Page 8 of As You Walk On

Frankly, luck had nothing to do with it. I studied my ass off. Jay helped a lot too. We’d spend weekends at his house in the East End going over problem sets and science terms.

Now I’m here. Shoulder to shoulder with my best friends. One step closer to the future.

Jay and Darren part ways with me at the end of the hall. Darren’s in the Journalism/Media program while Jay’s a STEM student. I chuck a peace sign their way. “See y’all on the other side!”

Jay shoots me an uneven smile, nodding.

By tomorrow night, he’ll be saying peace to half his trust fund after I ask Christian to prom.

•••

The pressure to keep up with my classmates is very real. I test decently. I can fake a passable answer when called on. My papers are flawless. But remembering concepts taught in class has always been a battle. My handwriting is shit so my pops bought me a refurbished tablet to take notes on. It saves me the hassle of teachers yelling about using my phone during class.

Now my tablet’s the reason I’m about to be late to American Lit with Mr.London.

The warning bell pierces my eardrums as I book it back to my locker.

Two-a-day practices are really paying off. I easily dodge the east wing slackers. Cut a corner like I’m trying to break a world record. Nothing’s in my way...

Except Brad Jennings and Gracie Abbot having a last-minute make-out sesh by my locker.

Usually, I’d give them a pass for being in the genesis of hormonal overload. You love to see freshmen with priorities. But not today.

I clear my throat loudly until they part like startled squirrels.

Once I’m done, I almost trip over a sophomore dropping her backpack in my path. Darren’s the hurdles champ in our trio. Still, I hit a respectable landing before I’m stopped again, five doors from Mr.London’s class.

Luca Ramírez paces the hallway. He’s whispering to himself, reading something off his phone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this stressed. To be fair, Luca and I mostly socialize in passing. This isn’t one of those times, though.

He looks ready to vom without one of our all-gender bathrooms in sight.

The roses-and-ivy pattern on his T-shirt is a nice contrast to his gold-brown skin. His hand skims over the top of his deep umber hair. It’s styled like the crest of a wave.

I toss him a casual what’s-up nod, then realize his eyes are still on his screen.

“Hey, Luca.”

His head jerks up just as his phone slips from his hands.

“Whoa, whoa,” I say, scrambling to swipe the device out of its midair plummet. Another reason I run track instead of playing other sports:no catching skills necessary. The phone bounces on its side, then lands facedown on the floor.

Luca groans defeatedly.

“My bad!” I kneel to pick it up. “I kind of came out of nowhere with that greeting.”

“Oh, right,” he says. “I forgot politeness is to blame for all phone casualties.”

Still on one knee, I snort loudly. Luca’s expression is softer, less puke-worthy. I ignore the late bell ringing. We’re the only ones in the silent hall.

That doesn’t last long.

Behind me, I hear... singing? Luca pales, lips parting. Whatever he says is drowned out by the Rolling Tones, our school’s competition-winning a cappella group.

Soon, I’m surrounded by a harmony of vocals and choreography and cheery faces. Two of the bass singers hold up a bright-blue banner.PROM?is dusted in gold glitter.

It hits me:This is a promposal.

Also, I’m on bended knee in front of Luca, raising his phone toward him like a freaking engagement ring.

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