I feel like you’re mad at me, Garrett texts me after school. About the Abby thing. I’m sorry Burke, I was honestly joking, but I’ll stop for real. I’m sorry.
I stare at the screen. I don’t know where to begin. I mean, how do I call him out if he doesn’t even know I’m bi?
I sink into the couch, feeling suddenly exhausted. It’s fine. Just promise me you’ll stop being a dick, okay?
I promise! he responds immediately, smiley face and all. So, we’re cool?
We’re cool.
Except I’m the opposite of cool. All weekend, I’m uneasy. Because Garrett actually apologized, but Abby didn’t. Not that she would. I just don’t get her. I don’t get what she’s doing. And it’s not even the what happens in Athens comment. That could mean anything. It could mean frat boys and keg stands and hetero trash for days.
But the look on Abby’s face when I said I was going to prom with Garrett. How surprised she seemed that I hadn’t told her. But why would I tell her? She has a boyfriend. So what if they’re fighting? She. Has. A. Boyfriend. Therefore, none of this matters, and prom can go fuck itself.
Of course, my mom is totally high on prom hype. She takes two hours of leave time on Wednesday to pick me up right after school. “Hop in. We’re going dress shopping.”
I look at her. “Do we have to?”
“Yes, ma’am. Because you’re going to pro-om.” She gives it a solid two syllables. “I’m so excited right now.”
It’s like we’re from two different planets. Every once in a while, it hits me: if I knew my mom in high school, I don’t think we’d have been friends. It’s not like she was an asshole in high school. She was kind of like Abby. In every play, at every party, perfect grades. She always had a boyfriend—usually a soccer player with really defined abs. But sometimes she dated nerdy guys, or musicians, like my dad, who apparently used to smoke a lot of pot. I guess it didn’t lower his sperm count.
“You know, the last time we went prom dress shopping together, you were on the inside.”
“Haha.”
“My little prom fetus.”
“Gross.”
“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” She pulls into the mall parking deck and finds a spot near the elevator. My mom has charmed luck with parking spaces. It’s essentially her superpower. “And you have a date!”
“Yeah, with Garrett.”
“Garrett’s so adorable, though.” She pauses to grin at me. “Okay, so here we are. Where’s formal wear?”
Department stores are like diners. No focus. Too many options. I feel overwhelmed just being here. Mom pauses by an escalator, examining the store map.
“Aha. Upstairs.” I follow her onto the escalator. “So, what’s typical these days? When I was in high school, everyone wore floor length, but I hear that’s not a thing anymore.”
“It’s not?” I swallow.
“Or maybe I’m thinking of homecoming. I don’t know. Oh, here we go.”
Racks and racks of dresses. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much satin in my life. They’re all electric-bright and strapless and loaded with sparkles. I don’t own anything like this. I have nothing close to prom-appropriate. I’ve skipped every single dance since we grew out of bar mitzvahs. Which was clearly the right decision, because these dresses are trash, and prom is stupid anyway.
Except it doesn’t feel stupid.
It makes me cringe to admit this, but I want the whole prom thing. The dress, the limo, all of it. It actually hurts, imagining prom happening without me. Me, alone in my pajamas, spending the whole night trolling Instagram and Snapchat. Watching everything unfold virtually. Seeing once and for all how little I’m missed.
Mom starts pushing through hangers, pinching fabric between her fingertips and peeking at size tags. “These are kind of cool, Lee. I’m digging the two-piece.”
“Are you joking?”
“It’s like a skirt and a top. It’s different. I like it.” She shakes her head. “Stop making that face.”
My hand grazes a dress—intricately beaded bodice, voluminous taffeta skirt. It’s the actual worst. But it’s also weirdly gorgeous. I can’t stop running my hands along the fabric.
Okay, it’s silly, but I’ve always wanted one of those holy shit teen-movie moments. Like when the skinny nerd girl walks downstairs in her red dress. Or Hermione at the Yule Ball. Or even Sandy in her tight pants at the end of Grease.
I want to surprise everyone. I want everyone I’ve ever liked to wish they hadn’t missed their chance.
“That’s cute,” Mom says—carefully, without looking at me, like I’m a deer she’s trying not to spook. It’s extremely annoying.
“Not really,” I say.
“Why don’t you try it on? Nothing to lose, right?”
Except my dignity. And my flawless eighteen-year streak of not wearing hideous trainwreck ball gowns.
So, here’s the thing about me: I’m stubborn. I’ll admit that. But I always underestimate how stubborn Mom is, too. She’s never a bitch about it like I am, but she can be very persistent. Which is how, twenty minutes later, I’m in a dressing room wearing that taffeta shitshow of a gown. Biggest size on the rack, and it doesn’t even zip. My back feels goose-prickled and naked, and when I glance into the mirror, I want to throw up. The skirt balloons around my hips and hangs straight past my ankles. This may be the worst idea Mom’s ever had.
“How’s it going in there?” Mom’s hovering outside the door to my dressing room. “I want to see!”
Yeah, that’s not happening.
“This is the ball gown, right? That color’s going to look amazing with your hair. Trust me.”
“It’s hideous.”
“I’m sure it’s not hideous.”
“No. I mean it’s an actual Dumpster fire.”
“Wow, okay. Tell me how you really feel.” She laughs. “On to the next.”
I’m already rolling my eyes as I wrestle myself into a purple chiffon nightmare. It’s a bigger size, so it actually zips. But it stretches tightly over my hips and almost molds itself around my stomach. I know that sounds awful, but it’s not. It’s sort of wonderfully unapologetic. But the dress itself is a steaming piece of matronly garbage, and I’m not showing up at prom looking like someone’s grandma.
“Any luck?” Mom asks.
I laugh harshly.
Someone gasps in the next dressing room. “Jenna! Oh my God, I love it.”
“You don’t think it makes my arms look fat?”
“What? Shut up. You’re not fat. You look amazing.”
My whole body tenses. The only thing worse than trying on dresses is hearing a bunch of skinny girls trying on dresses next door. Listening to them pick at themselves. It’s like it doesn’t even matter if I like my body, because there’s always someone there to remind me I shouldn’t.
You’re not fat. You look amazing.
Because fat is the opposite of amazing. Got it. Thanks, Jenna’s friend!
“Should I try the size four, or will that just be huge?” Jenna asks. Jesus Christ.
But Mom presses onward, and I snap back to earth. “Did you try on the yellow one?”
I mean, it’s barely yellow—more like pale yellow-gold. And it’s printed with bright multicolored flowers: tiny on the bodice, growing bigger toward the edge of the skirt.
I hate yellow. And florals.
I should hate the crap out of this dress.
But I can’t explain it. It’s just so badass. No one wears a floral prom dress. It’s sort of fitted, with a sweetheart neckline, and I guess the skirt is really an A-line, but there’s a layer of white tulle underneath.
I don’t know. I fucking love it. I’m sure it won’t fit me. I’m sure it was made for a girl like Jenna, from the next dressing room. Whom I’m definitely picturing as Zoey Deutch. No question: this dress would look amazing on Zoey Deutch. But I guess I’ll try it anyway.
I unzip it, stepping carefully into the skirt and tugging it up over my hips. It’s strange wearing a dress like this on a Wednesday afternoon, with my TARDIS socks poking out the bottom.
It’s strange wearing this dress, period.
It zips. That’s a start. Though I’m pretty sure I’m going to look like a douchebag with my bra straps poking out. I stare at my feet. I don’t want to look at the mirror. Better just to imagine the dress looks amazing.
“What do you think?” Mom asks.
Deep breath. I look up.
It takes a moment to adjust to the image of me in the dress. Me in yellow. I press my hands to my thighs and just stare.
It’s not awful.
The bra straps look ridiculous.
But I kind of like the way the skirt hangs, skimming my hips and grazing the floor. I think I could actually wear this. I don’t know if I’ve achieved holy shit levels of boner inspiration, but still. It’s the prettiest I’ve ever felt.
I crack the door open and peek out, and Mom whips her head up. “Do I get to see this one?”
I shrug and step out slowly, feeling like I’m on a stage. Mom doesn’t say a word. Maybe she’s holding back tears. Maybe she’s rocked by the transformation. I think I look different. Maybe older. My hair looks really red. I fidget with the satin of my skirt.
Mom tilts her head to the side.
“Eh,” she says finally. “I don’t like it.”
I deflate. “Oh.”
“I think it overpowers you. It’s just kind of loud.”
“Wow. Okay. I actually liked this one.”
“Really?” Mom’s brow wrinkles. “I mean, it’s not bad, but I don’t think it’s the one, Lee.”
“Of course you don’t.” My chest feels squeezy-tight.
She looks stricken. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I full-force glare at her, trying not to cry. I don’t even have an answer for that. I don’t know what I mean. I just know I feel like shit, and I hate everyone in the entire world.
I shake my head. “I’m over this.”
“Leah, come on. Where’s this coming from?”
I laugh without smiling. I didn’t even know that was possible. “I’m just done. And this is stupid.” I push back into the dressing room, leaving Mom gaping outside the door.
She sighs loudly. “Seriously?”
I unzip the dress and step out of it, draping it over the hook on the wall. I swear to God, it’s staring at me. I tug my jeans up quickly.
Meanwhile, my mom’s still trying to talk to me. “Leah, if you love that one, let’s get it. I love it, too.”
I crack the door open and stare her down. “No you don’t.”
“Yes I do. It’s really pretty. And you know, I actually think it will look perfect once we style your hair. I’m serious.”
“It’s whatever.”
“Can I see it again?”
“I’m already dressed.”
“Okay. Then let’s just get it. I’ll pay for it right now.”
And as soon as she says that, I realize I have no idea how much the dress costs. I never thought to look—which really isn’t like me. I peek at the tag, heat rising in my cheeks. “It’s two hundred and fifty dollars.”
Mom pauses. “Don’t worry about it.”
“What?” I inhale sharply. “We can’t afford that.”
“It’s fine, sweetie. It’s not a problem.”
“What, are you going to rob a bank or something? Or are we using Wells’s money?” My stomach coils tightly at the thought.
“Leah, don’t you dare give me that look.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she snaps. It seems to echo off the ceiling.
There’s this pit in my stomach. Neither of us speaks.
“You don’t even like the dress,” I say finally.
“Leah, I do like the dress.” She closes her eyes briefly. “And this is something I’d like to do for you. This doesn’t have to be complicated.”
“Are you serious?”
“You know, I’m curious, Leah. What was your plan for paying for a prom dress? Enlighten me.”
I don’t even know what to say. Obviously, I have no clue. I can’t afford a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar dress. I can’t afford a fifty-dollar dress. And maybe I could have found something secondhand, but those places never have bigger than size two. Which is just about big enough for one of my legs.
For one excruciating minute, no one speaks. Even Jenna and her friend next door have gone silent.
“I don’t care about the dress,” I say softly.
Mom rubs her forehead. “Leah.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Fine.”
All the way to the car, we’re silent, but my mind’s tumbling in every direction. This doesn’t have to be complicated. Right. Imagine if it weren’t. Imagine if I were Jenna—omg my arms look fat Jenna. Girls like Jenna step out of dressing rooms, and people gasp and applaud. I’m sure she carries her parents’ credit card—her parents, who are married and forty-five and not dating random dudes with plural names.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry.” Mom pulls into our driveway, setting the car in park. “I really like the dress. I had no idea you loved it so much.”
“I don’t.” It comes out shaky.
Mom pauses. “Okay.”
“I don’t even want to go to prom.”
“Leah.” Mom shakes her head. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Burning everything to the ground whenever something goes wrong.”
For a minute, it hangs there. I don’t know what to say. I don’t do that. I don’t think I do that.
“You know what I want for you?” Mom says finally. She smiles, almost wistfully. “I want you to let things be imperfect.”
“Okay.” I frown. “But I do.”
“No you don’t. You know? You have a sucky time dress shopping, and you’re ready to call off prom. You wouldn’t try out for the play because you’re not the best actress in the universe.”
“I’m the worst actress in the universe.”
Mom laughs. “But you’re not! Not at all. You just want to be the best. And you have to let that go. Embrace the suck. Let your guts hang out a little.”
Yeah, that’s a fucking joke. Let your guts hang out. I don’t even get that. Why would anyone want to live like that? Like it isn’t bad enough I’m always one breath away from falling apart. I’m supposed to fall apart under a spotlight?
It’s too much. And I don’t want to embrace the suck. I want things to not suck. And I don’t think that’s too much to ask.