I think I realized how badly I wanted this when I saw the sign-up sheet pinned to the bulletin board outside the drama room. Senior Talent Showcase: Our Final Bow.
It sounded cheesy. The kind of thing that tries too hard to be poetic. But it hit me, y'know? Last chance. One more time to do something dumb, something loud. Something us.
So, naturally, I signed us up. All three of us. Without telling them.
The moment I walked through the front door, Nino looked up from the kitchen counter with a raised brow like he already knew I did something. He was sipping orange juice and texting five people at once.
Mateo was by the sink, wiping down the same mug for the third time even though it was already spotless. His version of "winding down" always looked like it came with a user manual.
"Okay," I said, trying to sound casual. "I may have done a thing."
"Define 'thing,'" Nino said, not even bothering to look away from his phone.
Mateo didn't speak. Just turned to look at me slowly. The judgment in his stare felt like a temperature drop.
I cleared my throat. "I signed us up for the talent show."
Silence.
Mateo blinked once. "No."
"C'mon," I said, putting my hands up like I was approaching a wild animal. "It's just for fun. Our last chance before we graduate. A performance—light, low stakes—"
"No." Mateo didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The word dropped like a stone.
"You didn't even hear what we're doing," I said quickly.
"I don't need to. I'm not performing."
"You haven't been on stage since freshman year," I said. "You used to do music recitals like a machine. What changed?"
"I got older," he replied. "And I developed standards."
"Ouch," Nino muttered, grinning into his glass.
"I just thought it'd be fun," I said, a little quieter. "Something weird to remember senior year by. I mean, in a couple months we'll all be gone. Different cities, different lives…"
"You're guilt-tripping with jazz hands," Nino interrupted. "It's impressive. Keep going."
"Thank you," I said with a nod.
"No," Mateo repeated, picking up his tea and walking toward the stairs. "And if you bring it up again tonight, I'm sleeping with noise-canceling headphones."
"Seriously?" I called after him. "You haven't even read the script!"
"You wrote a script?" Nino asked, finally looking interested.
I shrugged. "Well, I outlined some stuff."
He smirked. "So, no script."
I flopped down in the chair next to him. "It's just... senior year's almost over. Everyone's acting like this is the big finale. And I don't know—what's our finale? Group burnout? Radio silence and college applications?"
Nino studied me for a second. Then he leaned back and said, "If I'm going to be humiliated on stage, I need three things: an actual script, at least two roast-worthy lines, and you owe me every Starbucks run for the next month."
"That's fair."
"Oh—and Mateo's not gonna cave overnight," he added, glancing toward the stairs. "You'll need to wear him down like erosion. Annoy him softly. Daily. Strategically."
"You sound disturbingly confident in this plan."
"I know him," Nino said with a shrug. "He won't do it because you ask. He'll do it because the idea won't leave him alone. And because deep down, he likes when we drag him out of that perfectly curated cave he lives in."
I stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then nodded.
Operation Wear Mateo Down had officially begun.