Chapter Eleven

My little stunt with Coach Mills’s car makes me an instant hero. An anonymous one, but a hero, nonetheless. For the rest of the week, social media is flooded with pictures and videos of Coach Mills stumbling upon the surprise romantic gesture. Sometimes the Post-its are Photoshopped to include very not-safe-for-work compliments, while others just zoom in on the way Coach Mills’s mustache quivered when he spotted his car. It’s the most anyone has ever paid attention to me since the news about me and Danny broke.

Well, not me directly.

Still, I’ll gladly take being an antisocial outcast over being the face of Cordero’s latest meme.

“Earth to Ivelisse.” Anna snapping her fingers knocks me out of my zombie trance. “Keep your head up,” she hisses while our history teacher has her back turned. “Unless you want to sign a lease and move into detention permanently.”

Picking my head up takes a Herculean amount of effort. Between detention, frantically trying to finish sets for Shrew, and squeezing in closing shifts at Casa Y Cocina, I’m running on fumes. Not to mention the emotional turmoil of decoding my feelings for my best friend and trying to decide where to spend the next four years of my life. My brain is not a pleasant place to be right now.

“Help me, I’m dying,” I mutter just loud enough for her to hear, propping my chin up on my fist and letting my eyes close for juuuuust one second.

“Hey!” Anna snaps, whacking me on the arm when my head starts to droop again. “No more mini naps.”

Along with the warning, she tosses me a can of Raspberry Unicorn from her backpack. My taste buds are still recovering from the one I downed at the pep rally last week, but half-asleep beggars can’t be choosers. When the coast is clear, I crack open the can and savor the sweet, nauseating taste of battery acid and caffeine.

It takes three sips to get me through our last class of the day. When the final bell rings, my entire body is thrumming like the fizz still left in the can, my hands shaking as my body pulses with an ungodly amount of sugar.

“I’ll head over to the auditorium as soon as I’m free,” I tell Anna as we walk toward our lockers, the words coming out a mile a minute. “We’re working on the staircase today, right? Or are we doing lighting cues? Or music cues? Or we could—”

Anna clamps a hand over my mouth. “Slow down, Eager Beaver. We’re not working on anything today.”

A warning siren blares in my ears, the perfectionist in me hyperaware of how many days we have until opening night (not many), and how much work we have to get done (a shit ton). “What? But we still have—”

“Plenty of time to get everything done,” Anna finishes for me. “The glee club needs to use the auditorium today, so we swapped days this week.”

I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. Usually, the glee club claims the auditorium on Fridays, which means Tío Tony will be expecting me to head straight to Casa Y Cocina for my post-detention closing shift tomorrow. There goes two days’ worth of profits.

“But don’t go landing yourself more detention,” Anna adds, waving a warning finger. “You’re lucky sabotaging lover boy’s little mission didn’t earn you another month on your sentencing.”

The words are like an ice bath.

“I…I didn’t sabotage anything,” I stammer, the cold giving way to a warmth that spreads from my cheeks down to my toes. Sweat beads across my forehead as I give her my best casual shrug. “I was in a rush, and they’re both black Priuses.”

Her dark brown eyes narrow to slits. She pinches the soft skin of my inner arm.

“Ow! What the hell?!” I rub my reddened skin.

“Did you expect me to believe that?” she snaps. “I am offended.” She makes sure to enunciate each syllable for emphasis.

“I’m serious!” I reply with an indignant pout. “I really didn’t know it was Coach Mills’s car.”

Technically, that’s the truth. Nonetheless, she sees right through me. Friends are overrated; you can’t even lie to them.

Anna sighs, giving up on glaring at me in favor of trading books out of her locker. “Be in denial if you want. But seriously, don’t get yourself any more detention.”

“I’m not in denial because there’s nothing to be in denial about!” I lean up against the locker beside hers. Except, y’know, that I’m in love with my best friend. But she doesn’t need to know that. “You said yourself that Joaquin going to prom with Tessa would be a terrible idea.”

“Yeah, because it is.” She slams her locker door shut, turning on her heel and heading toward the parking lot. “But I didn’t tell you to go set up all his promposals for disaster. You could, oh I don’t know, have an actual conversation about why he shouldn’t go with her?”

I hate when she’s right.

Talking to Joaquin would save me a whole lot of effort but still leaves the very relevant problem that just the thought of talking to him about this makes me want to hurl. Telling Joaquin he can’t ask Tessa out means unraveling the feelings that are sitting in the pit of my stomach like the cafeteria’s questionable lunch special. Yes, Tessa’s the worst. Yes, I don’t want to lose my best friend to someone like her. But there’s so much more to this than what’s on the surface.

And I’m terrified of telling him the truth.

Touching that locked part of me means opening a Pandora’s box of emotions I’m definitely not equipped to handle right now. Not when I barely have enough time to breathe, let alone “process my emotions” like a well-adjusted Almost Adult.

“It’s complicated,” I mumble, more to myself than to Anna while I trail behind her.

“Wow, never heard that one before.” She stops in her tracks so abruptly I almost walk into her.

When she faces me, her eyes soften. “I get it, okay? The whole ‘things are getting complicated with my best friend, and I don’t know what to do about it’ thing,” she says, almost a whisper. There’s a sadness to her words, something I almost never get to see glimpses of behind the tough exterior she puts up for the world. This place wasn’t kind to her in the aftermath of her fallout with Tessa. No one knows what happened besides them, but Anna’s still seen as the villain. God forbid she express any type of anger, or else they’ll just decide their assumptions about her are true. That she’s mean and spiteful when we both know that’s galaxies away from the truth. I’ve never met anyone more loyal and caring. I can’t imagine how exhausting it must be for her. And it’s just another reason why Joaquin and Tessa shouldn’t be together—she let one of her oldest friends fall. Hard.

“What was it like? Losing your best friend?” I ask, taking a chance on prying a bit at the mystery shrouding her and Tessa’s relationship. Not because I’m some nosey small-town teenager sniffing out the latest gossip. Deep down, I do want to know. To prepare myself, maybe, for what’s inevitably going to come.

“I didn’t lose her. I walked away from her,” she clarifies, not meeting my eyes. “Everybody else decided they knew our story when we barely understood it ourselves. And I still don’t know how I feel about it. Or her.”

“It seems like you hate her.”

“I don’t hate her.” Her reply is quick, sharp. I’m taken aback by it, and the sincerity in her eyes. She tugs at the chain of her bracelet, the star charm twinkling in the light. I always thought Anna was past whatever she and Tessa had before. “I’ll never be able to hate her…”

Anna takes her time finishing that thought, clearly weighing the words in her head before she finally says, “Try to be honest with Joaquin. It’ll save you a lot of trouble.”

Before I can reply, she heads to the parking lot and I’m left with a couple minutes to get to detention and a whole lot to process.

---

Detention is the perfect place to panic.

Today’s riveting Thursday afternoon crowd is just me, one of the stoners from Chris Pavlenko’s band of goons, the poor guy who landed himself detention through the rest of the year for whacking a lunch lady in the head with one of the Misty will you go to prom with me T-shirts he was shooting out of a homemade cannon this morning, and Mr. Cline, resident sex ed teacher and detention monitor.

As always, Mr. Cline plugs in his headphones and is fast asleep within a record three and a half minutes of sitting at his desk. Which leaves me with plenty of time to stare at the empty notebook in front of me and overthink what I’m about to do.

Anna’s voice rattles in my ears, possessing me like a demon and forcing me to open a notebook and write down everything I can’t say out loud so I can finally exorcise myself of the guilt that’s been eating at me. The caffeine from my Raspberry Unicorn keeps me so on edge my teeth start to chatter.

Be honest.

Easier said than done, I tell the specter of Anna that now haunts my brain. Coming clean is my best move, especially if I’m not as discreet as I thought I’d been about my plans for Joaquin’s third promposal attempt.

At least it seems like my plan did the trick. Three whole days have gone by since The Incident, and Joaquin hasn’t come up with any new convoluted plans to ask Tessa to prom. He’s listening to the universe. And yet, victory doesn’t taste as sweet as I hoped it would.

With Mr. Cline in dreamland, I pull out my phone and open my text thread with Joaquin.

Good news: it’s quesadilla day in the caf. Bad news: they’re all sold out. Even better news: I snagged you one.

Come by my free period if you want it & thank me later

Ooooookay I guess you’re not in a quesadilla mood?

Five minute warning before I eat this myself

[photo]

It was delicious

Is that your abuela blasting Bad Bunny rn???

Bc I can hear it all the way from my bathroom

good morning my dear best friend who may be dead but I wouldn’t know because he won’t text me back!!!

It’s not unusual for Joaquin not to immediately respond to a text. But these are all sitting in message purgatory—read but not responded to. Now that he has morning practice sessions with Coach Mills, I’ve been riding my bike to school instead of hitching a ride with him, and the lights in his bedroom have been out every night I’ve gotten home this week. I get that it’s not like I was texting him anything important, but he hasn’t so much as given any of them a thumbs-up or a cry-laughing emoji that I can roast him for because who our age uses the cry-laughing emoji unironically?

Maybe he knows. If Anna could see right through me, Joaquin would’ve known I was lying through my teeth instantly. And now he’s super pissed and ignoring me. Ghosting our friendship like a date—or promposal—gone wrong.

I’m spiraling.

That’s the last time I let Anna talk me into one of those energy drinks. Caffeine is not my friend.

Okay, okay, chill, Ivelisse. Deep breaths. Inhale, exhale, whatever bullshit that yoga instructor Mami dated two months ago taught her.

Once I’ve talked myself off the metaphorical ledge, I turn back to the empty page of my notebook. Journaling usually helps clear the mind, right?

I press the tip of my pen to the page but still can’t force myself to open up, not even to this blank page. Instead, I try to go down a somewhat related route and write out all the pros and cons of Rutgers versus Sarah Lawrence. But all I’ve written is Would make Mami happy for Rutgers and Vibes are right for Sarah Lawrence before deciding this is too high pressure for my caffeine-addled brain to handle.

To further avoid being honest, I decide to get out all of my prom-related frustrations, inspired by Anna’s classmates’ Tessa-centric sonnet.

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT PROM

10. The traffic. Going anywhere within five miles of the mall is a nightmare.

9. Constant—and I mean constant—PDA. Are seniors wearing body spray laced with pheromones?

8. There’s glitter everywhere. Enough said.

7. The pressure to spend up to four figures on an outfit you’ll only wear once for a grand total of three hours.

6. The lunchroom turning into a mine field thanks to prom court politics.

5. Prom dress group chats because God forbid two people wear a purple dress. The horror.

4. Student government allocating almost 75 percent of their budget to a dance. Why make the underclassmen suffer through a dozen bake sales just for most of their money to go toward an overpriced undersea photo backdrop?

3. Every year someone gets paid to ask someone else out as a joke, and it’s all shits and giggles until they find out and start having a telenovela-worthy fight in the senior parking lot.

2. Watching dickheads buy up all the good mascara from the one Sephora in town and selling it for double the price like some kind of makeup black market.

1. The. Freaking. Prom. Posals.

It’s cathartic, writing down all of my petty annoyances to pass the time. Which, unfortunately, just confirms exactly what Anna said: I’ll feel better if I’m honest.

With a sigh, I flip to a fresh page and force myself to write the first thing that comes to mind.

Dear Quin,

Decent start.

Another ten minutes go by before I can write another word. Hundreds of apologies and questions and statements flash in front of my eyes but nothing feels worthy of what I truly want—need—to tell him. That some days it feels like the sun rises and sets with him. That he’s the only part of my life that feels safe, stable, the way it did before everything—his mom leaving, mine never sticking around, his newfound feelings for Tessa—changed.

That I’m terrified of what it could mean to lose someone like him.

The pen moves across the page in a blur, my body following some belly-deep instinct my frazzled brain can’t process. Words appear on the page by divine Raspberry Unicorn inspiration.

I’m sorry for wrecking your promposal. Twice. And for not telling you the truth about how they fell apart. Twice. I know you’re really into Tessa and think this is some “made in the stars” type of love story after one memorable spring break. But—

But what? The thought of him falling for someone who hurt me stings more than the third-degree burn he accidentally gave me in fifth grade? That I haven’t felt this way since I saw him making out with Chelsea? That I’m terrified of him falling for someone else when I fell for him first? This letter is about being honest, sure, but I’m still not ready to open up to him about that last question.

Thankfully, I’m saved by the bell.

An earsplitting alarm blares over the loudspeakers, a monotone male voice saying, “FIRE! PLEASE EVACUATE!” on loop.

“What the—” Mr. Cline startles so suddenly, the chair he’s leaning back in topples over, his head smacking against the chalkboard with a thunk. He groans, rubbing the red mark forming on his bald spot as he stumbles to his feet. “Let’s hustle before—”

Too late. Before he can warn us, the sprinklers engage, showering the classroom in a fine spray of ice-cold water. My stoned prison mate makes a dash for the door, leaving behind his bag and half-eaten Twinkie. Once the downpour starts, Mr. Cline abandons professional bravery, not even bothering to check on me or Cannon Boy before darting out of the room too.

I clutch my notebook and backpack to my chest and rush into the hallway, my stuff already soaked. The halls are thankfully dry except for the puddles Mr. Cline and Stoner Goon left behind. I’m halfway to the exit when the world turns upside down, my foot slipping and sending me hurtling toward the ground.

Before my head can crack open like an egg, something—someone—catches me by the waist, leaving me suspended in midair. I open one eye, a familiar face backlit by the hallway’s horrendously unflattering fluorescent lighting.

“Joaquin?” I croak out. Did I hit my head and go to heaven (or hell, who am I kidding?) and this is some kind of mirage?

“Ivelisse,” he responds with a sly smirk. It’s not until then that I realize just how close we are, his face a breath apart from mine. My cheeks immediately flame as I realize I’m definitely not the most attractive sight to behold right now.

“What’re you doing here?” I ask once he’s pulled me up, discreetly attempting to flatten down any flyaways the water may have caused. His hand continues to brace my waist like I may collapse in shock. Which, to be fair, I might. The amount of caffeine and fear-induced adrenaline pumping through my veins can’t be healthy.

“Saving you from ‘the fire.’ ” The air quotes throw me off, but he answers that question before I can ask it. “Needed to break you out of detention somehow.” He points his thumb in the direction of the triggered fire alarm beside the detention classroom.

“Quin!” I smack him on the arm. “What the hell?! You could get in massive trouble!”

“Relax, I’m a fire-alarm-pulling pro.” When I open my mouth to protest, his arm comes up to rest around my shoulder and tug me toward the exit. “Unless you want to keep standing here and let me get caught.”

Fair enough. I lean into the warmth of him, chasing away the chill from the water that’s slowly soaking through my hoodie and jeans. He doesn’t let go of me until we get to his car. He pops open the trunk, rooting through one of the dozens of gym bags he keeps around in case of emergencies for a spare T-shirt. He gives the handful he finds a sniff, his nose scrunching in disapproval before he ultimately reaches for the hem of his own shirt and pulls it over his head.

My face goes hot as the core of the earth. I’d scoffed at the Emilys for gawking at him when his shirt rode up, and now seeing his impressively-defined-for-a-teenager’s abs on full display makes my world spin. How the mighty have fallen. “What’re you—”

“Here, get changed,” he interrupts, tossing me the shirt off his back and a pair of shorts from his trunk before opening the door to my illustrious changing room: the back seat.

“Why?” I ask as we slide into the car, and I shrug out of my wet clothes as quickly as I can. Thank God for tinted windows, Herb’s sole upgrade. “And shouldn’t you be at baseball practice?”

“Turns out Coach did go way overboard on the training schedule. Half the team couldn’t even stand up today, so we get the night off.” When I focus on him in the rearview mirror, I see the dark circles under his eyes. Usually he’s only this exhausted during finals week.

“Well, if you’re about to go off on a crime spree, can you at least drop me off at home first? I don’t trust my mom to post bail.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he taunts as he flips on the radio, keeping his eyes carefully averted from where I’m struggling to pull off my damp skinny jeans. “If I was about to go on a crime spree, you’re the last person I’d call.”

“Excuse you!” He’s lucky I’m pantsless, and therefore in no position to fight back. “I’d be an excellent partner in crime.”

Joaquin scoffs, reading something on his phone that he makes sure to keep out of my line of view. “Please. You can’t lie to save your life. Ten minutes into an interrogation and you’d rat me out for a cheese sandwich and a ride home.”

“Well, is it a grilled cheese or a regular cheese sandwich?”

He ignores my question in favor of paying attention to whatever’s on his phone. Meanwhile, I eye the damp notebook I threw onto the seat beside me, my half-written apology mostly smudged away thanks to the sprinklers. I’m a better liar than he gives me credit for, but he’s not entirely off base either. I’m definitely quick to break under pressure. All it took was a few unread texts for me to start spilling my guts on paper.

“So, what is your plan for tonight, then?” I ask after I’ve finished changing.

Joaquin waits until I give him a tap on the shoulder, signaling that I’m decent again, to reply. He leans across the console to open the glove compartment, pulling out something that I narrowly catch when he tosses it to me. A black eye mask with the words Sleeping Beauty written in hot-pink gemstones.

“If this is supposed to be an answer, it’s not a very good one.”

Rather than reply, he throws the car into gear, waiting until we’re stopped at a red light down the block to face me.

“We’re going on an adventure.”