It felt like the entire school had collectively erased the memory of the ketchup incident. Honestly, that was sooner than I expected. Life had slipped back into its usual rhythm, like nothing had happened. Zayn hadn't shown his face since that day. I found myself wondering—can someone really skip school for five whole days without consequences? Then again, considering his status, maybe the school made exceptions. Maybe he had private tutors flown in or something equally dramatic.
Daniel and I were trying to patch things up. Our parents had started treating the situation like a diplomatic crisis, and we were the ambassadors forced to negotiate peace.
But today was Friday. Blessed Friday. School hours had been sliced in half, and Yolanda and I had plans to hit the mall. I had a strict no-camera policy, though. Mom wasn't coming home until the weekend, and I was pretty sure she'd be spending time with Carlo. Not that she said anything—why would she? It's not like moms announce their romantic escapades to their teenage daughters.
"Do you think I look better in pink or red?" Yolanda asked, holding up two tops like she was auditioning for a fashion show.
I rolled my eyes. "You look good in both. What's the occasion? Another interview?"
Yolanda always came to me for fashion advice, which was ironic considering she was the stylish one. Unlike most rising influencers who hired personal stylists, she insisted on doing everything herself. "What's the point of influencing if you're not expressing your own creativity?" she once said. And honestly, she was right. That was the only authentic way to do it.
"There's no way you haven't heard about KICKBACK. No way," she said, finally lifting her gaze from her phone.
I vaguely remembered a poster in the girls' bathroom—the same day Zayn sat with us. I hadn't paid much attention.
"I think I saw something about it. What about it? You know I'm not going."
She narrowed her eyes, preparing her pitch. "You're a junior now. College is like a year away. Don't you want some actual high school experiences?"
Her voice softened, like she was trying to gentle-parent me into submission. It reminded me of the talk Mom gave me in the car on the first day of school.
"Hell no. Have fun. I'm good," I said, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.
"Chick-fil-A before the mall?" she offered, knowing exactly how to tempt me.
I smirked. Yolanda was a certified emotional eater. Back in eighth grade, when she found out her boyfriend had cheated, she stress-ate four bowls of chicken wings. That video became her most viral post on YouTube. Tragedy turned into content—classic Yolanda.
"I was getting kinda hungry," she admitted, eyes drifting back to her phone.
"Looks like Danilo's coming," she said, mocking an Italian accent. She'd clearly spotted him earlier and ducked her head to avoid being seen. Typical Yolanda—vanishing whenever a boy who wasn't Omar tried talking to me.
"Hey, hey," Danilo said, sliding into a seat across from me. I assumed the double greeting was meant for both of us, but Yolanda pretended to be invisible. He didn't seem to mind.
"What do you want? There's no dinner tonight. You can go back to your fancy castle with your dad. Bet you've got a chaperone—or a chauffeur," I said, half-joking, half-annoyed.
He laughed softly, eyes fixed on me. I felt exposed. Why was he laughing? I hadn't said anything funny.
"I swear I saw a vein pop," he teased, pulling his chair closer and leaning in.
Yolanda stood up and left without a word. Her silence was louder than any goodbye. Mischief was written all over her face.
"What are you doing?" I asked, leaning back instinctively.
"Relax. It's not like I'm gonna swallow you," he said, finally releasing the poor table from his grip.
"Sorry if I made you uncomfortable," he whispered.
"You're coming to the gala, right? Not like you have a choice," he added with a smirk.
The gala was stressing me out. I didn't have a dress, or the energy, or the attitude for something so formal.
"It is what it is," I muttered, just as my phone buzzed. A message from Yolanda: I know a nice hotel.
She must've forgotten who Danilo was about to become—my stepbrother. The jokes were already starting to wear thin.
Another buzz. This time, an Instagram message from Danilo Castillo. As if his name didn't sound foreign enough, why was he texting me on Instagram when he was sitting right in front of me?
You need a ride home? the message read.
"Since that's the only way to get your attention," he said, smiling with his eyes.
I did need a ride. And I couldn't keep brushing him off. It made me feel guilty—for myself and for Mom.
I replied: Sure.
His smile lit up like a kid being told they were going to Disneyland. That made me wonder—what happened to his mom? Did she and Carlo fall apart like my parents did? He probably wouldn't open up if I asked. I had to pace myself with him. I didn't want to seem nosy.