Chapter Twenty-Two
through opening night without this balcony falling on someone’s head, it’ll be a miracle sent by Shakespeare himself.
“How many minutes to curtain?” I shout into my headset.
One of the screws holding the balcony upright disappeared at some point, and I can’t in good conscience have people running around next to a structure that’s missing a vital screw.
I can barely make out Anna’s voice over the steady hum of Lucentio muttering, “I burn, I pine, I perish!” behind me.
“How many what?” she asks.
“Minutes to curtain!”
One of the ensemble members glares at me as my shout interrupts her vocal warm-up. I give her one right back that screams, “Shove it and let me work unless you want to break an arm tonight.” With a startled squeak, she scuttles off to the opposite end of the stage where her castmates have started a round of hamstring stretches.
Anna’s voice crackles through the decade-old headset. “You get that?”
“Sorry, say that again.”
“You have fifteen minutes.”
Shit, less time than I thought. If I can’t finish screwing down this base, we’ll have to hold curtain, and nothing pisses off an overcaffeinated theater kid like telling them you need to delay the show twenty minutes. Anna speaks up again when I don’t reply. “You need me to come down there?”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me from up in the light booth. “No, no, I have it handled. You woman the fort.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
Anna’s end of the line goes quiet, and beyond the curtain her “Showtunes except they’re cool” playlist—a collection of jazz covers of Broadway classics—kicks on through the speakers. The rumble of the waiting audience quiets down, their conversations reduced to whispers as they settle in for the last stretch before the show officially begins.
That’s if I can find that goddamn screw.
I call over Emily Z, the only Emily who isn’t carrying an armful of props, and have her help me scour the floor. If I could go back in time and strangle past Ivelisse for not thinking to have a backup set of these annoyingly specific screws, I would. Because holy shit is this a high-pressure situation.
“Ivelisse?” Anna says, the worried tone of her voice sending my panic into overdrive.
I stop scouring the flowerpot beneath the balcony to give her my full attention. “What happened? Did a spotlight go out?”
“No.”
“Did a set piece fall apart?”
“No, but—”
“Is something wrong?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then it can wait.”
I’ll apologize for being snippy and shower her with praise and her favorite candy at the wrap party, but right now I do not have time for anything that isn’t finding this goddamned motherfucking screw.
Across the stage, the rest of the Emilys are gathered around the edge of the curtain, giggling and whispering among themselves as they sneak peeks at the audience. Whatever’s going on past the curtain has them worked up—each one flushing an even deeper pink than the strawberry stage blush lathered onto the cast’s cheeks.
“Hey!” I snap. “Either help me find this screw or go backstage.”
The Emilys frown, casting longing glances out at the audience before ultimately getting onto their hands and knees.
“Ive,” Anna says again, her voice more insistent this time.
“What?!” I shout, regretting it instantly. Anna doesn’t deserve the brunt of my rage—especially considering she’s the only person who understands what kind of stress we’re under. But, as I go to apologize, a silver glimmer catches my eye. The screw, stuck in a crack in the floor.
I dive for it before it can disappear or roll away or God knows what, cradling it in the palm of my hand like a piece of solid gold and letting out a victory yelp.
“You should look at the audience,” Anna says, her voice unusually apprehensive.
My brow furrows. So much for celebrating my miraculous find. “Why?” I ask, already bolting back to the tower to finish screwing things back into place.
“You’ll see.”
Well, that’s totally not ominous or anything.
Dread creeping up the back of my neck, I dismiss the Emilys and carefully reinsert the screw (and therefore saving the play, thank you, Shakespeare). Once I’m done, I head toward the edge of the stage. With less than ten minutes to curtain, everyone has made their way to the backstage pen. All that’s left behind the curtain is me and our no-longer-wobbling balcony. Sucking in a deep breath, I crack open the curtain prepared to see pandemonium, gore, or a UFO abducting our audience.
But all I see is Joaquin. Sitting in the front row, in the seat I’d always save him, except this year because I didn’t think I’d need to. A bouquet of peonies in his hands.
“What is he doing here?” I don’t remember pressing the speak button on my headset, and I don’t even know if that was meant to be said out loud or privately obsessed over in the recesses of my mind, but Anna’s response grounds me.
“He’s here for you.”
He’s here for me, like he always has been. And, maybe, he always will be.
“Thought you might want to know now. Instead of hearing it from one of the Emilys gagging over him.”
While I know I should thank her, I can only focus on him. The curve of his lips and the way he taps his foot along to the music. His glossy brown curls. The peonies, blush pink and ten times more beautiful than the dried petals that used to sit on my living room mantel.
I have to talk to him. Hug him. Tell him I never want to let him go again.
“I’ll be right back,” I say into the headset before whipping it off and rushing to the stage exit.
The clock is ticking until curtain, but I’ve wasted enough time running away from what I feel. For once, I want to face it head-on, and I can’t risk letting that feeling fade when the lights go down, and I lose him to the darkness.
The backstage area is a maze. Props and costume pieces litter the ground, and at one point I stub my toe so hard my life flashes before my eyes. Once visions of my third birthday party have faded, I take a careful step forward, only to trip over my backpack.
“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath as the contents of my bag go spilling all over the stage. Professions of love get pushed onto the back burner as I scramble to scoop up my things and shove them back into my bag. Unless I want Tampax to be scattered across Padua, I need to act fast. My attempt to cram everything into my bag at lightning speed falters when I get to the last item—my yearbook.
The book is facedown on the ground, a dog-eared page catching my attention. I definitely didn’t do that. I only had my yearbook for a matter of minutes before tucking it into my bag, and the only other person who had it was Joaquin…
Lunging for the book, I open to the flagged page so quickly I cut the tip of my finger on the stiff paper. I let out a hiss and suck my thumb, catching any blood before it can drip onto the page.
The page is a familiar one—Joaquin’s memorial-esque spread. In the lower left corner, there’s a message written beneath an image I didn’t notice earlier. Joaquin and I in the Dino World photobooth, him licking my cheek, sandwiched between a photo of him running through the outfield, and a selfie of him and Doña Carmen before junior prom. A photo he must’ve asked them to include.
Ive—I’ll always want to be next to you.
Every part of me swells with a type of exhilaration I’ve never felt before. Better than every roller-coaster drop combined, and more dizzying than any corkscrew turn or inversion loop. The words ring in my ears like a song on repeat. The boy I never want to let go of doesn’t want to let go either.
An idea pops into my mind—a chance to give Joaquin the promposal moment he deserves.
An idea that could majorly backfire but is worth the risk.
Eileen, the stage manager, appears out of the darkness like a ghost—her face and arms the only thing left visible thanks to her all-black ensemble. “Are we good to get started or—”
“One second.”
Without giving myself time to overthink or doubt, I dash toward the stage as fast as my jelly legs will carry me. I grab the AUX cord for the onstage speaker, plugging in my phone and pulling up the playlist Joaquin sent me weeks ago with only a single song on it—a song I’ve played enough times to know all the lyrics by heart. Whose lyrics have never felt more relevant than when I stared out into a crowd of hundreds and only saw one person.
Whipping the curtain aside, I burst onto the stage and directly into the blinding spotlight like an overeager ingenue as the opening notes of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” ring throughout the auditorium.
At first, I wince against the harsh glare and heat of the light. Anyone who can dance, sing, and act at the same time under this kind of pressure deserves a gold medal. Anna, God bless her, must notice the way the light catches me off guard, the brightness dimming until I can slightly make out the audience.
Joaquin comes into view just in the nick of time, our eyes locking as I lunge for the microphone seconds before the first lyric of the song.
“You’re just too good to be true,” I mouth along, careful not to actually sing so as not to destroy everyone’s eardrums. Instead, I commit to the bit, doing my best to match Frankie Valli’s energy as the crowd giggles and hides smiles behind their hands. Who knows how long I have before Eileen tries to pull me off the stage with a cane like a vaudeville gag, so I’ve got to sell it while I can.
Anna, a true angel, gives me a hand. She quickly reprograms the lights, allowing the spotlight to follow me as I attempt to sway my way off the stage and into the audience. As I near the edge of the curtain, I narrowly dodge Eileen’s outstretched hand.
“What’re you doing?!” she mutters to me from backstage, still attempting to grab the back of my shirt.
During the instrumental interlude, I take advantage of the brief break from having to mouth along to dart across the stage and away from Eileen. The crowd breaks out into scattered laughter as I two-step my way to the other end of the stage, and it takes all of my willpower not to get too into my head about how mortifyingly embarrassing this could be. Eileen slowly edges out onto the stage, cloaked in darkness as the spotlight continues to follow me. Being generous, I probably have about thirty seconds until she tackles me and drags me backstage.
With what little time I have left, I give everything I have to the performance. I throw my head back and lip sync along to the chorus, faux-belting like I’m gunning for a Tony. I’m not much of a dancer, so I throw my free arm into the air and let the spirit of Frankie Valli take over. It’s easy to give myself over to the music when the lyrics feel so relevant—true in every sense about the boy I’m singing them to.
Eileen is tight on my tail, her hand just barely missing me as I kick ball change and jazz hands away from her, using every musical theater dance move I’ve picked up to put distance between us. I hazard a peek over my shoulder, my performance faltering when I realize how close she is to catching up to me. She rears back, as if she’s going to football tackle me to the ground. With one last literal leap of faith, I jump into the audience and slide on my knees until I’m directly in front of Joaquin.
“Let me love you…,” I say just for him.
My heart pounds as I wrench my eyes shut and lip-sync belt the last lyrics of the chorus, Anna fading out the song for me.
The crowd doesn’t even wait for the music to fade before giving me a rousing round of applause and a standing ovation, while Eileen stews onstage.
Finally, I meet Joaquin’s eyes, prepared to see him shielding his face from view, or attempting to gracefully sneak out of the room. Instead, he’s beaming, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he gives me the most adoring look I’ve ever seen in my life.
In that moment, I wish I had more. A sign, or a banner, or something that asks the question for me. Instead, all I have is my voice.
“Joaquin Romero, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you since you came over to my house fourteen years ago and asked me if I wanted to play with your Legos. Will you go to prom with me?”
He deserves something bigger, more spectacular. Fireworks spelling his name in the sky. A full choir belting his favorite song. A lifetime supply of Marco’s slushies. But this is what I can offer—putting myself and my heart on the line and praying that’s enough for him.
An excited buzz spreads through the audience as they crane their necks for a peek at the guest of honor. While I wait for his response, my heart hammers so loud I’m sure the mic is picking it up and broadcasting it to the world. A blush creeps along the apples of his cheeks as he laughs quietly.
“Only if we can get slushies first.”
The audience giggles like kids on the playground and my cheeks ache as I hold the mic back up to my mouth.
“Deal.”
Cheers and hollers spread through the entire auditorium, but everything fades to a hum. All that matters is him, and the way he looks at me like I’m made of stars.
Eileen appears out of nowhere, yanking the mic out of my hand. “Very nice, thank you for that, Ivelisse,” she says, discreetly shoving me toward the exit.
I scurry backstage as quickly as I can, trying to return to the light booth before she can tear me limb from limb for disrupting her show. From stage right, with a wave and a mouthed “I’ll see you soon” to Joaquin, I rush off the stage and let the real show begin.
I’m totally not biased, but this was the best damn spring play yet.
The cast gets a generous standing ovation that continues on through them thanking the band and pointing to me and Anna up in the light booth for our own moment of glory at our last ever Cordero show. Anna does a deep, dramatic bow even though no one can see us through the tinted glass, but I make up for it by giving her the hype she rightly deserves. After we’ve turned on the house lights and powered down the light board, Anna pulls open the door with a grand flourish.
“Go get your man.”
Fear takes over as I come down from my promposal high and reality starts to sink in. I just asked my best friend to prom in front of hundreds of people. Via lip sync and passable dance. And now I have to walk right into the thick of it and try not have a semi-public meltdown because Joaquin said yes.
“I should probably clean up in here before we—”
“Nope,” Anna interjects, making it clear that this is a demand, not a suggestion. “Go get your man.”
Swallowing my nerves, I nod, accept her encouraging hug, and head out to “get my man.”
Most of the audience lingers in the auditorium, waiting with bouquets and balloons for the cast to emerge fresh-faced and out of their period costumes. I scan the clusters of supportive parents, siblings, and friends for any sign of Joaquin, but his entire row is vacant. There’s no curly mop of hair peeking out over the tops of the crowd like usual, and I will myself not to panic. He wouldn’t leave now when he came to see me.
Unless he doesn’t actually want to go to prom with me and ran away instead of telling me to my face.
Once I’m sure he’s not in the auditorium, or in the hallway, I burst into the parking lot with the last shreds of my chill. The air is warm, almost humid, and the skyline beyond the lot is a shade of purple so vibrant it would stop me in my tracks if I wasn’t already so enamored by what’s right in front of me.
Joaquin, leaning against Herbert, with the bouquet and a smile that makes my knees weak.
“Sorry to make you come all the way out here,” he says as he pushes off the door. “Emily W asked for a bunch of selfies, then told her friend to come get in them, and it was turning into a whole thing, so I snuck out here.”
I snort at the thought. “You’re so popular these days.”
He shrugs, sheepishly scratching at the back of his neck. “I guess…”
Before I can rib him for his newfound superstardom, he brushes off his shyness and launches into a new train of thought.
“The show was great. Especially the part where this cute girl asked me to prom.”
“She sounds pretty cool.”
He grins, handing over the bouquet of flowers. “The coolest.”
As I bury my nose in the flowers, my heart swells so wide it could burst right out of my chest.
“But don’t tell my friend Ive,” he continues. “I’ve kinda had a crush on her for forever—can’t let her think I’m straying.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” I take a chance and another step toward him, the flowers pressed between our chests. I lower my voice even though there’s no one around to eavesdrop and lean in until I’m close enough to watch his cheeks bloom pink as the peonies. “And I may have heard through the grapevine that she has a crush on you too.”
His hands come to rest against my waist, my skin igniting under his touch. “You think?”
“I know.”
I step even closer, resting my hand over his heart, the rapid pounding beneath my fingers making me blush down to my toes. But before I can move to close the distance, he grabs my wrist.
“Are you sure you want this?” he asks, his voice so soft and somber it makes my stomach clench. “Next year, you’re gonna be in the city, and I’ll just…be here.”
It’s the most vulnerable I’ve seen him since Mrs. Romero and Isabella left, his brown eyes glossy and his cheeks tinged pink. He avoids my gaze, as if he’s ashamed of opening himself up to me.
I’m not sure what the future will hold for us. Whether the distance will tear us apart, or if it’ll just make coming home that much sweeter. Two months ago, I wouldn’t have thought it would be worth it. That we’d be doomed to end up like every cliché high school love story—like Mami and Papi. Like me and Danny. But I don’t care, so long as it means I’ll have him. Even if it’s just for a moment.
I rest my hand on his cheek and tilt his face toward mine.
“All I want is you.”
We move in sync, him leaning down and me going onto the tips of my toes until our lips meet halfway in a kiss that makes me lose my balance. His grip around me tightens, crushing the flowers between us as he pulls me against his chest, my body stretching to its limits just to meet him, but I don’t mind so long as I’m kissing him until we’re breathless.
When we break, his palm cups my cheek, a tender moment before he flips us around, gently hoisting me onto Herbert’s hood before pulling my face back to his and kissing me harder, faster. It’d be so easy to lose myself to this feeling. The taste of peppermint ChapStick and honey, the scent of Irish Spring and coconut hand lotion, and the pad of his thumb digging into the bare skin where my shirt has ridden up.
Kissing Joaquin Romero is better than slushies, better than Marco’s, better than roller coasters, because he is all of my favorite things at once.
The third time we pull apart, we’re heaving for breath, our lips so close it takes the fear of passing out not to lean in and kiss him again. The boy in front of me is so familiar, and yet so startlingly different. His lips red and kiss swollen, his curls mussed in a way I’ve never seen before. I didn’t think it was possible, but I fall even more in love with him.
Instead of leaning in for a fourth time, Joaquin’s head falls against my shoulder, a soft laugh making his shoulders quiver. “I’ve wanted to do that for a really long time,” he says, the words muffled by the fabric of my sweater.
“Did it meet your expectations?” I ask, a hint of nervousness behind it. What felt mind-blowing to me might not have felt that way for him, considering I haven’t kissed someone since freshman year.
He leans back and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on the edge of my jaw. “Surpassed them.”
Unable to wait another second, I grab hold of his collar, pull him in, and give myself over to the purest joy I’ve ever known. Because I can kiss him again. Today, tomorrow, every day.