Chapter Nine
to anyone else?” I ask as someone wearing a full beekeeping suit steps into the cafeteria, carefully contained beehive in hand.
Anna stiffens uncomfortably. “If that thing even comes close to opening, I’m out of here.” We make note of the exits on either side of us before keeping a watchful eye on the beekeeper’s movements while Joaquin focuses on the stack of Post-its in front of him.
The beekeeper taps a girl from my AP Lit class on the shoulder. She lets out a stifled gasp when she turns around to find a cluster of a hundred angry-ass bees in a glass container. Her suitor sets the hive on the ground, flipping it around to reveal a message written in a font designed to look like dripping honey.
Before the beekeeper’s target can make her decision, murmurs break out across the cafeteria as someone in a Shrek costume enters the lunchroom, carrying a poster board reading:
SOMEBODY ONCE TOLD ME YOU NEEDED A DATE TO PROM.
“Dear God,” Anna mumbles as the ogre gets down on one knee in front of Tessa.
Tessa beholds her latest suitor with a sigh. The cafeteria falls silent, hanging in suspense as she gives him her usual pitying smile. “Somebody lied.”
Tessa’s turned down enough promposals by now that no one loses their mind when she shuts them down, but Shrek is still met with his fair share of supportive cheers when he slumps away. It’s only after everyone’s turned their attention away that Shrek removes his foam head, revealing a devastated Hank Azario.
“Gotta give them props for creativity,” I say as Shrek/Hank tosses his poster board in the trash and the beekeeper storms out of the cafeteria, bees in tow.
“Slow day,” Anna says once this afternoon’s main characters have exited the room.
Most days we’re lucky if we can get ten minutes of peace without a promposal interlude. The cafeteria has essentially become Prom Central. When we’re not being bombarded by promposals, it’s a prom court nominee passing out buttons with their face on it, asking for votes like they’re running for president of the United States. I’ve gotten six YOU KNOW YOU WANT YESENIA buttons since the pep rally. Wear the wrong prom court button and you might get blocked from using the good vending machines. The madness doesn’t stop at the race for prom court, either. Last week, a few people started selling some viral mascara that’s impossible to get in stores or online anymore at twice the retail price.
Cutthroat stuff.
With today’s double feature wrapped up, we turn back to the task at hand.
“This is impossible.” Joaquin groans before letting his head hit the lunch table with a thwack.
I nudge my shoulder against his. “Chin up, soldier, we’re almost done.”
We’re most definitely not almost done. There’s only ten minutes until the bell and we still have about a hundred Post-its left to cover with compliments about Tessa. It’s a testament to my acting abilities that he doesn’t see how nervous I am too. Both because of my startling realization of “holy shit, I’m in love with him” at Marco’s on Friday, and because we’re nowhere near done.
Drama club has clearly rubbed off on me.
Joaquin runs his Sharpie-stained fingers through his tousled curls. “I’m running out of things to say.”
“She’s a Gemini moon,” Anna offers, glancing up from her own batch of Post-its. “And a Pisces rising,” she adds when we give her blank stares.
“I don’t know what that means,” Joaquin replies.
She grumbles something under her breath before scribbling nice hair on her next Post-it instead.
Joaquin looks forlornly at the endless stacks of multicolored notes taking up our table. We’ve been working on these since first period, and it feels like we’ve barely made a dent.
“She’s half Dominican, half Italian, right?” Joaquin asks, scratching his head with his pen. “Is there something there?”
“Dynamically Dominican and exquisitely Italian,” I throw out.
Anna snorts, her loc cuffs clanging together as she shakes her head. “Please. Tessa’s as Italian as Olive Garden.”
Joaquin shrinks, curling into his hoodie like a petrified turtle. I glare at Anna, but she’s too busy writing flawless skin to notice me.
“What about personality stuff?” I propose, which gets Joaquin to come out of his metaphorical and physical shell. “You’re the one who’s into her—what about her drew you in? Was she funny? Easy to talk to?”
Asking feels like pulling teeth, especially when I know I don’t want to hear his answer. But I trample my emotions down. This whole “realizing I’m in love with my best friend” thing couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time, considering he’s already got his heart set on someone else.
Joaquin shrugs, gesturing to a crumpled stack of Post-its to his left. “I tried that. But it just felt…weird.” He uncrumples the one closest to him, smoothing it out until we can see the makes me smile written on it in Joaquin’s signature chicken scratch. “Like I wasn’t really talking about her, y’know?”
“Then who were you talking about?” Anna asks, arching her brow.
Joaquin clams up, retreating into his hoodie again and concentrating on the task at hand. “No one,” he mumbles.
The first bell breaks up any lingering tension at the table. Panic is written all over Joaquin’s face as he ogles our puny completed pile and mountainous unfinished pile. “I can work on some of these during French. And then finish up the rest after bio, and maybe some during—”
“Quin,” I interrupt, gripping his arm tight enough to get him to hold still. “I’ve got this.”
His expression softens, tension melting off him. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I reply with a nod. “I have a free period after this.”
He doesn’t appear convinced, peering over my shoulder at our cluttered workspace. “Isn’t this supposed to be from me, though? Does it feel insincere if I let someone else do it?”
In theory, yes. But in practice, none of these compliments are going to matter by the end of the day. Not that he knows that. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“But you came up with this…”
He’s got me there. “But you thought to come to me for help. That counts for something, right?”
He ponders that for a moment. “You’re right.”
“As usual,” I taunt, turning him around and pushing him toward the exit.
“I double owe you, don’t forget that,” he calls out to me before jogging to his French class.
“I won’t!” I call back in response, turning around to find Anna waiting for me with crossed arms.
“What now?”
She uncrosses her arms and glances over at where Joaquin went. “Is this even worth it? Seems like a lot of effort for two people who might not even like each other.”
“They like each other,” I insist, turning my attention back to my Post-its. “She winked at him once and said hi to him in the hall the other day. That’s basically a declaration of love from her, right?”
Anna sighs.
“Tessa likes it when people compliment her nose,” she says, an unexpected sadness to her tone. “She got it done in seventh grade after a cheerleading accident and never liked the way it turned out. And talk about her eyes. They’re her best feature.”
Before I can thank her for the tip, she walks off, leaving me and my hundreds of Post-its.
Thanks to my free period and an online thesaurus, I’m a compliment machine by the time the final bell rings. Doesn’t matter if any of them are true, just that they’re done.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I peek at the few that Joaquin managed to finish during lunch. Most of them are vague (nice smile, shiny hair) and even the more specific ones (fun to talk to) aren’t very inspired. I’m not sure how I feel about it, though. Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about anything anymore.
Friday was…a lot. Realizing you’re in love with someone should be exciting, but instead it felt terrifying. Joaquin and I have been best friends practically since we could talk. I can barely imagine a life where I’m two hours, and a state, away from him—what the hell would I do if he shot me down and things were so awkward between us that we never spoke again? Or, even worse, he feels the same way, only for us to break up like every other high school couple and bitterly despise each other for the rest of our lives? Just look at my parents—they haven’t spoken in over a decade.
Joaquin and I may be best friends, but we’re not meant to be. Just like with me and Danny, the popular guy and unpopular girl never last long.
I gather up my treasure trove of Post-its proclaiming Tessa as everything from “magnanimous” to “perspicacious” into my bag and bolt for the parking lot near the baseball field. Time is of the essence if I want to pull off my plan.
Fighting off the guilt took up more time than I’d anticipated. My complicated feelings for Joaquin may be locked up in a box in the back of my mind, but that doesn’t mean I’m suddenly okay with him and Tessa as a concept. An uneasy feeling is still swirling in the pit of my stomach as I head outside, but the thought of Tessa waltzing into my life and pushing me out of Joaquin’s keeps me grounded.
Because if Tessa agrees to go out with him, I can kiss any future moments with him goodbye.
I only have a fifteen-minute grace period before Mr. Cline, the detention supervisor, marks me absent. The last thing I need is another week tacked on to my sentence. As expected, the lot behind the baseball diamond is packed with cars. Most of the seniors sticking around for practice move their cars over during lunch to avoid the twenty-minute trek from the senior parking lot to the field. One of the few times Cordero’s massive, sprawling campus has come in handy.
Scanning the lot, I quickly spot Tessa’s black Prius and her signature hot-pink steering wheel cover in the prime spot in front of the vending machines. Now I just need to scope out a victim. Another black Prius—not this year’s model, like Tessa’s, though—is parked on the opposite end of the lot.
A countdown rings in my ears as I get to work, plastering as many of the Post-its onto the car as I can. My hands are a blur of pinks, blues, and greens as I rush to spell out the word PROM? before anyone can spot me. I have about ten minutes before the cheer team starts filing out of the locker room and onto the field for their practice. With my luck, I have five.
Compliments blur my vision and my fingers have never felt so disgustingly sticky, but I find my rhythm. Blue for the P. Green for the O. Pink for the rest. Soon enough, I have control over my body again, pinning the notes in place like a well-oiled machine. Nearly finished, I dart out of view, hiding behind a neighboring car, when I hear someone approach.
“Yo! Check this,” a voice shouts. DeShawn is the first to take in my handiwork with wide, amused eyes.
I’m a regular fixture in the stands and on the field, so my presence wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary to any of Joaquin’s teammates, but it does ruin the illusion of romance if they catch me setting up a promposal for him.
DeShawn calls out to his teammates one more time, “Bruh, you’ve gotta see this!” before disappearing into the locker room to rally the troops.
Shit. Less time than I thought.
Whispering a Hail Mary under my breath, I throw on a few last-ditch Post-its, half of which don’t stick for longer than five seconds, before darting across the lot to safety behind the ticket booth.
DeShawn is back with half the team moments after I make it to my hiding spot. I’m too far away to make out what they’re saying, but they’re clearly amused—slapping each other on the back, taking pictures and videos.
Weird…
Promposal season is like Oscars season. A few Post-it Notes on a car is hardly video worthy. Best-case scenario I just Post-it’ed some cheerleader’s car and saved her lazy jock boyfriend from having to put any actual effort into his own promposal. Or, worst-case scenario, I stuck them on one of Joaquin’s teammates’ car, and he’ll brush it off as a prank.
The possibility of accidentally having Joaquin prompose to some unsuspecting dateless cheerleader also crossed my mind. Though, dateless and cheerleader don’t usually belong in the same sentence. I wouldn’t put it past him to get down on one knee and ask out someone he barely knows—not that he and Tessa know each other that well—but anyone is better than Tessa.
The rest of the baseball team and some cheerleaders come spilling out of the locker room, the crowd surrounding my slapdash masterpiece getting rowdier by the second. I can’t shake the gut feeling that I may have just seriously messed things up.
And not the way I’d hoped to.
Joaquin comes tumbling out of the locker room with pink cheeks and fear in his eyes. His jaw drops as he takes in the Post-it-covered car, making him stand out against the backdrop of his amused teammates.
Once he’s able to pull his attention away from the spectacle, he searches the lot.
Searches for me.
Our eyes lock for a fraction of a second, his finding mine after I step out from behind the ticket booth. Time moves in slow motion as he mouths, “What did you—”
I glance back at the car. Half the notes having fallen off by now, spelling out P OM instead of PROM? Not crowd-worthy if you ask me, but maybe the bar for entertainment is astoundingly low.
Then I spot it. A bumper sticker on the back of the car that reads Elmwood’s #1 coach three years running.
Fuuuuuuuuuuu—
“All right, very funny,” Coach Mills bellows, starting a slow clap as he steps out onto the lot.
Joaquin rockets to attention, like a soldier awaiting command. The bright red whistle around Coach Mills’s neck glistens in the sun, blinding me even from twenty feet away. “Got your laughs in?” He halts in front of the car, arms crossed sternly. “Now, who did it?”
Snickers and giggles break out among the crowd, but no one steps forward. Tessa stands at the center of the cheerleading pack, covering her giggles behind an immaculate French-manicured hand.
“So, think you’re slick enough to pull this stunt but not own up to it?” Coach Mills taunts, making sure to stare directly into the eyes of every single member of his team as he scans the crowd.
A hush falls across the lot. I hold my breath as I watch Coach Mills examine the car again and turn back to the crowd with a disapproving grimace.
“Fine by me, then. Since whoever thinks I have”—he plucks a Post-it off the car—“ ‘thick, luscious hair’ ”—the team struggles to hold in their laughter as their bald-as-an-egg coach waves the slip of paper—“doesn’t want to own up, how about ten laps before we get started today, huh? Seem fair enough?”
Laughter quickly dissolves into groans. Danny sucks his teeth and faces the rest of the team with a scowl. “C’mon, who did it?”
Joaquin bristles, picking at a scab on his elbow. Staying calm under pressure is supposed to be his strong suit but keeping cool on the field and keeping cool at the risk of punishment is a whole other ballgame.
Guilt guides me as I walk toward the crowd. I’m the only one who can save the team and come out mostly unscathed. Coach Mills can’t rip me to shreds for screwing up what, for all he knows, was a genuine attempt at a promposal.
“Fine, laps it is, then,” Coach announces before I can sacrifice myself. He blows the whistle around his neck, earning winces from everyone within a fifty-foot radius. “Let’s move!”
The baseball team scatters like ants, some jogging over to the field to get a head start on their punishment laps while others go back to the locker room to finish changing.
“Sorry you had to see that, Ivelisse.” Coach Mills tips his cap to me before corralling those headed to the field, alternating between clapping and blowing his whistle to get the boys into gear. I bite my lip, considering going after him and explaining before ultimately deciding to head inside to find Joaquin instead.
Before the cloud of BO and Axe body spray in the hall outside the locker room can drown me, someone grabs my arm and pulls me to safety. The familiar scent of Joaquin’s Irish Spring body wash and coconut curl gel washes over me like a balm.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out the second I’m sure we’re alone, the words tumbling out of me faster than I can keep up with them. “I swear I had no idea that was Coach Mills’s car. I was looking for a black Prius, and that was the first thing I saw, and…”
The panic and nerves are real, even if the excuse isn’t. It’s not a complete lie, though. I didn’t mean to pick Coach Mills. My plan for light chaos exploded into a full-blown catastrophe.
“You missed the hot-pink steering wheel?” he asks with a frown.
“I…I didn’t see it,” I choke out. “I was too busy—”
“It’s fine, Ive,” Joaquin cuts me off, his voice firm but gentle. Disappointed, but still so kind I forget to feel guilty for a second or two. He sighs, brushing his hair out of his face. “It was an accident.”
Right. An accident.
“It’s not too late for me to go tell Coach Mills. Save you guys the extra laps.”
Joaquin shakes his head. “I’m not landing you any more detention.”
A promposal martyr, running extra laps in the name of saving me from spending the rest of senior year in detention. Speaking of which…
“I should probably go.” I avoid checking the clock on the wall over his shoulder. Knowing how little time I have to make it to detention will just make me sweat more than I already am. “I’m sorry again, Quin.”
He nods, mumbling a “you’re good” under his breath and heading back outside to catch up with the rest of the team before he earns himself another round of laps for tardiness. Along the way, Tessa steps out from the girls’ locker room, brushing right past Joaquin. Their arms graze.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be,” she says with a small—and quite possibly flirty—smile.
But before their conversation can go any further, one of her squad mates whisks her away. Joaquin’s shoulders slump, his body sagging as he walks out of the building while a rush of excitement runs down my spine.
It took a whole lot of sweat and panic, but my plan worked. Promposal attempt #3 was a flop, and the universe has delivered its message: Joaquin and Tessa are doomed from the start. I crack my knuckles and fight back a smile as I skip my way to detention.
Mission accomplished.