When the mysterious package arrived, I had to maneuver sideways to avoid catching the delicate fabric of my full skirt on the ragged screen door. The delivery guy stared at me with wide eyes. He handed me the nondescript cardboard box, stammered “Here’s your package ma’am,” and stumbled back to his truck in confusion. I could understand his shock. Instead of my usual second-hand clothes, today I looked like I’d stepped off a runway in Paris. Not bad for a girl who lived in a shabby double-wide on the last lower edge of the working class.

With my aggressively nipped-in waist, tea-length percale-lined grey taffeta skirt and black silk bodice, my homecoming dress wasn’t exactly on trend. I loved it. I knew all the other girls at my fancy high school would be wearing what I saw in the malls.

Brightly colored, sequined, mermaid-style dresses were everywhere this year. Even with their four-figure price tags, those dresses all looked the same to me: garish, heavy, uncomfortable, and overpriced. Besides, Jessica Rabbit might’ve been able to keep her dress up with sultry willpower, but my double-d’s would be straight-up vulgar if I tried to wear a strapless, sequined piece of lingerie.

My demure dress couldn’t be more different. Dior’s new look rocked Paris when it debuted in 1947. It was an attempt to reclaim the freedom, glamour, femininity, and optimism that had disappeared during the austerity of war. My prom dress didn’t have Dior tags, but it was very beautiful, and it made me feel sophisticated and special.

Even though it was older than my mom, the materials and construction were much finer than the mass-produced clothing of today. The dress had been handmade for someone, and she’d conveniently been exactly my size. My dress had still cost much more than I could afford, but I couldn’t regret buying something so gorgeous. The vintage shop didn’t even know what they had.

My ex-boyfriend hadn’t known what he’d had either, and I’d be going to the homecoming dance alone as a result. Screw you, Travis, I thought to myself as I collected my heavy, dark hair into a chignon at the base of my neck. You thought for sure I’d put out on prom night, huh? The rumors had worked their way back to me just in time for me to dump his spoiled ass in spectacular, screaming fashion.

What really hurt was that he’d both denied the rumors to my face and then spread it around that he dumped me because I was a crazy cheater with an STD. I stabbed bobby pins into my hair with a bit more force than necessary as I thought about stupid, entitled, good-looking, popular Travis and his equally awful little group of friends. I should have known the whole group was only being nice to me because of Travis. The really messed up thing was that if he hadn’t bragged to the whole school about taking my v-card, I might’ve given it to him. I was dumb enough to believe he really liked me.

I added a strand of my grandmother’s white pearls and my reflection looked back at me from the mirror approvingly. I’d made the right decision. I would go to the dance alone, look like a million bucks, and make Travis very, very sorry. I may have been one of the poorest girls in school, and I certainly wasn’t the smartest or the most popular, but I had my pride.

A text from my mom made me jump: Be safe tonight! Have fun. I’ve got to work a double, but I’ll see you on Sunday. Love you.

I sent her back a thumbs up, a heart, and a happy face. She didn’t know about the Travis situation, and I wasn’t going to bother her with it. My mom—a nurse—had been working nonstop shifts at the hospital. The dirt bag she’d just broken up with had cleaned out our bank account and stolen all our electronics (including the laptop I used for school) before disappearing a few weeks earlier. Between him and my deadbeat biological dad who hadn’t paid child support for me or my brother since I was in diapers, my mom had plenty of her own drama to deal with. And that was just in her personal life. Professionally, she dealt with all kinds of crap (most of it literally, well, crap). I tried not to make it all worse for her.

Another text, this one from a blocked number, made me cringe. In the attached image, Travis was standing in front of a black, stretch Hummer with three guys and four girls from our school. In the background, the manicured lawns and sprawling houses of the nice side of town looked like something out of a magazine. Travis had his arm around the waist of one of the girls, a pretty blonde named Ashley. She was wearing a pink and gold sequined gown, and I could see the characteristic red soles of her Louboutin shoes beneath her long skirt. Just one of those shoes was worth more than my entire wardrobe.

But money clearly couldn’t buy class or good taste. Her dress was a size too small and the straps looked like they were painfully digging into her shoulders. Her bronzer also looked a shade too dark, making her look less sun-kissed and more sunburned. I thought about replying with a snarky comment about her over-aggressive contouring but managed to restrain myself.

For once, I was determined to take the high road. This time I wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me go ballistic when they called me trailer trash. It had taken a long time, but I was finally starting to learn that setting my temper free made situations worse and not better.

I didn’t know which one of my eight pictured classmates had sent the picture, but my money was on Ashley herself. We were on the volleyball team together and she despised me for beating her out for captain. Whether it was her or not, the implication was clear. You aren’t one of us. You’ll never be one of us. Like I needed to be reminded of that. After I dumped Travis, I’d had several snide comments directed my way that I wasn’t good enough for him anyway. Someone had also stolen my books out of my locker and written ‘trashy bitch’ on the inside covers. The casual bullying stung, but I’d had plenty worse treatment than that over the years.

A second photo, this one of Travis making out with Ashley in the limo, lit up my phone. Whoever was sending me this shit was really rubbing it in. They even added a message this time: He’s better off without a crazy, cheap slut like you. As if sticking his tongue down Ashley’s throat was not the equivalent of French kissing a filthy toilet seat? Please.

I tossed my phone down on my bed next to the package and grabbed some scissors off my desk. I needed a distraction before I melted down and lost my nerve. The mystery package would have to do.

Feeling frustrated and helpless, I stabbed into the cardboard down to the plastic wrapping beneath.

Like a science project volcano made of vinegar and baking soda, a small-scale explosion issued out from the plastic bag with a decisive pop. Shock and fear slowed the experience, but I was powerless to prevent what came next. A multicolored plume of powder shot through the air and hung thick in the air. The powder—no, glitter—I realized after a moment, drifted down like shining snow, settling on every available surface in my room. It adhered like superglue to my skin, my hair, my eyelashes, and my dress. It was everywhere. I’d never seen so much glitter in my entire life. There were pounds of it, kept under pressure in that plastic bag. Until I punctured it, that is.

Through the salty sting of my tears, I saw nothing but red.

My now-glittery heels left a little trail of sparkles through the hunting and fishing mega-store. The girl working the register at eight p.m. on a Friday was about my age. She took in my appearance with a nonplussed expression. I’d pulled one of my brother’s hoodies on over my dress as protection against the freak cold front, but I still looked like I’d been rolling around the floor of a glitter factory. It rubbed off on every surface I touched, including the money I slid across the counter to her.

“Did you find everything you were looking for tonight?” She asked me carefully, loading the bottles into the bag and not meeting my eyes.

“Yeah. Thanks. You’re out of these ones now,” I said, lifting one of the little amber bottles.

She nodded, looking down at the glittery bottle, then at me, then back at the bottle. “Hunting season starts next week.”

I nodded back, collecting my receipt and purchases and making as dignified of a retreat as I could. My sparkly lips pulled back into a humorless smile. “Thanks.”

I was hunting all right, but not for Bambi. Hunting season for my prey started right-fucking-now.

The drive from Plano to Austin ordinarily takes about three and a half hours. I made it faster than that, because I never went below eighty-five. In hindsight, that was not a great idea for a sixteen-year-old with a learner’s permit, but I was running on frustration, humiliation, Waffle House, and Red Bull.

Interestingly, the package did not originate from one of my classmates in Plano. Instead, it’s address was from two cities away in the state capital where my brother was going to college. In fact, it was from his next-door neighbor. That was an odd coincidence, since it was one of the few places I knew how to navigate to, having just helped him move in a couple of weeks ago. Still, I could only assume that somehow, Travis or one of his nasty friends were behind my glittery predicament.

By the time I arrived in front of the door belonging to Cole Rylander, resident of the men’s dorms at the University of Texas, it was almost three a.m. I managed to sneak in the door after a drunk guy—security wasn’t exactly tight. You’d have thought my anger-fueled adrenaline rush would not have lasted long enough to see this plan through, but I was special. I had anger to spare, all the time. Right then, I was still trembling with it. I banged on the door with one gloved hand, clutching the squeeze bottle I’d stolen from a Waffle House on the way behind my back.

“Jesus Christ, what do you want?!” The man said when he opened the door. His voice was groggy, like he’d just been awakened, and he was rubbing his eyes as if in total disbelief. I guess it’s not every day a walking disco ball knocks on your door in the middle of the night. I wasn’t even seeing him at the moment. “Who are you?” He stuttered.

“Are you Cole Rylander?” I confirmed, dancing from foot to foot. The squeeze bottle—the kind that restaurants use for condiments like ketchup—was a cold weight in my hand. I’d put everything in the locked toolbox in the bed of the truck as a precaution, only filling it up in the hallway right before knocking. It had gotten icy-cold during the drive.

“Yes but—urgh!”

As soon as I knew it was him, I whipped out the chilled deer urine filled squeeze bottle and doused him with it. The man retched when the smell hit him, and I just kept squeezing, exhausting every last drop of the thick, putrid-smelling liquid all over his bare front. I didn’t aim for his face, but I wasn’t avoiding it either. He probably got a mouthful or two.

“Oh god, oh god, what is this shit?!” he cried in between gags. Guilt pinged through me and I quashed it. This was justice. He was rubbing his eyes again, this time to get the deer piss out of them. “Why?!” He stumbled out blindly into the corridor, and I easily escaped his grasp. He collided with the wall in front of him with a loud, painful thump.

“Because fuck you that’s why! Fuck your glitter package you fucking asshole!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “You ruined my homecoming dress. You ruined everything. I hate you!”

Around me, I could hear voices and stomping behind the other doors in the hallway. People were waking up and would want to know what the hell was going on. Before I could be caught, I dropped the squeeze bottle and ran back to my truck. I thought getting revenge would make me feel better, but instead of energized and vindicated, all I felt was exhausted and alone.

I’d never had a hangover before, but I couldn’t imagine it felt worse than I did the next morning. Driving for almost eight hours straight made my joints ache and my head pound. I woke up at two p.m., feeling and looking like I’d had a very rough night. It took four showers to get most of the glitter out of my hair and off my skin, and two vacuum bags to remove the worst of it from my room. My dress, however, was irreparably ruined, along with my hairbrush, a lampshade, and a handful of other possessions that couldn’t or shouldn’t be washed. Even my hairdryer was ruined. The glitter had lodged in the motor, making it smoke.

Feeling defeated, I wrapped myself in a fuzzy afghan blanket and sat on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate while I waited for my hair to dry. There was even an episode of ‘Say Yes to the Dress” on that looked promising. The sudden chime of the doorbell made me freeze. I waited, hoping whoever it was would give up and go try to convert the neighbors instead. Ding-dong! I gritted my teeth.

“Go away!”

Ding-dong! No way was I getting up. It wasn’t girl scout season. Ding-dong! I just couldn’t see the point of getting up. There was absolutely no one on the planet I wanted to see. Ding-dong!

“Come back with a fucking warrant!” I yelled at the door, praying that whoever it was would get the message.

Ding-dong!

“Fine! Fine! I’m coming. Don’t get your panties in a twist!”

Finally irritated enough to see who it was, I wrapped the afghan around myself like a cape and shambled over the door. The shotgun my mom kept in case of bad guys was within an arm’s reach in the adjacent closet if needed. I peeled back the door and glared balefully at…. Glitter dude? Cole Rylander was standing on my doorstep.

My irritation drained out of me all at once. In my anger the night before, I’d managed to ignore his physical appearance. Now though, I couldn’t deny that he was objectively, well, pretty damn perfect. Tall, with amber-colored eyes, dark glossy hair and smooth tan skin, his even, symmetrical features and athletic body ticked all my boxes. The fact that he was older than me, probably my brother’s age, twenty, and not from my oppressive Plano high school didn’t hurt either. I slammed the door in a panic.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

I opened the door much more sheepishly the second time around. Cole and I blinked at each other in the late afternoon sun. My heart pounded furiously.

“I brought you some flowers to apologize for the glitter,” he said. His voice was a baritone rumble. I looked at the delicate bouquet of daisies he was extending in wonder. I had suddenly lost the power of speech.

“Ugh…” I managed. Why was he here? What did he want?

“I didn’t know that Ward even had a little sister,” he was explaining rapidly. “I really didn’t mean to ruin your night, or your dress. It was a prank meant for him, I swear. Ward told me he’d kick my ass if I didn’t come down here and apologize to you, so, um, here I am.”

My disbelief was complete.

“You don’t know Travis?” I could barely believe it.

Cole shook his head. His amber-brown eyes shined with earnestness. “Who? No. I don’t know any Travis. I was just messing with Ward. The glitter wasn’t meant for you. I really am sorry.”

I bit down on my somewhat still-glittery lip. The prank had been meant for Ward?

“You brought me flowers?” I warbled, completely charmed. Nobody had ever bought me flowers before. Not even on a date. Especially not someone so cute.

Cole nodded. He seemed to be searching my face for something, because he was gazing at me intently. It made it hard to keep looking at him, but at the same time, I wanted to keep looking at him forever. Maybe he wanted to see if I was still angry. I wasn’t. With hesitant fingers, I reached out and took the flowers from Cole’s grasp, feeling a little electric thrill when our fingers touched.

“Thank you. I like daisies.” My voice was just over a whisper. I was usually chock full of words (it was sort-of my weakness) but at this moment I was unable to think of any snippy comments. All I could do was stare at the apologetic, handsome man in front of me. He didn’t even mention the whole deer pee thing. “They’re beautiful.”

He smiled at me, and just like that, I knew I was lost.