Seventeen School, the Day Before Prom

“I can’t wait for this whole bullshit year to be over,” I tell Stella.

She fishes a Pringles can out of her locker and pops it open.

“Preach it, Sister Daya!” She kicks me a look. “Sorry. Too soon.”

“You just can’t let it go, can you?” I mumble, stealing a Pringle out of her can.

She goes, “So, what’s with your mom wanting to deep-share her feelings last night?”

“I have no idea. I thought she was going to lose her shit about me not coming home, but... she didn’t, and now it feels like... I don’t even know. Like Invasion of the Joanna Snatchers.”

“Now that shit’s funny.”

We hit the commons, hop up onto a concrete planter box.

“Okay, so give me all the deets about this alleged prom dress B’Rad procured for you,” Stella says.

“Uh-uh. I don’t want to speak that entity to life. I just didn’t think it all the way through.”

“What part?”

“The having-to-wear-a-dress part? And now that dress is giving me serious regret vibes.” I steal another chip. “Tell me about your plans with Valentina.”

She shakes her head, makes fml-face. “Let’s just say I was told it would be ‘better for everyone’ if I didn’t show up at prom.”

“Are you kidding?” I say. “They really did prom-block you?”

“They said it was because I have unpaid fees, but... pfft. I paid that shit.”

“On the real—you never pay your late fees. But that’s not why they blocked you, and we both know it.”

I give her a look, and she gives me one back.

“Don’t make me say you were right, Daya; you know how hard that is for me.”

“Okay, but look. Your tux doesn’t need to go to waste. You could still go with me and B’Rad.”

Stella literally snort-laughs when I say this.

“First off, hell no,” she says. “Second off, they’d never let my girl through the door in her smokin’ hot dress that did not come from Church Proms R Us. Besides, there’s a Fuck Prom party up in Oviedo for all us prom rejects and never-prommers, so. I think we’re gonna hang out up there for the night.”

“And your mom’s cool with that?”

She makes face at me, and we both say “Mr. Zapata” at the same time.

“They do like their alone time,” she adds, as if anyone needs to be reminded.

The courtyard fills in with students carrying paper boats piled high with Tater Tots and nachos, unwrapping tacos, diving face-first into cafeteria sandwiches wrapped in yellow paper. One hundred percent of the conversations walking by are about prom. Afterparties. Hairstyles. Which nail salon they’re going to.

“You know what I don’t hear?” I ask.

“What?”

“I don’t hear anyone else talking about being blocked from prom for wanting to take a same-gender date. Or getting kicked out for wearing what they’re comfortable in. Or—”

We both spin at the sound of my name coming from across the commons.

It’s Nestor Camarillo.

“Hey, Daya, you weren’t there this morning, so... make sure you get to Grace Redeemer early tomorrow, okay? Everyone needs to be there by four to help set up.”

I’m not getting there early or helping set up, but I don’t tell him that.

Nestor turns to leave, but spins back around, fishes something out of the bag he’s holding, and tosses it at me.

It’s an Ask Me About Pure Prom T-shirt.

“Put it on,” he says. “That’s why we got them.”

I’d sooner wear Stella’s cousin Yoli’s neon-pink quincea?era dress than this T-shirt.

He throws one to Stella too, before jogging off. She unrolls it, holds it up, looks at the bright yellow lettering, and goes, “Oh, this is too good.” She flips it over. “True Love Waits? Waits for what? For your—”

“Don’t say it,” I warn her.

“Say what?”

“Whatever nasty thing was about to come out of your mouth.”

“I usually like to put nasty things in my mouth. Hey, hold these.”

She shoves the T-shirt and the Pringles can at me and dashes across the commons toward Valentina Orozco. She catches up, and they hug, and then Stella points at me and calls out, “Check you later!”

I lift the Pringles can like it’s a glass of champagne.

“Cheddar sour cream,” Beckett says, swinging around from behind me. “It’s almost like you knew that’s my favorite.”

I keep eyes on her as she sits down next to me—as she reaches toward the can. I tilt it in her direction so she can get a chip out.

“I thought black licorice was your favorite,” I say softly.

Her face goes red as she smiles.

“Missed you this morning,” she says.

“Yeah, I slept in.” I cross my fingers to ward off the bad juju of telling Beckett a little white lie. That after I committed and got a dress yesterday, the whole prom thing became a little too real. A reality I couldn’t look directly into the face of. Not this morning. Not at that meeting, anyway.

She eats the chip, fanning herself by pulling on the collars of multiple layered shirts she’s wearing.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m burning up.”

“I see that,” I tell her. “Why are you wearing a hoodie? It’s, like, ninety degrees out here.”

She lifts the hem of the hoodie a few inches and pulls down the bottom of the Ask Me T-shirt underneath.

“Nestor spent half the meeting today bitching about how the analytics on prom show attendance is lower than expected, and the shirts are supposed to be like advertising, blah blah blah. And since they printed half a billion of them, he gave everyone a new one and made us put it on right there.”

I hold mine up and nod. “He just did a hit-and-run on me too.”

She laughs a little, then squints across the commons, and I squint sideways at her, at the galaxy of freckled stardust swirling around her nebula eyes. Not to be a dork about it.

“Do you think we could meet to work on our project today?” she asks. “My parents are checking my grades online ten times a day, and... they’re riding me pretty hard about that one.”

I feel a quick hit of guilt, knowing we haven’t done any work on it all week, beyond picking our important figure.

“Sure,” I say.

We both reach for a chip at the same time, and our fingers touch. For a split second, they hook together, and I stare at the can, trying to figure out if she initiated the hook or if I did.

It doesn’t matter. One minuscule touch from her, and I’m combusted.

I pull my hand away quick, and she smiles, and I can’t stop myself from smiling back.

“Any chance we can go somewhere besides my house after school?” I ask. “Joanna...”

“Yeah,” she says. “I figured.”

She grabs her phone and taps something out on the keyboard. A few seconds later, a message pings back.

“We can go to my house,” she says. “I’ll pick you up at the flagpole after school, if you want?”

I ache with want.

I know kissing her the other day was a fluke and an accident and a mistake and it can never happen again. I get that. But the truth is, even though meeting at my house isn’t an option anymore, meeting at her house is the only option, as I see it—the reality check I need to remind me about what’s real and what isn’t. Beckett isn’t real. Crushing on a straight girl, even if she’s confused, will never be anything close to real.

That’s what makes Beckett’s house the only safe place to go.

It’ll stop us from doing the undoable again.

But it doesn’t stop me from wishing we could.

As promised, Beckett is waiting at the curb just after three when I scramble out of sixth period to meet her. She’s straddling that Vespa of hers like a fucking boss.

She hands me a helmet.

“Can we make a detour?” she asks.

Anywhere. I’d literally go anywhere with her.

Five minutes later, we roll into the parking lot of—

“Just a quick pit stop at Fool City,” she says.

I notice the easy way the word fool rolls off her tongue this time.

“I’m dying for one of those deep-fried burritos,” she tells me as she kills the ignition. “I know they’re death, but my mom’s probably going to make us some carrot sticks and hummus, and... sometimes I just want something a little bad for me.”

I blink at her words, tell myself it’s not some kind of secret code. Sometimes a deep-fried burrito is just a deep-fried burrito.

We shortcut down the canned foods aisle toward the sandwich counter in the back, and I pull a can off the shelf as we walk by.

“What’s that?” she says.

I show her the label.

“Mexicorn?” she says with a smirk. “Really?”

“Really.”

“It looks disgusting. Do you eat this?”

“You’re wondering if I eat it, and not why it’s called Mexicorn?” I ask.

“Good point.” She laughs again.

“For the record,” I tell her, “no, I don’t eat this. Friends don’t let friends eat something called Mexicorn. It’s for an art project I’ve been thinking about.”

She shakes her head, still smiling.

She goes, “Just like your grandpa, huh?”

I stop walking, press the can against my chest.

“How so?”

She stops too, traces the few steps back to me.

“I only meant... obviously I didn’t know him, but from what you’ve said about him... and plus the way you draw all over everything... the whole world is art to you. Like you’re always looking at it through his lens.”

I’m surprised by the sudden ache inside my chest. She’s right about my grandpa. And about how she sees me.

“Well, if it isn’t Daya Keane.”

I spin around, not expecting to see maybe-Naomi here, again, in the canned vegetables aisle.

“Hey,” I say. The word bumps against my dry lips, trying to get out.

Her gaze flips sideways for a lightning-quick assessment of Beckett. Then, like the horror movie this suddenly is, she sticks her hand out.

“I’m Natasha,” she says.

I realize too late that I’m the one who should be introducing them. If I had my way, they’d never meet at all. I’d keep them where they belong—at opposite ends of my social universe. They definitely don’t belong in the same orbit together.

Beckett doesn’t wait for me to jump in. She reaches out to meet maybe-Naomi’s grasp.

“Beckett,” she says.

The sight of them touching, even just shaking hands... it’s like watching a black hole swallow up a blazing star.

Beckett’s gaze washes over maybe-Naomi’s magenta-tipped hair, splashes all the way down from her sporty warm-ups to her slick new Adidas. But from what I can tell, the only thing on maybe-Naomi’s radar is me.

“Stella says you might make an appearance at Vanessa’s tomorrow night,” she tells me.

Beckett volleys between us, waiting to hear my response.

“Uh, no,” I say. “I don’t think so.”

She makes a fake pout-face, and goes, “Bummer. I was kind of hoping for a do-over.”

I kind of want to melt into the floor right now.

She takes one last look at Beckett and says, “Whatever you’re doing instead, I hope it’s worth it. Cuz that party’s gonna be amaze.”

I don’t so much as twitch as she strolls toward the other end of the aisle. Just before she turns the corner, she spins around and flashes me a peace sign, and then she’s gone.

My upper lip is dusted with sweat beads. I wipe them away, catch Beckett studying me like she’s trying to solve a trig problem.

“Ex-girlfriend?” she asks.

I start walking in the direction of the deli counter in the back. That’s the whole BS reason we came here in the first place—because Beckett wanted something a little bad for her.

“Current girlfriend?” she presses.

“Who, Natasha?” I say, clearing my throat. “Friend of Stella’s.”

“So... a friend-of-a-friend who wants a do-over.”

I’m relieved to see someone waiting to take Beckett’s order as soon as we approach the back counter, so we can get off the subject of maybe-Naomi. It’s not like I keep throwing Cason in her face, even though it would be fair game if I did, since he’s her actual boyfriend.

The distraction works. For the moment.

A few minutes later, standing next to her Vespa, Beckett pulls the burrito partway out of the white paper bag, peels the foil away, and takes a bite.

“Oh my gosh! I’m way too into this,” she says, rolling her eyes in mock ecstasy. She hands it to me and damn, she’s right. That deep-fried death burrito is everything.

Beckett stares at the burrito after I hand it back, then asks, “What kind of do-over was she hoping for?”

I finish chewing, force myself to swallow. “She wanted to dance with me at a party once.”

Beckett looks like she wants to ask more, or know more—about the party, possibly about maybe-Naomi. But she just takes another bite instead and hands the burrito back to me. We swap it back and forth while the sounds of traffic and people talking and occasional music from a passing car fill up the space between us. It doesn’t take long for us to demolish that burrito.

“So how come you didn’t dance with her?” she says, wadding the foil and bag into a ball.

“She’s not my type. But I think you probably know that.”

The corners of Beckett’s mouth lift into a smile as she tosses the trash into a nearby can, but she doesn’t respond. She straddles the Vespa seat, and I slide in behind her. I study the minuscule stars on her shirt as she straps her helmet on. I think about stars as I put mine on. I mean, what are stars, anyway, but beams of light shining from billions of miles away. That’s all I’m holding on to. Beams of invisible light, cast from stars so many light-years away that, even though they still look real, they may not even exist anymore.

I let that thought go in the wind as Fool City fades out behind us.

I don’t want to think about burned-out stars right now.

I don’t want to think about maybe-Naomi, or do-overs, or parties for girls who aren’t welcome at either version of prom.

I want to work on our Spanish project.

And then get through prom night.

Once those things are in the rearview, the rest of my life can go back to normal.