When he finished, the dress was fitted through the waist and opened into a flowing skirt made of panels in different washes of denim. It looked modern and sharp and unlike anything I’d ever seen.
I touched one of the faded pieces and whispered, “You made this.”
He shrugged like it was nothing, but his ears turned red.
The next morning, Carla saw it hanging on my bedroom door.
She stopped in the hallway. Walked closer.
For one second, I thought maybe even she would have enough decency to recognize what it was.
Then she laughed.
Not because she was surprised. Because she was delighted.
“Please tell me you are not serious.”
I stepped into the hall. “That’s my prom dress.”
She laughed harder. “That patchwork mess?”
Noah came out of his room right away, like he had heard the exact tone in her voice and knew what was happening.
“I’m wearing it,” I said.
Carla looked between us, smiling with that slow mean smile people use when they’ve found the weak spot.
“If you wear that,” she said, “the whole school will laugh at you.”
Noah went rigid beside me.
“It’s fine,” I said quietly.
“No, actually, it isn’t.” She waved at the dress. “It looks pathetic.”
