Chapter Eight
social life. Not that I have much of one, but still. After the pep rally, the rest of the student body gets to go free and rain chaos on Elmwood while I have to stick around for another hour in an uncomfortably warm classroom. The guy from the cafeteria glitter bomb incident and I are the only unfortunate souls who managed to land themselves detention on a half day. Both of us for promposal-related incidents.
By the time we’re finally set free, campus is a ghost town. Nothing left of the pep rally madness except for crushed energy drink cans in the parking lot. I head toward the bus stop on the opposite side of campus, freezing when the only car in the lot beeps at me.
“You leaving me hanging?” Joaquin shouts as he sticks his head out the window. In my post-detention funk, I’d completely missed the tin can of a car and the iconic license plate that gave Herbert his name—Hr83rt.
The guilt that gnawed at me through detention fades at the sight of Joaquin’s smile, and relief takes over. Because I have a ride, because he’s here, because he doesn’t hate my guts.
Yet.
“You didn’t have to wait for me,” I say once I’ve made myself at home in the passenger seat.
“I promised I’d buy you lunch for a week, didn’t I?”
Technically, yes, but he knows damn well that he doesn’t need to promise me anything for agreeing to help him.
“Sure, but you didn’t have to waste a whole hour waiting for me.”
“Who said he wasted it?” a tinny, unexpected voice calls out from the dashboard.
I whip around to find Isabella waving at me from where Joaquin has his phone mounted beside the steering wheel. He wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me across the console until I’m squished into his tiny FaceTime frame.
“Look who finally decided to answer her phone,” Joaquin says to me with an unusual snip to his tone.
Isabella doesn’t grace him with a reply, just her middle finger.
“Shouldn’t you be in class?” I ask her with a raised brow.
“Oh, young child. That’s not how college works,” she singsongs, twirling a lock of her newly dyed bright red hair. “My next class isn’t until four.” She rolls onto her stomach, propping her phone up on a pillow. “Heard you got busted.”
“Yeah, because of him.” I pinch Joaquin’s arm.
“Next time my brother’s being a useless simp, you should—”
“Anyway,” Joaquin interjects, releasing his hold on me. “Isabella was just saying that she’ll be home in three weeks.”
“Freedom!” Isabella exclaims. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back just in time to embarrass the two of you on your way to prom.”
“Gee, thanks,” Joaquin replies. “Don’t you have new people to terrorize?”
“Nope.” She pops the p. “You’re top of my ‘people to annoy’ list.”
“Bye, Iz,” Joaquin says in a deadpan voice. “Tell Mami I’ll talk to her later.”
“Byyyyyye. Don’t get any more detention for acting like a—”
Joaquin hangs up the call before Isabella can finish. I note a photo of him, Isabella, and Mrs. Romero at the beach last summer, each with a Fudgsicle, on his home screen. Up until they both left last summer, he’d always kept his home screen as whatever the default option was. In the upper right corner is a widget counting down to his flight to San Juan. Fifty-seven days to go.
He catches me holding back a laugh. “Don’t.”
“Well, maybe next time don’t try to prompose to Tessa with highly flammable substances and your sister won’t have any ammo to use against you.”
Instead of cracking a joke, he keeps his eyes on the road as he pulls out of the lot. Tension simmers between us, something I’m definitely not used to. We can both take a joke, and the rose incident is fair game…right?
Then why does it feel like I just slapped him in the face?
Guilt comes rushing back in the silence. I should tell him. Be honest about what happened at the pep rally even if I’m not ready for the inevitable questions he’ll ask. Like why I did it, and why the thought of him and Tessa together makes me nauseous.
“Are cupcakes flammable?” he asks finally.
“What?”
His brow scrunches in thought, one hand staying on the wheel while the other rubs his chin. “What if I did something with cupcakes? Like…spelled out ‘You + Me = Prom’ or…something better. No way that’ll catch on fire, right?”
“I mean, not unless you put candles in it,” I reply, earning me an appreciative nod. “But someone tried asking her with cookies on Tuesday.”
Anything involving food has been done. Including an assortment of candy apples spelling out Tessa’s miles-long full government name. Joaquin groans, turning his attention back to the road. For the rest of the drive, I let him use me as a sounding board, throwing out idea after idea and me throwing out problem after problem, my stomach sinking with each one I shoot down.
His ideas aren’t terrible per se. I just can’t shake the nagging voice telling me that Joaquin going to prom with Tessa is a monumentally bad plan. I’ve been possessed, a voice that sounds eerily like mine killing all of Joaquin’s ideas like pesky flies. By the time we make it to Marco’s, he’s so drained from brainstorming, he flops into our favorite booth like he’s nothing but dead weight.
“You kids are out early,” Jenny, Marco’s oldest waitress, says as she sets down place mats and utensils in front of us. “If you’re playing hooky and need an excuse for your principal, just give me the word,” she adds with a wink. After over a decade of us coming here, Jenny is basically family. Joaquin and I are both too straitlaced to cut class, but it’s good to know we have an ally in delinquency if we need one.
“Half day,” I explain. Joaquin, still catatonic from all the brain power he exerted on promposal ideas, stays slumped in his seat.
“The usual?” Jenny eyes Joaquin suspiciously. “Extra bacon?”
“Yes, please,” I respond on our behalf. Maybe some extra strips of crispy bacon are what he needs to get back his strength. “Coffee instead of slushies today, though.”
We could both use some caffeine.
When Jenny comes back ten minutes later with our breakfast sandwiches and coffees, Joaquin doesn’t immediately lunge for his and wolf it down in less than a minute like he usually does. Things are dire.
“Wanna try hitting that slushie place in Hamilton that we missed? I’ve got a few hours until I have to head in for my shift,” I propose around my first ravenous bite. Unlike him, I can’t control my hunger. “Our brains need a break.”
“Can’t,” he replies with a genuine frown. “I’ve gotta head back for practice in an hour.”
My brow furrows. After-school activities on half days should be outlawed. “I thought Coach Mills was taking it easy on you guys?”
Joaquin shakes his head and pulls out his phone. “Now that the pep rally’s over, we’re going into hardcore training mode.” Sure enough, the calendar he’s just opened is packed to the brim with three hour-long practices every weekday up until the championship in three weeks.
“This seems a little excessive.” I examine the calendar more closely, realizing he’s also scheduled for morning training sessions with Coach Mills. Guess I can kiss my ride to school goodbye. “Okay, very excessive.”
“It’s the first shot the team has had at a championship title in, like, a century,” he insists as he tucks his phone away. “This is our last game as a team—my last game ever. If we have to live and breathe baseball for three weeks to be champions, then I’ll live and breathe baseball for three weeks.”
Doña Carmen might argue that he already does that, but I can’t blame him for giving in to Coach Mills’s over-the-top schedule. Baseball is a part of the Romero family legacy. Long before Joaquin came along, his dad was the type of one-of-a-kind player they still talk about at his high school in San Juan. Apparently, they still have a photo of him hanging in the entryway. Mrs. Romero has been shuttling Joaquin to games since he could hold a bat, and I’ve been sitting in the stands ever since. He’s worked hard for his legacy. Who wouldn’t want to go out on the highest note?
“What about after practice?” I suggest. “I get off work at—”
Before I can finish, my phone buzzes several times in a row.
Watching my mom struggle over her phallic autocorrect should be funny, but it only sparks a white-hot flame.
“Scratch that. My mom’s going on yet another date tonight, so I’m on dog duty.” I toss my phone into my backpack with a sigh. “Again.”
“Damn,” Joaquin says around a mouthful of his sandwich. “That’s like the third time this month.”
“Fifth,” I mutter bitterly.
Joaquin gives me a sympathetic knee nudge under the table. “At least your mom’s getting some.”
I shudder. “Please don’t ever use the words ‘your mom’ and ‘getting some’ in the same sentence ever again.”
“My bad.” Our usual teasing banter falters as he stares at me like a puzzle waiting to be solved. “You know we can talk about it, if you want?”
“My mom getting some?” I reply sarcastically.
He snorts, tossing a wadded-up napkin at me. “Let me be real for a minute, geez.” His smile fades, and I’d laugh at his ultra-serious PSA-worthy expression if I didn’t know what was coming. “About…y’know. The whole her dating again thing.”
Joaquin and I share everything. Candy and toys and secrets and more memories than I could ever count. But I am still hesitant to talk about Mami around him. Not because I don’t trust him, but because it feels weirdly…selfish. Sure, I barely see my mom these days because of her work schedule and love life, but at least she’s around. Complaining about only seeing Mami once a week would probably feel like a slap in the face to someone who doesn’t get to see theirs outside of a screen.
I toy with my necklace, avoiding Joaquin’s eye.
Joaquin takes my nonresponse as an answer, swiftly moving on. “Let’s do a rain check on the slushies, then. How about next Friday, after my practice?”
While I appreciate the topic switch, it’s another gut punch. “I’m closing next Friday, too.”
Joaquin lets out a low whistle. “Are you gonna be free anytime in the next century?”
I groan. “Probably not. Once we open up the outdoor seating area, things always get super hectic, so my tío needs all the help he can get.” I cross my arms, leaning back until I’m staring at a concerning brown stain on the ceiling. “I don’t even know if I’ll be able to make it to Dino World this year.”
Dino World is a forty-five-minute drive away from home. It’s the dinosaur-themed amusement park of my and Mami’s adrenaline junky dreams.
Joaquin hisses, knowing how much the loss must sting. He leans over to rest a consoling hand on my arm. “If I wasn’t going to San Juan this summer, I’d offer to take you to that death trap you call entertainment.”
I rest my hand on top of his, his skin warm to the touch. “That’s very touching, thank you.”
That’s not even me being a snarky dickbag—I’m genuinely moved. Joaquin despises roller coasters. Anything that goes higher than twenty feet in the air is a definite no for him.
With his hand in mine, sitting across from each other in our favorite place, it’s hard to ignore the ache in my chest. Life these past few months has been nothing but change. Mrs. Romero and Isabella leaving. Seeing Nurse Oatmeal more than I see Mami. My dream of Sarah Lawrence fading each time I open my inbox. The possibility of joining most of my class at Rutgers is looking more like a reality with every passing day.
Gazing into his eyes, honey brown and as captivating now as they were when I met him, it’s impossible not to want to hold on to him, to us, for as long as I possibly can.
“Post-it Notes.”
Joaquin’s brow furrows in confusion, his hand pulling out of mine. “Uh…what?” Internally, I’m asking the same question.
“Yeah…You can cover Tessa’s car in Post-it Notes,” I say, actually using words this time. “Which has been done before, I know, but you can personalize it! Spell out something interesting or write things you like about her on each of the notes.”
And, most importantly, it’ll be easy to tear apart. Maybe all Joaquin needs to break the spell Tessa has on him is a cosmic sign from the universe that asking her to prom is a seriously bad idea. Since I don’t have time to wait for the universe to get its ass into gear, I’ll take the liberty of delivering the message myself.
Joaquin’s eyes light up as he mulls my suggestion over, finally taking a bite of his sandwich, temporary depression cured. “That’s a good idea.” Another bite. “A great idea.”
My chest swells with a dangerous combination of glee, nerves, and acid reflux. “I could set it up after last period on Monday,” I propose, everything starting to come together in my head as I finish off the last of my sandwich. With Tessa and Joaquin occupied with changing for their respective cheerleading and baseball practices, I should have enough time to set things up for (controlled, nonflammable) disaster.
Joaquin shakes his head. “No way, you’ve already done too much for me. I can set it up.”
Now is not the time for him to be selfless.
“I want to,” I say. And it’s true. This is one of the few things I do want to do.
My reply startles him, his sandwich frozen halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”
I nudge my leg against his. “Seriously.” His smile makes me warm all over, and for a few moments, the noise around us falls away. The sizzle of the grill, the staticky radio, the whispered conversations of other Marco’s patrons. It’s just me, Joaquin, and this small piece of the world we’ve carved out for ourselves.
“What’d I do to deserve you?”
A backstabbing excuse of a friend who wants to sabotage your one chance at love? the devil on my shoulder taunts.
“You probably had terrible luck in a past life.” I snag a piece of bacon off his plate. “This is the universe’s way of paying you back.”
And if I play my cards right, the universe will be sending him a very important message soon: Give up on Tessa Hernandez.
He rolls his eyes dramatically before leaning in across the table, as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “I think I got pretty lucky in this lifetime,” he says, leaning forward.
Part of me wishes he’d back up so he won’t hear how fast my heart is beating. Part of me wishes he’d come even closer. Part of me wants to scoot out of this booth.
But I stay, like I always do, and meet his lingering smile with one of my own. A smile that’s soft and easy, like everything we do together.
His eyes drift away from mine, toward my lips. I reach up to dab at the corner of my mouth, expecting to wipe away a glob of mayo but finding nothing. He laughs quietly, so close I can feel the subtle vibration in his shoulders and reaches for my hand. Warmth trickles into my cheeks.
Then a chime pops our bubble, every hair on my body rocketing to attention at the sound I assigned to incoming emails. Breaking eye contact with Joaquin feels like ripping off a Band-Aid, stinging as I scan the email preview on my lock screen.
SARAH LAWRENCE OFFICE OF ADMISSIONS
An update to your admissions status has been made. Please check your portal.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
“What? Everything okay?”
“It—it’s an update from Sarah Lawrence,” I manage to choke out.
Joaquin pushes my phone toward me. “Then open it!”
My hands are shaking so hard I don’t think I could type even if I wanted to. I’ve been constantly refreshing my inbox for days, and now that it’s here, I can’t bring myself to log in. Because at least right now I still have the luxury of hope. As soon as I check the portal, it could be over. My daydreams crushed.
“What if it’s a rejection?”
My voice is barely loud enough for me to hear over the din of the radio, but Joaquin still comes rushing to my side of the booth. He takes my shaking hands in his, waiting until I meet his eyes to speak.
“If it is, then screw them. They’re passing up on a future Tony Award–winning set designer.”
I snort at his optimism, and he tightens his grip on my hands, as if to emphasize his point. “Seriously, Ive. If they don’t know how incredible you are, then that’s their problem.”
The sincerity in his voice, and the way his eyes gaze so deep into mine make the nerves fade. Not entirely, but enough for me to find that flicker of hope again. I nod, keeping my left hand in his as I pick up my phone and sign into the Admissions portal.
Decades pass as the web page loads. Normally Marco’s shitty Wi-Fi is something I’m willing to put up with for the god-tier food, but every second that goes by feels like a blow to my chest. Joaquin’s grip on my hand tightens with anticipation, holding on to me so tightly I’d wince if I wasn’t so consumed by my own panic. Our breath hitches as the page loads, coming out as gasps when we take in the first word at the top of the page.
Congratulations!
“I got in!” I shout, my voice high-pitched enough to summon Nurse Oatmeal.
“You got in!” Joaquin echoes, slamming his fist on the table. He leaps out of his seat, pulling me up with him. “My best friend just got into her dream school!” he announces to the restaurant, getting the attention of everyone who wasn’t eyeing us already.
“Wepa!” Jenny exclaims, bustling over to us to pull me in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations, mija.” She leans in to whisper, “Lunch is on me today.”
One of the line cooks starts a round of applause, Joaquin encouraging the crowd to make some noise as he pulls me into a crushing hug. “You’re amazing,” he whispers before pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. A shiver runs down my spine, but I’m too shocked by the Oh my God I got in moment to process it. With my heart lodged in my throat from the best combo of excitement and nerves, all I can wish for is to hold on to this feeling—this person—forever.
When I meet Joaquin’s eyes again, something new unlocks inside me.
Suddenly, I’m back at the optometrist’s office when I was seven, putting on my first pair of glasses and blinking in utter awe because I never knew the world could be such a vibrant place. Because that’s the thing—you don’t realize what you’re missing until you finally see things in focus.
And now I see him in focus.
The way my body leans into his, like a well-loved sweater. The smell of him—sofrito, sweat, and sunscreen—that feels more like home than any place in this town ever has. The urge to vomit whenever Joaquin and Chelsea sucked face in the cafeteria. That nameless feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever he brings up Tessa or prom or promposals.
I’m not afraid of Tessa taking my place at prom, or getting her own mix CD, or taking up so much room in his heart that there’ll never be enough space left for me. I’m afraid of him. Of his smile. Of his touch. Of the way he says my name like it’s something worth savoring.
I’m afraid of Joaquin Romero because I’m in love with him.