Chapter Twelve
My latest guess as to where we’re headed is met with a negative buzzer sound from Joaquin. I groan, smacking my head against the headrest like a toddler who was just denied McDonald’s.
“C’moooooon, can I at least get a hint?”
“That would be cheating.”
Given his insistence on the blindfold, I have zero clues as to where we’re headed except that it definitely isn’t around the block. At first, I tried to keep track of the time by counting how many songs played on the radio. But he’s settled on a station that’s more devoted to commercials than songs. I’ve heard Joaquin humming Whitney Houston and Celine Dion more than actual music. Not for the first time, I desperately wish Herbert had an AUX cord. I can’t even switch on one of our mix CDs thanks to me being stuck in the back seat.
I slump as low as I can go, the edge of my seat belt digging into my neck. “Since when does this game have rules?”
“Since I decided it does.”
“Pendejo,” I mutter under my breath.
He lowers the volume on the ten thousandth commercial for Spill-E, an all-in-one cleaning device, to say, “I heard that, and I’m knocking ten points off your score.”
“Wait, there are points now?”
Even if I can’t see him, I can sense the joy in his voice and the laughter he’s keeping in. Glad he’s at least having fun torturing me.
He cranks the volume back up and I resign myself to my fate.
“The Egyptian pyramids?”
“Nope. You lose another five points.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
This time he doesn’t fight the laughter, getting it out of his system before replying, “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”
By “almost there” he apparently means ten more minutes of the bumpiest drive I’ve ever experienced. My head almost collides with the roof as we drive over what’s either the world’s deepest pothole or a gap in the space-time continuum. “Sorry,” he mumbles around a hiss. “Rough patch of road.”
“Rough patch of road?!” I snap, my stomach bubbling like a chemistry experiment gone wrong. “I almost got decapitated by my seat belt!”
“I promise the surprise is worth having no head!” He reaches back to pat my knee.
Wherever the hell he’s taking me, it’d better be made of solid gold.
Thankfully, the last stretch of the journey isn’t as nausea-inducing. After one last commercial break, we finally settle to a stop, and the car switches off.
“Ready to lose your mind?” Joaquin asks. I can hear his seat belt unbuckling.
A mixture of nerves and excitement gurgle in my uneasy stomach. “As I’ll ever be.”
Joaquin carefully guides me out of the back seat, one hand in mine and the other steadying me by the waist. His grip shifts to my shoulders, pushing me forward a few steps before letting go. Pleased with my positioning, he whips off the blindfold with a flourish. “Behold!”
Gazing directly into the afternoon sun after almost an hour of being surrounded by darkness feels like cutting into an onion. I wince, shielding my eyes until the world slowly starts to come into view again. My other senses kick into action while my sight recovers. The sound of bloodcurdling screams whipping through the air. The smell of deep-fried, sugar-coated dough.
“We’re going to Dino World?!” I spin to study Joaquin, his lips pressed into a tight line as he tries to suppress another laugh.
“No,” he replies. “We’re at Dino World.”
Instead of smacking him for being a smartass, I greedily take in the neon coasters soaring above the pine trees.
“What’re we doing here?” I ask without tearing my eyes away from the mother of all coasters—the Tyrannosaurus Death.
Joaquin shrugs. “Promised I’d make it up to you for helping me, didn’t I?”
My heart stutters, caught somewhere between my butt and my throat, unable to process anything that isn’t the jumble of feelings this boy brings out of me. When he turns to face me, his dark brown curls glimmer in the light of golden hour.
He offers his hand. “You coming?”
It’s hard to look at him, at his smile, and not wish that things between us could be different. That I wasn’t falling for someone I love too much to let go. That we might be hours rather than minutes apart next year. That he wasn’t falling for Tessa. But I push aside the doubts and insecurities—about me not being enough, about us and who we’re destined to be to each other along with the guilt over hiding more than just my feelings from him—and I take his hand.
We both deserve a little happiness.
“No way. Absolutely not. Not in a thousand years.”
Joaquin plants his feet firmly on the ground, steady as an oak tree and impervious to my attempts to tug him forward. I loop both of my arms through his crossed ones, pulling with every fiber of my strength, but he doesn’t budge.
“Pretty please?” I plead, clasping my hands together and putting on my best pout.
Everyone knows that the Terrordactyl, Dino World’s oldest and most iconic coaster with a record-breaking eight inversions, is best enjoyed in pairs of two. That way you don’t have to spend the entire ride worried about accidentally barfing on a stranger. Anyone with an intense fear of heights like Joaquin wouldn’t want to board a coaster with a 450-foot drop, but there’s no way I’m leaving without getting at least one ride in.
Joaquin shakes me off to wave his arms at the coaster. “That thing has more loops in it than my signature!”
“That’s what makes it so much fun!”
“That’s what makes it a death trap.”
I roll my eyes. “No one’s died on it, you chicken.”
“Yeah, and I’m not gonna be the first.” Joaquin marches over to a nearby bench, plopping down and folding his arms again. “Meet me when you’re done.”
Frowning, I eye the single-rider line. Can’t imagine anyone would be too pleased if I heave chunks of my barely digested Snickers bar all over them. My stomach is made of iron—it has to be when you’re an adrenaline junkie—but the first inversion of the day always throws me for a loop. Pun intended.
After carefully planning out my next move, I pounce, sliding up to Joaquin with a perfectly crafted pout. The kind that I know always breaks him.
“Quin…”
“Nope,” he snaps before I’ve even sat down, not looking up from his phone. “Put away that face. It won’t work.”
“What if I bought you funnel cake afterward?”
He scoffs. “You think I’m gonna want to eat after surviving that thing? Yeah, don’t think so.”
Dammit, good point. Despite that, I won’t give in that easy. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint your very best friend in the entire world, would you?”
“I don’t, but I will.”
All right, fine. Time to go for the jugular. “Well…you wouldn’t want your very best friend in the entire world to accidentally let it slip to the rest of the baseball team that you still sleep with a stuffed giraffe?”
That gets his attention, eyes wide as saucers.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he sneers.
My pout morphs into a vindictive smirk. “Oh, I would.”
Our eyes meet, locked in an unblinking war until finally, he gives in. “Fine. But if I die, it’s on you.”
Other parkgoers shoot us confused glances when I leap off the bench and punch the air. “I’ll deliver the finest eulogy you’ve ever seen. There won’t be a dry eye in the house, promise.”
I hold up my hand both to seal our agreement with a shake and hoist him off the bench. He groans as he slaps his hand into mine, giving me the drabbest handshake ever before begrudgingly heading toward the line for the Terrordactyl.
Joaquin is as stiff as a statue as I push him through the minimal line. Usually, the summer weekend wait times can be as long as an hour per ride, but thanks to our midweek trip, we’re up at the front in no time.
“Ready for the ride of your life?” I tease, whipping out my phone to film him as the ride attendant straps him in, his tomato-red face buried in his hands. He responds by flipping off the camera.
Strapping me in is a significantly easier process since my arms aren’t locked in front of my face. Joaquin is trembling like a leaf by the time the rest of the car is loaded up, biting down on his thumb so hard he’ll probably draw blood if he doesn’t let up soon.
“I hate you I hate you I hate you,” he chants under his breath as the car sets into motion, slowly climbing toward the sky for our initial ascent, leading to a hundred-foot drop that goes straight into our first loop.
“Let’s do deep breaths,” I propose. We have a solid ten seconds before the drop. Maybe if I can distract him with guided meditation, he won’t notice how high up in the air we are. “C’mon, in for five.” I take the lead, inhaling sharply.
“Shut up,” he snaps.
“Wow, okay, no need to be rude.”
I spare him any more of my snark and let him live his best anxious life as we climb to the top of the peak. The wind whips through my hair as we overlook Dino World like kings and queens. Beyond the trees and clusters of mile-high coasters, the setting sun has painted the sky soft pinks and purples.
Suddenly, Joaquin takes my hand—linking his fingers through mine in a death grip that would feel painful if it wasn’t so exhilarating. His lips are parted when I turn to face him, so close to mine it makes me jump.
“Don’t let go,” he whispers against the roar of the wind.
This high up, with this boy beside me, the world stretched out in front of us, falling almost feels like flying.
Joaquin survives his experience on the Terrordactyl unscathed, but I can’t say the same about my sneakers.
A blond boy in a Power Rangers T-shirt whipped around toward us as soon as the ride docked on the platform. He gave us a once-over, glancing at who must’ve been his older brother before vomiting on my shoes. Rest in peace, three-year-old Adidas.
“Y’know, this never would’ve happened if we didn’t go on that ride in the first place,” Joaquin taunts before popping a piece of funnel cake into his mouth. Vomit or no vomit, I made a promise.
I stick my tongue out at him as I readjust the strap on a pair of brontosaurus-themed sandals I snagged from the gift shop.
Joaquin nudges his plate across the picnic table. “Funnel cake heals all wounds.”
“You’re thinking of deep-fried Oreos,” I reply. No use in passing up the opportunity to annoy him.
He wrinkles his nose before yanking the plate back to his side of the table. “You have no taste.”
“Fried Oreos are the most disgustingly amazing creation in American culinary history.”
He leans in, eyes narrowed. “If by ‘amazing,’ you mean the exact opposite, you’d be right.”
The last person who should be doling out unsolicited food opinions is Joaquin Romero. Arguably, his most fatal character flaw is that he hates Oreos. What teenager doesn’t like cream-filled chocolate cookies? He’s practically a serial killer.
Something catches my eye before I can respond to his Oreo slander.
“Photo booth!” I shout, clapping my hands in excitement.
“Photo booth?” Joaquin echoes, scanning the area in confusion.
I take his face in my hands, angling it toward the freshly vacated photo booth a few feet away from us. “Photo booth.”
Finally, it clicks for him too. We rush across the dining section to the booth before anyone else can slide in. Normally I keep my expectations low when it comes to photo booths. The lines are always five years long, or the booth is out of service. There’s no way we’re walking away from a chance to immortalize our teenage good looks on film.
The seat inside of the booth is a tight squeeze. Joaquin shoves his hip against mine, leaving me smushed up against the opposite wall.
“Watch it!” I shove his thigh hard enough to send his never-ending legs out of the booth, his sneakers peeking out under the white curtain.
“Please, Ive, control your jealousy. It’s embarrassing. We can’t all have long, beautiful legs, and you just have to accept that.”
Joaquin starts up the camera’s timer, the countdown already down to one before I have time to refocus.
“What the—”
“Say cheese!”
The camera flashes just as I go to jab Joaquin in the shoulder, capturing the moment of calm before the storm. Joaquin loses his shit when the preview image pops up—me mid-attack and him wearing a shit-eating grin. Tears trickle down his cheeks as he cackles like a hyena, his right hand rubbing at where I sucker punched him on the arm.
When the countdown starts again, I gear up for revenge. Shoving my hand in his face, I make sure he’s fully edged out of the photo while giving my most picture-perfect smile. The final product—Joaquin fully out of frame except for a single flailing middle finger over my shoulder—is stunning.
“Fine, truce.” Joaquin offers up his hand once I release his face.
I narrow my eyes at him, scrutinizing every inch of him for any tricks he may be hiding up his sleeve. The flash goes off, only one picture left until we’re done. Reluctantly, I slap my hand into his and accept the bargain.
“Smile!” Joaquin shouts, gripping my hand so tight he knows I won’t be able to pull away. His free hand cups my cheek and pulls me in close enough to lick the other cheek, the flash going off right as I let out a squeal.
“You. Are. The. Worst,” I mutter as I wipe my face with my sleeve.
“Weird way to say ‘you’re the best, and I’m constantly in awe of how great you are’ but sure.”
I huff out of the booth, swiping the two photo strips we—actually, he—paid an inhumane $15 for.
I’m only properly facing the camera in one panel—the one where I shoved Joaquin out of frame. But the expression on my face as Joaquin licks my cheek, somewhere between disgust and the purest type of joy, is worth the grossness. I wouldn’t change a thing about it. The photo or the moment.
I can already picture it taking prime placement above the bed in my dorm room—wherever that might be. I peek over at him, knots twisting in my stomach at the thought of the future. Rutgers isn’t the fresh start I wanted, but it could mean more nights like this one. More nights with him.
The lights across the park begin to dim, an unspoken announcement that the End of Day Lightshow is about to start. We keep quiet as the fountains before each ride entrance ignite, spraying Technicolor jets into the air, an explosion of color surrounding us. Lanterns strung along the food stands come to life, bathing our picnic area in a warm peach glow. Above us, fireworks spark across the stars to create patterns and dinosaur outlines, pulling oohs and aahs from every corner of the park.
Behind us, the speaker system crackles. The music switches from an upbeat pop track to something more familiar.
“Isn’t this song—”
Joaquin cuts me off by sweeping me off my feet—literally. He lifts me up from my seat like he’s gunning to be on the cover of a romance novel, setting me down gently before wrapping an arm around my waist. My head spins, our chests pressed together as he takes my free hand in his and sways to “I Want You to Want Me”—a song Mrs. Romero used to blast almost every time we got into the car.
“What’re you doing, dork?” I tease, holding back a giggle as he struggles to follow a basic three-count waltz.
He beams as he guides me along. “This song demands to be danced to.”
“If this is you trying to distract me so I won’t make you go on the Triscareatops, it won’t work.”
The hand on my waist comes up to pat my head. “Shhhhh, just sway with me.”
While usually I’d quip back, this time I shut up and go with it. His hand returns to my waist, our movements slowing down as we find our rhythm with one another. Cautiously, I lean my head on his shoulder—wait for him to pull away. But he doesn’t flinch, just holds me tighter.
The song is as cheesy as I remember, like something straight out of the end of a ’90s rom-com. And with the gentle patter of Joaquin’s heartbeat against my cheek, I feel like I’m in one.
We stay there, wrapped up in one another, even after the song fades. Fireworks blend into our soundtrack, pops and explosions and cheers as the lights over our shoulders dim from one pastel color to the next. The smells of the park—sweat and popcorn and powdered sugar—fade under the scent clinging to Joaquin’s collar. Irish Spring body wash, the lavender dryer sheets his abuela loves, sofrito and cilantro.
The smell of home.
“So, I was thinking…,” he says so quiet I almost miss it.
“Mmm…” I could keep my hands on his chest, lean into his touch like this, forever.
“What if I asked Tessa to prom here?”
And, just like that, the bubble bursts.
Cracks echo in my ears as the illusion I’d let myself get swept up in shatters. His hands drop, the light show comes to an anticlimactic close, and all that’s left is my racing heart.
“W-what?” I ask, reaching up to rub my temple. The whiplash of the topic change leaves me with the first signs of an oncoming headache.
“DeShawn’s been asking around if anyone has any ideas for what StuCo should plan for senior skip day next Friday, and I was thinking we could come here.” He waves his arms toward the spectacle of rides and games and food vendors behind us. “One of the guys on the team has a cousin who works here. Maybe we could get him to take Tessa on a scavenger hunt thing that ends here before the light show. I could probably ask them to play this song over the loudspeaker too. It’d be perfect, right?!”
What hurts more than the thought of Tessa is the way he still says we. As if this is a joint venture, something we’re both doing because we’re in love with Tessa Hernandez. As if these past few days haven’t made me feel like we’re less of a we than ever. I’m not strong enough to maintain eye contact, the ache in my stomach making me slump. My gaze falls to the photo strip poking out of his pocket.
“Y-yeah. Pretty perfect,” I mumble because I don’t have it in me to say no. To tell him that I feel like everything is crumbling. To tell him that I’m in love with—
“Sweet,” he says, interrupting that dangerous line of thought. “I’ll talk to DeShawn tomorrow and see if we can make it work.”
He turns away from me and takes in the park with new wonder in his eyes. Clouded by the shimmer of what must be visions of Tessa and her perfect glossy hair and perfect designer minidress kissing him as a dozen fireworks spark.
“This is gonna be epic,” he says under his breath.
He’s right. It would be the most epic, showstopping promposal of the year, and if Tessa said no, I’m sure half our class will claim to lose their faith in true love.
“It would be,” I reply, my voice barely a whisper.
But it’s never going to happen.