Both times, I pretended not to see him.
“Sorry, Austin, I’m late.”
I told myself he probably felt sorry for me. Everyone at school knew about Grandma Ruth. I didn’t want pity handed to me with the lab safety glasses, so I avoided him.
I should’ve known better.
On prom night, I stood and slid into the dress.
Mom zipped me up carefully, her hands trembling more than mine.
When I turned to the mirror, I didn’t see an 18-year-old in an old gown. I saw a girl carrying a piece of someone she loved.
“You look like her,” Mom whispered.
I blinked hard. “I’m glad. Thanks, Mom.”
We shared a hug.
Outside, the ride my mom had booked for me was waiting, its headlights soft against the dusk.
I gathered the satin in one hand, stepped into the car, and went to keep my promise.
The moment I stepped through the gymnasium doors, the air shifted. Conversations dipped. Heads turned.
I’d hoped to slip in unnoticed, but the dusty rose satin caught the light in a way that felt almost loud.
Brielle spotted me from across the lobby. She was already standing there, looking smug as if she’d won prom queen before the voting had even happened. The sequins on her stunning dress shimmered, and a small circle of friends stood around her like a court.
Brielle crossed the floor before I could reach the punch table, her entourage following.
Brielle looked me up and down in front of the senior class.
“Oh my God,” she said, her voice carrying. “Did Goodwill lose a curtain?”
Her friends giggled on cue.
I tried to step around her, my hand tightening on the small clutch my mom had lent me. Brielle moved with me, tilting her head as if she were studying a strange animal.
“Wait, no,” she said. “You’re like a dumpster princess!”
The laughter rippled wider this time. I felt the heat climb up my neck and bloom across my cheeks.
I kept my chin steady and told myself, one song, just one song for Grandma Ruth.
Then Brielle leaned in, close enough that I could smell her perfume, but kept her voice loud enough to reach anyone nearby.
The laughter reverberated all around, and something inside me hurt, quiet and small.
I didn’t answer her. I quickly walked past her toward the edge of the dance floor, where the lights softened to blue.
I wanted to run, to call my mom and tell her to get me before another hurtful comment landed. But every time I thought about leaving, I heard Grandma Ruth’s voice in that bedroom, soft and a little tired.
“Promise me you’ll give it one more dance.”
So I stepped onto the floor by myself.
A slow song was playing, something old that the DJ had probably been told to skip. I swayed, my eyes half-closed, and pictured her. The pearl buttons against her collarbone, her hands smoothing the satin. The way she smiled when she talked about Grandpa standing under the porch light.
For one minute, I wasn’t at the prom. I was in Grandma’s kitchen, drinking weak tea and listening to her hum.
When I opened my eyes, I caught Austin looking at me from across the room.
He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t laughing either. His jaw was tight. Brielle had her arm linked through his, leaning into his shoulder, but his eyes were on me, steady and careful.
I looked away first, not understanding what his look meant.
Some kids laughed at me, but I didn’t care.
When the song ended, I drifted toward the wall, hoping to disappear for a while. That’s when I heard Brielle’s voice again, brighter now, performing for her friends near the bleachers.
“Obviously, Austin’s going to dedicate the king’s speech to me,” she said. “I mean, who else would he dedicate it to?”
One of her friends laughed.
“Maybe Goodwill girl,” one of them joked.
“Please,” Brielle said. “He pities her, sure. Everyone does. But pity isn’t a love letter.”
I froze where I stood, half-hidden behind a column.
Brielle kept talking, listing what she wanted Austin to say and fixing a crown that didn’t exist yet. She talked about him as if he were a prize already wrapped.
I pressed my back against the cold cinder-block wall and closed my eyes.
I didn’t want a love letter. I didn’t want pity. I wanted to honor my late grandma and go home.
The DJ’s voice crackled through the speakers, announcing that it would soon be time to crown this year’s prom king and queen.
I tried to slip toward the punch table without being seen. I just needed a minute to breathe before I figured out whether to stay or call my mom.
But Brielle found me before the cup touched my lips.
“Emma, sweetie,” she cooed, sliding up beside me with that practiced smile. “Do you need a ride home? Before someone mistakes you for the coat check?”
Her friends snickered into their hands behind her.
I gripped the plastic cup so hard that the rim bent. My eyes stung, but I refused to let her see them spill over.
