw, humming as he takes in the display in front of Tessa’s parking space.
“I’m not the one asking her,” I blurt out. It’s common knowledge that Hank’s been in love with Tessa for years. So much so that he even tried paying someone to ask out Julia just so he could stealthily make his move on Tessa. Long story short, it didn’t go the way he’d hoped.
I’m surprised he didn’t shoot his shot on day one like everybody else, so he must be biding his time. Or scoping out the competition.
Hank’s not going to tackle me because I might be asking out the girl he likes, but the intensity of his glare makes me weak in the knees. And not in a hot way.
“Then who is?” he asks, shouting over the radio instead of just turning it down.
I clam up, my lips pressing into a line to keep from babbling anything that might get my friend in trouble. Hank might have enough of a conscience not to pick a fight with me, but I can’t say the same about Joaquin. The football and baseball teams are bigger rivals than our actual rival, Elmwood Prep. In a town dictated by high school clichés, the baseball team being more popular than the football team is considered a crime. Especially to the football bros. But I guess they should suck less?
After almost a minute of silence, Hank sucks his teeth and waves me off with a scoff, rolling up his window and screeching away so fast he almost bowls over a group of girls gossiping on the grass. I’m sure having to watch the entire school battle over your longtime crush is doing a number on Hank’s ego, but luckily he didn’t smash any of the roses. Though, he was close enough to leave a very un-sexy puddle of motor oil in front of the display. It’s not as pristine as what we’d originally put together, but it’s better than having to start over with five minutes to the bell.
Speaking of the time, if Joaquin doesn’t hurry up, I may wind up promposing to Tessa for him.
I quickly scan the lot, double-checking for any signs of Tessa or any of her other exes who might want to derail this plan. With the coast clear, I dash toward the front entrance.
The sound of lazy, too-loud laughter stops me in my tracks. I turn slowly, afraid of what I’ll find. The stoners break out into oooohs as one of them snatches the blunt out of the rotation and takes an unearned puff.
It happens in slow motion. An elbow against a shoulder, an arm pushed into a rib cage, the blunt flying through the air and rolling toward the roses, then catching on the puddle of oil. The burning smell. Smoke.
My body doesn’t operate on rational thought, just instinct. I put my blind faith in the stoners to keep things from getting out of hand as I dart as fast as I can toward the bathroom, smacking right into Joaquin as we both turn a corner.
“Geez, watch—” Joaquin stalls when he realizes it’s me, all the nerves he scrubbed clean returning in full force. “What happened?”
“Okay, don’t panic.” I rest my hands on his shoulders, marveling at the soft fabric of the royal-blue blazer he picked out for the occasion. While he was gone for what felt like forever, he’s cleaned up spectacularly, his curls falling in front of his eyes, framing his long, thick eyelashes. The beach tan makes his brown skin glow and brings out the warmth of his eyes, glittering with what I’m now realizing is panic.
“She said no already, didn’t she? I didn’t even get to ask and—”
“No, no, she’s not here yet,” I reassure him, letting go of him and shaking myself off. Now is not the time to get distracted by the pull of a well-cut suit and a little hair product. “We just need to head outside. Now.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” The high pitch of my voice betrays me. “Totally fine. It’s just…” I inhale sharply, preparing myself to deliver the news. “The flowers may or may not be on fire.”