In my town, everyone knows your business before you do. The gas station clerk knows your favorite gum, the crossing guard knows your GPA, and I—seventeen, a high school senior—spent afternoons sweeping up spilled glitter at CVS and restocking shampoo like it mattered more than life itself. On weekends, I babysat, saving every crumpled tip and quarter in a red Folgers coffee can under my bed.
That can wasn’t just money—it was hope. It was my prom dress fund, a night I’d imagined since ninth grade. A night where satin and tulle could make me feel like I belonged somewhere magical. My mom used to say, “I want your life to have sparkle.” She died when I was twelve. Since then, I’d been chasing it, trying to outrun grief with every dollar I tucked away.
Dad remarried when I was fourteen. Enter Linda: designer perfume, perfect posture, and a way of making every suggestion feel like a command. Her daughter, Hailey—same grade, different world—moved in my junior year. We weren’t enemies, but sharing a bathroom felt like navigating a border crossing.
By February, the school was buzzing with prom excitement. Even Linda got involved, pinning a “Prom Planning Board” on the fridge with Hailey’s name glittered in purple. My name wasn’t on it.
It was fine. I had my own plan:
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