Chapter Five
I should’ve known better than to trust the stoners not to let a spark turn into a flame. By the time we make it outside, the O and M have disintegrated, and the flames are on their way to devouring the R. Most of our classmates stand around and film while we pour Joaquin’s Hydro Flask and the rest of my iced coffee onto the fire in vain. I dash back into the building, grabbing an extinguisher and doing my best to put out the flame despite having no idea how it works. A smattering of applause breaks out along with a couple of cheers as the white fog begins to clear. Joaquin’s head hangs low as he stares at his failed vision, likely contemplating how much money has gone down the drain.
Meanwhile, I take in two terrifying sights. Tessa Hernandez, window rolled down, eyeing the roses like they’re charred roadkill.
And Principal Contreras, arms crossed and mad as hell.
“You’re blocking my parking space,” Tessa says in her usual dry, bored tone before taking a slow sip of her iced coffee, making my stomach ache from the loss of my own. I bet it’s delicious. “Hey,” she says when Joaquin turns around, her tone softening. “This from you?” She gestures to the burned roses with a raised brow.
Joaquin buckles under the weight of her gaze, tripping and stumbling over his words while my attention is focused on the much bigger issue at hand—expulsion, or better yet, jail time for arson.
“Nope! Just being good citizens!” I shout, giving Joaquin an out with Tessa and hopefully one for both of us with Contreras.
“Romero. Santos. In my office. Now!” Contreras barks out, snapping Joaquin’s attention away from Tessa.
Well, there goes that plan.
Joaquin follows him like a kicked puppy while I hazard a peek over my shoulder. With us out of the way, Tessa backs into her parking space with ease, what’s left of the burned roses crushed to dust beneath her car. It stings, watching our hard work join the mud, dirt, and grass caked into the grooves of Tessa’s tires. I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of Joaquin’s back, still trudging along behind Contreras. At least he didn’t have to see it too.
“Care to explain how this happened?” Contreras gestures to a singed rose sitting on his desk, coated in flecks of white from the fire extinguisher.
Contreras isn’t known for putting the pal in principal. He made us sit in the hall outside his office until he finished a five-minute guided meditation. We knew it was going to be a bloodbath before we even sat down.
“I was j—” Joaquin begins.
“It was me,” I interrupt, drowning him out with an uncharacteristic strength to my voice.
Joaquin’s eyes bug out like a cartoon character as he whips around to stare at me. Contreras doesn’t appear convinced, narrowing his eyes as he leans across his desk.
“You’re saying you organized this whole thing on your own, Ms. Santos?”
“No, she—”
I slam my foot down on Joaquin’s, replying, “I did,” while he yowls in pain. “Joaquin asked me to help plan something and put it together for him since he had practice early this morning. He’d just come from the field when the fire started. He was only trying to help me put it out.”
Joaquin is glaring daggers at me, but I know he’ll get over it eventually. If Contreras is going to come down as hard as I think he will, Joaquin will have more to lose. School policy says any student athlete with more than five detentions is barred from playing on the team. Getting kicked off the baseball team a month before their championship game in his final year would make Joaquin more than just a social pariah—he might as well be banished to his own deserted island.
No one cares if the drama club’s tech crew manager is out of commission for a few detentions, but they will absolutely care if their star shortstop is.
Suspending Joaquin from the baseball team means all-out war with the student body. The whole point of our upcoming pep rally is to hand out the senior MVP award, and Joaquin has had that on lock since sophomore year. One wrong move could mean chaos in the halls. Anarchy in the cafeteria. Bags of hot, flaming dog poop on Contreras’s doorstep.
Contreras knows it too.
He hums as he runs a hand along his jaw, considering me and Joaquin.
“Three weeks of detention, Ms. Santos. And, Mr. Romero, I highly suggest you find a less flammable way to ask someone to prom.”
Before Joaquin can protest my sentencing, I’m out of my seat and dragging him toward the door. “He will—thank you! Sorry again!” I call out, slamming the door behind us before he can decide to tack on another week of detention just for the hell of it.
“You didn’t need to do that, Ive,” Joaquin says, crossing his arms and blocking my path.
“And let you get kicked off the baseball team before the championship?” My attempt to walk around him is swiftly blocked. His arms are long enough to trap me no matter which way I go, and I’m nowhere near coordinated enough to trick him. “If you get me another week of detention because I’m late to first period, I will bite you.”
The threat doesn’t make him budge either.
“It’s not a big deal, I swear.” I shrug. “Go win the World Cup, or whatever it is they give you for winning a baseball tournament.”
“You have to let me make it up to you.” His tone is as stern as a parent doling out groundings, even as he holds his pinky out in front of me.
“Well, since you twisted my arm…” I loop my pinky through his, and finally, he cracks a smile.
When the bell rings, I’m swept up by the flurry of motion. People spilling into halls, elbows shoving into me, and, suddenly, Joaquin pulling me to his chest. His arms are a warm, safe haven from the chaos around us, the steady thrum of his heartbeat and the comforting smell of his bodywash keeping me grounded.
“Stay out of trouble,” he whispers into my ear, like we’re in our own little bubble in the middle of the hallway.
“No promises.”
I expect his arms to fall away immediately, but we stay there, wrapped up in one another as our classmates pass by like there’s no one in the world but us. For a moment, it feels like our first day of freshman year all over again. The two of us with skinned knees and an unfortunate amount of acne clutching each other for dear life, too afraid to let go.
But he does let go, dropping his arms back to his sides when his teammate, DeShawn, comes rushing up to him.
“Bro, were you seriously trying to ask out Tessa Hernandez this morning?”
Whatever Joaquin says next, I can’t make it out. He lets DeShawn whisk him away, not even giving me a wave or a “bye” before disappearing around the corner.
Watching him walk away shouldn’t hurt when he’s done it dozens of times before. The same way watching him pour his heart out for someone like Tessa Hernandez shouldn’t bother me either.
But that doesn’t stop the feeling.