"Wow, that's a lot of whitewashed history..." Devin whistles. "Look at this lie."

Cerise scoots over to his side and reads the paragraph he points at. She sighs. "History is, after all, written by the victors."

"But are colonizers truly the victors? Like, honorable victors?"

"Now, that's a very philosophical question, and not one our school will ask us."

"Fair point..."

They revert to reading and jotting down notes again. This is a new addendum on their post mid-terms routine. They are at Thomas Beach, cozied up in their favorite perch on Devin's Chevvy, and trying to get a head-start for their end-terms even though said examinations are almost four months away. A full chapter on the American Revolution later, Cerise feels a needling burn behind her cornea; she rubs her eyes. She wants to take a break, but she promised to help Devin with their extra-reading for their English Literature course. While Three Men in a Boat is not as heavy as some of the other things they read – that too out of sheer interest and nothing more – it is going to tax her out after this very long, very information-saturated American History session.

Much to her relief, Devin yawns, stretches, then says, "I think I'm done for today. I feel like my head'll fall off my shoulders..."

Her relief dissolves into concern. With her hand on his chin, she turns his face towards herself. Painfully aware of the dark shadows that gather under his eyes, she asks, "is everything alright? Have you not been sleeping? I know you're busy with home stuff and—"

"I took up another job," he intercedes, "as a nightguard at this small apartment complex on the seventh avenue cul-de-sac."

"How many days a week? How many hours?"

"Three... six."

Cerise wants to ask why but she doesn't – she knows why. Devin's father brings little to nothing to the house excepting the stockpiles of alcohol. They have mortgages which cannot be paid in liquor. This tired, desolate boy she loves is trying to hold onto a roof over his head, to keep the fire in his hearth from dying out, to ensure Ray Jameston and he don't sleep hungry. Her heart aches for him and she wishes for nothing more than to be able to help him carry the burdens that threaten to crush him. Remembering the list of ways in which she believes she can help, build bastions brick by brick around him, Cerise reaches into her backpack and retrieves a large lunchbox. "I made something for you."

"For me?" A small smile vivifies his tired eyes; he takes the box. "What is it?"

"Vegan... chicken... sandwiches!" She ends her statement with jazz hands.

Devin laughs. As he opens the box to unveil the little triangles arranged to fill the square space, the garnish of carrot-slice roses and sprinkled chives, he exclaims, "oooh, fucking Christ. You shouldn't have."

"I wanted to," she argues.

Intently observing him bite into one sandwich, she's rather pleased with the pure bliss that smoothens his worry lines. "This... this is amazing. No, better than amazing," he relays, taking another, larger bite. "Oh, this is it. How'd you get this texture?"

"The perfect ratio of raw jackfruit preserves and king oyster mushrooms."

"Ingenious." Devin finishes another sandwich, making a little sound of appreciation in his throat that somehow manages to make him more endearing to her.

"I know," Cerise says proudly, then asks, "you got any soda in the icebox?"

"I think there's Dr Pepper."

Going to the front of the truck, Cerise collects a can of beer and one of Dr Pepper, then returns to the loading deck. She washes down a savory bite with the sweet soda, pensive as her mind twiddles a thought about. "I feel like we've been on infinite dates, this one included."

She can feel Devin's electric blues bore into her before she hears him. "Well, I want to toast to an infinite more."

Finally looking at him, she touches her can to his raised one. "To an infinite more..."

Cerise doesn't want to think about the practicality of infinity, or about too far into the future; she will cross that bridge when she gets to it. For now, these little infinities are enough. More than enough.

The next day in school, Cerise's Chemistry teacher announces that the senior grades mid-terms' results are out and will be put up in the main foyer noticeboard after lunch. Right after class, she calls Devin to give him the news. By the time lunchbreak rolls around, her apprehension about being faced with her grades has elevated enough to manifest in her wringing fingers, her grinding teeth, her palpitating heart. By contrast, Devin is calm like ocean sounds and whalesong, and as they sit beside each other on the empty bleachers – elbows touching, knees touching – she can feel it leach into her, skin through skin.

He has encased her fidgeting hands in his. "You're not gonna fail," he promises.

How can she not believe that? There's enough surety in him for the both of them, and then some. "I'm not gonna fail," she repeats quietly.

"Let's talk about something else. Get your mind off this," he suggests.

"Okay..." she pauses to think, then tentatively discloses, "I've been writing a book."

"What is it about?"

Embarrassed and pinned under his focus, she shrugs. Devin scoffs. "Really, now? You're not gonna tell me? I've seen you naked. I know—"

Wincing, Cerise slaps her palm over his mouth. Her cheeks feel hot, her ears are burning. "Alright, alright... I'll tell you."

A muffled "good" is Devin's response.

She releases him. "It's an adaptation of stories from my mother's homeland. Turns out Punjabi folklores are... super romantic..."

"What? More romantic than us?"

It takes Cerise a moment to realize his query is made in absolute seriousness. "Uh, yes," she stresses, "waaaay more."

"Well, that just won't do," says Devin, displeasure evident in his tone. "I must immediately rectify that and ask you, Cerise Jane Miller, if you will give me the pleasure of having you as my date to Prom, and allow me to treat you to a night of fairytale romance after? A night better than any Punjabi folklore heroine gets from her love interest?"

"Well, I'd have said yes but..."

Devin's face falls. "But what?"

"Jenny has me working that night..."

"Jesus fuck, Horseface!"

"I know... I was planning on asking you." Cerise pulls him back to his seat beside her. "I kept thinking you'd say no because... well, because Prom is crowded and full of people. And you hate people."

"Cherry..." Devin gives her an incredulous look. "I could never say no to you... You need only take me by the hand and I'd follow you into hell."

"Okay, my Orpheus," she says with a snort. "It's only Prom."

Devin inches closer and captures her lips in a kiss. Cerise can feel her tummy turning to mush, her very self melting and spilling, uncontained. Her eyelids fall and her arms encircle his neck so she can draw him closer, kiss him longer. When they pull away, he rests his forehead against hers. "I know, my Eurydice," he hums, "and I'll go there, too. After all, I asked you first."

***

It is that transient, easily missed moment between dusk and nightfall by the time Devin finishes his shift at The Brewery. As his Chevvy rumbles through Jeffersonville, the night comes with a murky blue haze and white lights glissading past in his drive homeward. The dark shrouds of nighttime settle on the small coastal town only moments before he pulls into the driveway of his address. In that instant, his exhausted gaze catches the figure waiting at the bottom of the stairs leading to the porch.

"Cerise?" he askingly calls out, killing the engine and stepping out of his truck.

It is indeed her; she stands out starkly against the backdrop of his house, in more than just being flawless and sublime compared to the run-down double-storied mess. She is all the warmth the leaky roof and cracked walls could never hold, she is all the love that he never found in that place, she is the home that the pile of bricks and mortar could never offer him. When she meets him on his driveway, grabs him in a hug, when her familiar, comforting scent wraps around him, he realizes she's everything, everything, everything.

Taking a step back, Cerise asks, "will you go to Prom with me?"

Only then does he notice the garment bags she's holding. "I thought you had to work."

"I did. I spun a splendid web of many lies, rented fancy clothes, and practically ran down here," she tells him, "because, Devin Jameston, I want to take you out to this silly, stupid high school party. And I don't care how stupid this shit is, because it is one of the most important events in the life of an American teenager, and I'll be damned if I don't experience it with you by my side. Everyone gets this only once in their lives—unless, they have to repeat senior year, that is..." winded, she takes a deep breath, then continues, "the point is, you said you could never say no to me."

"And I can't. I won't," Devin insists. "Cherry, I'd love to go to Prom with you."

Beaming, she says, "alright, then. Let's go put these on."

Unlocking the front door, he holds it open for Cerise. She enters, still smiling, and takes a look around; he registers that this is the first time she's seeing his world. This empty husk of a house that found ruination at the hands of a broken home is where all of his past and most of his memories hide; he cannot help but feel like he's lied to her. A sense of mortification prods around his guts with its cold fingers and he wishes for a way to conceal this ugliness. But the damage is done.

"I'm sorry it's such a mess. I don't get enough time to straighten up around here, what with the new job and everything..." Devin quickly takes the garment bags from her and with his other hand on the small of her back, he guides her upstairs to his room. Stepping in, he flips the switches. Much to his dismay, the chamber remains cloaked in blackness. He screws his eyes shut, cursing inwardly; he was supposed to get new bulbs. "I'm so sorry," he entreats, hurrying to open the blinds. "Now you know why we hang out at your place... I—I wish I had a place worthy of you, but I don't. This... this is me..."

In the cold moonlight, Cerise wends her way to him and slowly, gently holds his face in her hands; he leans into her touch. "This is not you," she says, "this is not even a reflection of you. This is just a little figment of your world that might very well become irrelevant in the future. It's already irrelevant to me now." Lowering him to kiss him on the nose, she persists, "but you're relevant. I know you, and this isn't it. Speaking of worth, you're worthy of me and you're worthy of more."

Devin draws her into a full embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck, reveling in the contentment that she brings him – the feeling of being intact and whole even though he comes from damaged and hollow roots. "I love you," he divulges, an ardent vesper spoken against her skin.

Her "I love you, too," is his most demanding dream coming true.

"And just so you know," he hears her mumble, "I'm taking you to Prom, not the house. So, go get ready."

He grins into her silken hair. "Anything for you."

Minutes later, standing in front of the mirror on his wardrobe, Devin straightens his bowtie. Cerise is in his bathroom. After much sounds of struggle when he'd asked if she was okay, she'd told him she was wrestling with her dress. It's been for quiet for a while now.

Detecting movement in his periphery, he turns and stops short. Wrapped in pink tulles that pool around her feet like clouds at sunset, Cerise approaches – demure and ethereal, submersed in the pale moonshine. Her steep neckline detailed in gold highlights her elegant collarbones and graceful throat, her tresses cascade in waves, haloing the entirety of her loveliness. Her dark, dark eyes lined with kohl freeze him to his spot and steal the air from his poor lungs.

"How do I look?"

With his heart pounding against the walls of his ribcage, it takes Devin a while to find his voice. "Like the nymph that Greek heroes fall in love with and forget everything about their quest and destiny."

"And you're the most dapper demigod I've ever laid eyes on," she sings, extending her arm to him. "Ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

The party is in full swing when they enter the indoor basketball court of Jeffersonville High School. White flashes skitter around the hall, reflected from the gigantic disco-ball hanging from the center of the ceiling. Purple and gold streamers bedazzle the walls and catch the light in a vivid emblazonment. At the far end past the dancing students, above the stage is a sign that declares SENIOR PROMENADE NIGHT, 20XX. The band performing onstage is bathed in its violet glow; the lead guitarist strums the final notes of their last song while the vocalist takes the microphone.

"Grab your partners because this one's for all the high school sweethearts!"

"Ah, perfect timing," Devin notes, offering Cerise his palm. "May I have this dance?"

"Why, yes. Yes, you may."

A breathless laugh bubbles from her as he spins her around, then pulls her up against him to the airy guitar chords and dulcet words flowing around them.

|| Be mine.

Shake up my love.

Yellow night has had enough.

It's been out way too long.

I see nothing but yellow love. ||

All giggles and ebullience and stumbles, they sway, they twirl, they dance. But the band's crescendo is cut short by a deafening crack. And another. Then the screaming starts.

Devin whips toward the sound, seeing Toby Evans blocking the double doors of the gym only paces from them. The sight of the gun that boy carries chases a chill of fear up his spine. Thoughtless, he screams, "get down!" and ducks, yanking Cerise to the floor alongside him.

A fresh slew of gunfire breaks through the air, but all that matters is getting Cerise to safety. Instinctively, he curves over her like a bodily shield and commands, "run for the bleachers, I'm right behind you."

Cerise simply sags back against him. When he looks at her, dread drops like deadweight in the pit of his stomach. Red stains the right side of her abdomen, terror mars her delicate features. She gasps and chokes on air, spasming in his arms as they go crashing down.

"No, no, no..." His mind cannot form any other words. Over and over and over he denies the reality of the here and now.

No, no, no...

The commotion peaks around them, chaos, frenzy, panic - but all Devin can feel is the wetness that coats his hands, leaking between his fingers no matter how hard he tries to stop it. All he can see is the life drain out of her frail form no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it. All he can smell is copper, insidious and foreboding. All he can hear is no, no, no, no, no, no...

***

a/n: im so sorry. i never meant to hurt you like this. it just happened.