Saturday Morning — Dorm Room, College Campus
I was halfway through a beautiful dream—something about paparazzi chasing me down after I nailed a solo on national TV—when a pillow slammed into my face.
"Up." Mateo's voice was as flat as ever, but there was no mistaking the threat behind it.
I groaned, dragging the pillow over my face. "It's the weekend. People rest on weekends, Mateo. It's in the Constitution."
Nino flopped onto the edge of my bed, holding my phone just out of reach. "C'mon, superstar. We need to hit the hardware store before all the decent costumes get picked over. You think foam swords grow on trees?"
"Let me guess," I said, eyes still closed, "you want me to spend my precious money on glitter and wood glue?"
"No," Nino said, voice dripping with fake sweetness, "you're gonna spend it on foam, wigs, and a fog machine. For the aesthetic."
"I vote no," I muttered, pulling the blanket tighter around me.
Mateo had already opened the closet. "You can walk in your pajamas or I can carry you in them."
"You wouldn't."
"I would," Mateo said. "And I'll tell the cashier you're sleepwalking."
"…Fine. But I'm not wearing shoes."
Fifteen minutes later, we were standing in the weirdest aisle of the local hardware store, surrounded by plastic swords, plumbing parts, glitter spray paint, and whatever nightmares haunted the clearance bin. Mateo was calmly comparing types of stage-safe glue while Nino stuffed two clown noses in my hoodie pocket "just in case."
"Why am I here," I groaned for the fifth time.
"Because," Nino said, "you promised a performance that would make history. You can't make history without Styrofoam and a gallon of glow-in-the-dark paint."
Mateo handed me a basket. "Carry this. Don't drop the glue again."
"Hey, that was one time, and technically it exploded."
Nino chuckled. "You say 'exploded,' I say 'permanently bonded the microwave to the wall.'"
As we passed the costume section, a familiar incredibly annoying voice rang out behind us.
"Oh my gosh, YOU shop here??"
We all turned. Hana stood in heels far too fancy for the concrete floor, One of her robotic minions—a guy with perfect hair and no thoughts behind his eyes—waved at Nino like a puppy who just spotted bacon.
Nino blinked. "I think that one's trying to flirt with me."
"Don't flatter yourself," I said. "He's probably just impressed by your ability to walk and complain at the same time."
Mateo, as always, said nothing, though Hana's eyes kept flicking to him like he was a piece of rare art surrounded by two crusty mannequins.
"So," she said sweetly, "buying props for your little… skit?"
"It's a theatrical experience," I corrected. "But I don't blame you. The average mind struggles with greatness."
She smiled tightly. "Sure. Just don't trip over your own ego before opening night."
"Oh don't worry," I said, "I've got excellent balance. Comes with being this iconic."
Nino leaned in, muttering, "You tripped over your laundry pile this morning."
"Sabotage," I hissed, glaring at nino.
We walked off before Hana could throw more fake compliments. Her minion was still smiling at Nino like he was ready to offer him a rose and a mixtape.
"Please make him stop looking at me," Nino whispered. "He's got the same energy as a golden retriever with Wi-Fi access."
Mateo glanced back, then at Nino. "Switch spots."
"You see? That's why you're the favorite."
"Not favorite," I grumbled, dragging the full basket behind me like it owed me money. "Just taller and emotionally stable."
Nino pulled out a glitter can. "And has the patience to deal with both of us. Poor guy."
Mateo didn't respond. But the corner of his mouth twitched a bit