“So that’s it?” I asked. “I can’t go?”
“You can go in something you already own.”
“I don’t own anything formal.”
Carla shrugged. “Then perhaps prom isn’t for you.”
I walked upstairs before she could see me cry.
I made it to my bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the floor beside my bed. I told myself it was only a dance. I told myself that people dealt with far worse things every day.
But it wasn’t only about the dress.
It was about the way Carla could take something Mom had planned for me and use it however she wanted.
It was about how powerless I felt in my own home.
And it was about knowing that Dad would never have allowed it.
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