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  To the queer & questioning kids,

  I’m rooting for y’all.

  And to Mom,

  You were the miracle. Wherever you are now, I hope it’s good.

  ONE

  The fabric of my lilac gown brushes my bare legs, sending shivers of delightful anticipation up my arms. The flowers cascading down my skirt are so wispy and delicate, they look sugar spun. Light flashes in and out of my eyes, timed to the rhythmic turn of the disco ball that casts the entire gymnasium in a haze of sparkling light. Warm hands curl around the small of my back at the exact moment the music swells. My heartbeat crescendos with the music as I tilt my chin up to finally see my dance partner, none other than—

  I’m ripped from my daydreaming as Agatha violently chucks a textbook into her locker.

  “Do you remember during freshman year when they promised us we wouldn’t end up with a shitty graduation song?” She pulls her locker door in to look me in the eye. “We really have to send off our youth to Don’t Stop Believin’? Just hold me back at this point.”

  “Is this outrage going to last for more or less time than your annoyance about the prom theme?” I ask, recovering quickly as I swap out my chemistry binder for my US government notebook. Not for the first time, I’m glad Geraldo Inglaterra was so open to exchanging his locker—perfectly spaced between Linds’s and Ags’s at the front of the alphabet—with me for a few bouquets of my roses. I can’t imagine all the chisme I’d miss out on if I was subject to my end-of-the-hall, R-last-name locker.

  Lindsay’s knees crack as she kneels to open her locker. “Don’t get her started on that again.”

  “Sue me for wanting a classic prom theme,” Ags shoots back.

  “Technically Under the Sea is a classic theme,” I say. “It’s just classically shitty.”

  In every fantasy I’ve ever had of prom, not once did I imagine decor reminiscent of the scuba-diving expedition Mom and Dad took me on during our family vacation to Mexico two summers ago. Evidently, neither did Agatha.

  Lindsay snorts. “I’m more concerned with this omnipresent they who knew what all our senior year selections would be when we were still puny freshmen who’d barely voted in our class representatives. We didn’t even know how to open our lockers yet.” She accidentally spins her combination too far and curses under her breath. “Okay, so maybe some of us are still working the locker thing out.”

  “Some of us are still puny too,” I joke, nudging Lindsay with the toe of my sneaker. It earns me her stuck-out tongue.

  “Whatever,” Agatha says as we shut our lockers and head down the hall. “After our reps made our class color that awful rusty orange, I should’ve known not to get my hopes up. If we had all just applied for senior council at the beginning of the year, like I wanted, this wouldn’t be happening.”

  “Maybe I would’ve if the senior council president was still Vijay Khan from last year,” I say, fanning my face while Agatha rolls her eyes. “Seriously, why couldn’t he have just taken one for the team and been a super senior? He was easily the best president.” Lindsay shoots me a look. “Okay, at the very least he was the most swoonworthy.”

  The stifling spring air hits me at the same time Lindsay’s nudging shoulder does. I regret wearing my sunflower jeans, even if the floral patches make me smile, and envy Lindsay’s breathable running shorts and tank top. At least I’m better off than Agatha in her turtleneck sweater dress, but it’ll be a cold day in hell when Ags admits that comfort can trump fashion.

  “Ignoring Ophelia’s thirstiness,” Lindsay starts, and this time I stick my tongue out at her, “need I remind you that senior council meets on Sunday mornings when I have church and Ophelia has her weird gardening rituals?”

  Sammie and Wesley are already waiting for us at “our” picnic bench, mouths occupied with their food instead of with talking to each other. Wesley is picking at leafy greens while Sammie inhales a cafeteria veggie burger that looks barely edible, even under the mound of ketchup he’s drowned it in.

  “My gardening rituals are not weird,” I protest, sitting beside Ags on one side while Lindsay squirms between Sammie and Wesley on the other. She ruffles Sammie’s mop of black curls and smiles at Wesley. Both boys look pleased by the attention.

  Sammie swallows the last of his fries, speaking around the mush in his mouth despite missing the first half of the conversation. “You’re right. It’s totally normal for teenage girls to spend their weekends obsessively watering, pruning, and fertilizing their personal rose garden.”

  “I like that she didn’t deny the ‘thirstiness’ part,” Lindsay adds.

  “I, for one, think it’s sweet that O has a hobby she cares so much about,” Ags says, patting me on the head. I swat her hand away. “I just wish it didn’t get in the way of the thematic integrity of our senior year.”

  “No one said you couldn’t join senior council on your own, Ags,” I reply. Lindsay nods in agreement.

  Ags rolls her eyes, her bedazzled lashes shimmering in the sunlight. I swear a light breeze fans my face as she blinks. “Like I want to deal with other people.”

  “Is she still worked up about the prom theme?” Sammie asks, making a face.

  “Started off annoyed at our grad song, but we’re circling around to prom again,” I reply. Tomorrow, prom will officially be three weeks away, so her irritation was due to return.

  Wesley, shockingly, speaks up, unshockingly keeping his eyes locked on his salad. “What’s so wrong with Under the Sea?”

  “It’s a tragic cliché! It’s like the school wants us to spike the punch bowl and lose our virginities in a limo,” Ags huffs.

  “Sounds good to me,” Sammie says, chewed-up veggie burger threatening to fall out of his mouth as he speaks. “Plus, Linds can just wear a mermaid tail and call it a day.” He tugs on a strand of her naturally vibrant red hair. She throws a carrot at him in retaliation, but he easily smacks it away, flinging it at Wesley’s chest. I bite back a laugh as Wesley slowly brushes carrot water off his expensive-looking gray polo.

  “I can glue seashells to everyone’s corsages,” I add.

  “Don’t make me protest prom, Rojas,” Ags threatens, wielding her fork. I bite back a dinglehopper joke.

  “You think I can wear swim trunks?” Sammie asks before lobbing the last of his burger into his mouth. “I think it’d be tastefully in theme.”

  “I think it’s a surefire way to guarantee you’ll be going stag,” Linds teases. Sammie and Wesley both visibly stiffen. She clears her throat and bites another carrot.

  I feign ignorance. “You are always complaining when men don’t comply with the Met Gala theme,” I say to Ags. Bless her, she doesn’t double back to Lindsay’s comment.

  “Me? Complaining?” She gasps, lips twitching into a smile.

  The conversation drifts off while I pick at my dried mango slices. I’m half listening to Wesley stumble through complimenting Lin
dsay on her hair when Agatha nudges her bare knee against mine.

  “Check your phone.”

  I pull it out of my back pocket, no questions asked. I’ve got a new text from her.

  wanna make a bet?

  I raise my brows. We haven’t made a bet in months. The last one was at Lindsay’s eighteenth birthday party back in November, when I bet Ags three bucks that Wesley would be the first one to arrive and be immensely overdressed for the occasion. Agatha had faith he’d know not to show up to a house party in slacks and a tie, but she was horribly mistaken. Had Wesley ever tried to befriend me past casual smiles and obligatory greetings at lunch in the year since Lindsay pulled him into our group of friends, maybe I would’ve warned him to go with a graphic tee and jeans instead.

  Suffice to say, I’d begun to worry we’d outgrown our betting. With Agatha trading in NorCal for SoCal when she leaves for fashion school in LA in the fall, part of me has taken every fragment of change in our relationship as a sign that she’s going to forget all about me the second she’s surrounded by avant-garde fashionistas whose wardrobes extend past floral print and canvas shoes. But maybe this means she isn’t ready to let go either.

  what are we betting? I reply.

  five dollars says lindsay picks wesley before graduation

  I give her a pointed look. “Really?”

  She shushes me and motions to my phone, eyes flickering to our oblivious friends.

  doesn’t seem like our business, I reply

  we’ve watched this shit show love triangle bullshit go on for months. i think it’s our business now

  She’s got a point. I love a good love triangle as much as the next romance fanatic, but if I have to suffer through one more movie night where Sammie and Wesley crowd Lindsay on one side of the room and ignore Agatha and me the entire night, I might spontaneously combust.

  fine. but if she picks sammie you better pay up, I type back, and she smiles brightly, her matte magenta lipstick starting to crack.

  “Shake on it?” she asks. It’s then that I realize our other friends have gone silent.

  “Are you two making a bet?” Sammie asks with narrowed eyes.

  “We would never!” Agatha clutches her hand to her chest. “You know we gave up that immature practice decades ago, dear Samuel.”

  “You’re so full of shit.” He shakes his head at her, then turns to me. “You promised I could be in on the next bet.”

  “I didn’t think there would be one,” I admit, and shrug, slightly annoyed that the first time I successfully lied to Sammie in all our years of friendship came back to bite me in the butt.

  “Hey, you’ve never promised me I could get in on a bet,” Lindsay says to Agatha. Ironic, given how often she accuses us of being immature for betting chump change on meaningless things—like the time I bet Ags a quarter that more girls would wear purple to homecoming than red, or when Agatha bet me a dollar that she could go a whole day without cursing and lost before we even made it to third period.

  “Sorry.” Ags snorts. “I’ll up the amount of empty promises I throw your way.”

  “Come on, we want in.” Sammie rubs his hands together.

  Wesley musters up the courage to agree. “Yeah, me too.”

  I glance at Agatha, both of us trying to keep a straight face, though it’s harder for me than for her. “I think you guys might want to sit this one out, trust me,” I reply.

  “Wait.” Lindsay’s face softens. “Is this about you two still trying to find prom dates? I told you I don’t mind asking the guys on the track team if any of them would take you. It’s really no big deal.” She looks at me. “What about Trevor Yoon? You were practically drooling over him at my last meet.”

  “I was not!”

  “You were,” Sammie says. “It was gross. But doesn’t Trevor have a girlfriend?”

  Agatha shakes her head while chewing. “They broke up last week.” She swallows. “He got into NYU and she’s staying local, so they called it quits early. She was a mess in ceramics.”

  “She’s going with Mark Vega now,” I say, remembering the few weeks Mark and I spent as partners in freshman biology. He almost caught me doodling Ophelia Vega in the margins of my notebook more times than I’m willing to admit. “He asked her during English, I think?” I look to Ags for confirmation.

  “Algebra,” she corrects with a mouth full of spaghetti. “Big poster, bouquet of daisies, lots of glitter for Mr. Semenya to clean up.”

  Sammie scoffs. “How the hell do you guys even know this shit?”

  Ags and I shrug in unison.

  “Okay, so Trevor is on the market,” Linds recaps, biting her lip before adding, “I hear Lucas is still looking for a date. You should talk to him.”

  “Snooze-cus?” Sammie laughs. “You practically threw O a party when he dumped her last year, and now you want them to go to prom together?” His laughter is cut short when Agatha shoots daggers his way.

  Lucas is a sore subject for me. We dated for six months junior year, which feels like forever when you’re sixteen and have never had even one of your dozens of crushes like you back, let alone kiss you.

  I thought we’d at least make it to senior prom, followed by a tearful breakup-farewell at graduation, but two weeks before junior year ended, he dumped me with little to no warning after losing his championship soccer game. Agatha reassured me he was just pissed about the loss and would come around, but he avoided me until the end of the school year, and we haven’t spoken a word to each other since.

  I guess in retrospect, his only wanting to make out in my garden (surprisingly, not a euphemism) and sit in his basement playing video games he’d never give me a turn at should’ve been red flags. But, as many of us have been before, I was fooled by a blond soccer player with chocolate-brown eyes.

  “I think I speak for both Ophelia and myself when I say we’re good, Linds,” Agatha replies, the tightness of her jaw betraying her calm tone. Lindsay’s been offering to help find us dates for weeks now without once realizing that forcing one of her many suitors to take us to prom isn’t exactly fairy godmother–level kindness. Yeah, it would be nice to not attend another—and my final—high school dance dateless, but a pity date isn’t a much better alternative. I want the pretty poster, the bouquet of flowers, the silly social media post with a punny caption about saying yes to the promposal. I don’t want some guy taking me just because I’m the next best thing to getting in Lindsay’s pants.

  “Well, if you change your mind…” Linds drifts off before snapping another carrot between her perfect teeth. I flinch at the noise and her words.

  In three weeks, all of us will be dressed to the nines in my backyard, surrounded by the roses I poured my blood, sweat, and tears into, wondering how prom, the final peak of teenage experiences before adulthood, came so quickly. Either Sammie or Wesley will have his hands wrapped around Lindsay’s waist, while Agatha and I will pose off to the side for our photography-loving parents.

  But lately I’m a little haunted by the image I’ve always had of me dancing with a pretty boy in a tux. There was a time, when I was much younger, that I pictured Sammie next to me. Then it was Jackson from sixth-grade English, then Adam from Honors bio, then Ethan from the nursery on Main Street, then both Franklin and Nathan from PE (messy deal, crushing on twins), dozens of other boys—tall, short, kind, mean, sporty, nerdy, and so on and so forth. And finally: Lucas, the one I really thought would work out. He lingers there, even now.

  Occasionally, as my mind wanders during class or while gardening, someone stands out against the collection of boys I’ve dared to want. Even considering Sammie and Lucas, this face has taken the strongest presence, especially as prom approaches.

  But she shouldn’t—doesn’t—belong there.

  * * *

  The air-conditioning in government feels heavenly on the back of my neck as I take my seat. The desk before mine is still empty, thankfully. I adjust the straps of my top and wipe at my undoubtedly shin
y forehead, then busy my hands with twirling my pen.

  I hear her before I see her, surprising given her usual shyness. But the tan work boots she wears every day, even days as hot as today, are heavy on the classroom tiles. Her tall figure casts a shadow in the doorway.

  Talia Sanchez walks into class the way she always does, eyes trained on her bootlaces, thick, dark curls bouncing around her long, brown face. My pen slips from my sweaty fingers, tumbling to the ground. Before I can grab it, she’s already bending down.

  “Thanks,” I say, throat dry. She smiles, tight-lipped, and takes her seat in front of me.

  I pull out my notebook and flip it to a clean sheet, scratching down today’s date so my fidgeting hands will have something to do other than, you know, fidget. When I finally find my voice again, it comes out shakier than I hoped. “Did you finish the mock DBQs?”

  She turns around and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Almost,” she says quietly. “Zaq and I are going to finish them after school. You?” She slides her notebook out of her bag, the one with the funky doodle of the White House I’ve always assumed Wesley drew for her. She and her best friend, Zaq, an artsy boy Agatha knows from our school’s Black student union, are Wesley’s other friends, i.e., the ones he actually makes an effort with. He spends lunch with them in the art studio on Tuesdays and Thursdays, sitting with us at the bench the rest of the week.

  “I meant to work on some yesterday but had a gardening issue I had to deal with first. I forgot to ask my dad to buy fertilizer this week, so I had to steal bananas from Sammie’s house to compensate. It took longer than expected to convince him to give them up though.” Sammie made me promise he got first pick on corsage and boutonniere flowers. But joke’s on him, I was going to give him first pick anyway. Next-door-neighbor privileges.

  “I didn’t know bananas were good for roses,” she says. It’s refreshing to talk about my roses with someone who hasn’t known me for years. Strangers are always in awe of my knowledge, while my close friends only care about my garden when they need flowers for Mother’s or Valentine’s Day.