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Aprilette sighs and rolls her eyes as if I’ve answered the same question incorrectly for the nth time. My cheeks flame like they did when I bumped my leg against the projector during my first presentation at Blossoms.

“Art is a waste of time, Emi. I’m too busy, anyway.”

It feels like every color in my room desaturates to a muted tone. Art being a waste of time? I think about all the photographs I’ve taken in my photography class, along with the two I’ve taken so far, presenting them to an audience of competitors, how I edited this and that to convey my vision of friendship and trust. Hearing Aprilette say that art is a waste of time feels like a slit to the throat. She thinks all my hard work capturing and editing my photographs means nothing? But she doesn’t understand that photography lets me deliver my messages, express all the thoughts and emotions I struggle to put into words. I wish I could tell her that photography, along with all the art people work on in Blossoms, isn’t a waste of time. That our art means something special to us.

Instead, I just say, “Siggi, Atè.”

We end our Zoom call with an exchange of mahal kitas. I flop down on my bed and bury my face into my pillow as Aprilette’s words echo.

Art is a waste of time.

But it’s not, Atè. It’s not. I know I’m seven years younger than her, and she understands the world better than I do. But for once, I want to tell her she’s wrong.

I grab my phone from my nightstand. After Aprilette desaturated all the color from my world, I want to bring that color back. Before I can change my mind, I hit the “send” button.

Me: Just like old times?

Chapter Twenty

Being inside Castle Play is like stepping into the photographs of my middle school—it’s exactly how I remember it.

Nora and I stroll across black carpeted floor, stepping on patterns of stars and colorful rocket ships. There’s a row of people our age playing crane games, shouting as they pick up and drop stuffed animals. Neon green and yellow lights gleam from the arcade games. The screens flash prisms of combat battles and racecar competitions. Preteen boys click down buttons in quick succession, the whole room flooding with virtual punches and wheel screeches. It’s been so long since I’ve come here that I forgot how much fun it was to just be inside.

Reaching the air hockey table, its rink white with parallel blue lines down the middle, a red circle in the center with dashes piercing through, I suddenly remember that I did, in fact, have a life outside of cameras and textbooks.

We split to opposite sides, and suddenly I’m thirteen years old again, not worrying about getting grades as good as Aprilette’s. I pick up my red striker, inclining my body in ready position.

Nora spins the red puck. “Ready to get your ass kicked for the zillionth time, Padilla?”

My eyes squint to slits. I’ve never beaten Nora, but for every game, I always feel determined to break my losing streak. “Prepare to get your butt kicked for the first time, Jimenez.”

A snort sputters out of her. “If you’re going to make a comeback, at least make it sound

like a threat.”

Before I react, she lays down the puck and strikes it over. I slide my striker forward, but it slips out of my hands, spinning and stopping in the middle of the rink. The puck zooms right past me, a red blur gliding inside my slot. I glare at the fallen puck as if it clearly favors Nora.

She lets out a “Whoo!” and grins at me. I stick my tongue out at her. A fire burns inside of me as I hit the puck back to Nora. When she strikes it back, I slice my striker across the rink, slamming the puck to her side. A thwack! booms through the air. The puck zips to Nora’s side. She swings her striker across the rink but misses.

“Ha! Take that!” I point my striker at her.

She shrugs it off. I only celebrate once because she scores for the rest of the game. Nora

pumps both fists in the air.

“Take that, puta!” Of course she uses the Tagalog and Spanish word for bitch. She smirks at me and, in a mockingly high-pitched voice, adds, “Prepare to get your butt kicked for the first time, Jimenez.”

I shoot her a salty glare. Despite my defeat—loss number whatever at this point—all the color Aprilette desaturated last night has returned more vivid than before.

“Can we join?”

I’m almost certain I’m hallucinating until I look to my left and prove myself wrong. Jase is standing beside me with his signature everything—signature smile, signature dimples, and signature shirt with the hole torn on the front. He’s so close his sleeve touches my arm. I briefly glance at Nora, who’s biting down her lip to stifle a snicker. I’m seconds away from firing a glare until I think about Jase’s question.

“We?” I ask.

As if on cue, Andy and Karthik join us. Michael, who’s holding hands with a girl with curly black hair and braces, her skin a deep brown, trails behind them.

“Wasn’t expecting this to become a group outing,” I say.