Twisting a curl around my finger, I frown.
I should be excited!
Blah! Cheer up!
I walk to my desk and look at the makeup scattered across the surface, some of it on loan from Macy, who was here earlier to borrow a pair of my heels after she divorced hers because they pinched her toes.
“You’re supposed to be happy. So be happy, dammit!”
I check the time on my phone, plopping down in my chair. Still hours before the dance starts.
My phone buzzes again, vibrating softly on the comforter; probably more updates in the group chat aboutwho’sriding withwho—or another selfie from someone in their dress.
I ignore it. Grab my foundation and pump a tiny bit onto the back of my hand, the cool liquid pooling on my skin. Then I take a beauty blender and begin dabbing the foundation onto my face—forehead, cheeks, chin, and nose—working in smooth, even strokes so it looks like I have flawless skin with no makeup.
Blush.
Bronzer.
Lastly, I curl my lashes, heating the wand first with my hot flat iron—a trick a friend taught me—squeezing it over my lashes and grinning when they pop.
“Bam.” Pop, pop.
After lining my lips, I pick up a tube of melon-colored gloss, twist the cap between my fingers, and apply a small amount. When I press my lips together, the gloss is too sticky.
“Ugh.”
A soft knock on the door breaks my concentration.
“Harper?”
Mom’s voice comes through from the hall, tentatively, as if she’s afraid to be interrupting my private time. She knows I’m a ball of nerves. One second I thought I had a date; in the blink of an eye, I lost him to another girl.
C’est la vie.
“You almost ready?” her muffled voice asks. “Want me to help you with your dress?”
“Sure.”
The handle turns and she peeks in. “Almost ready?”
I nod. “Yes, but I could use some help. Zipper is in the back.” I stand, going to the dress, which has been hanging from a hook behind my door since I almost got stuck inside it the afternoon Easton was here.
“That is the perfect dress for you.” There’s something in her eyes when she says this…A hint of nostalgia? I know that look—she’s about to share a memory.
She cannot help herself.
“I remember my prom,” she begins, a playful glint in her eye. “I went with a guy named Lance Hanson. I thought he wassoall that and a bag of chips.”
I have secondhand embarrassment at her analogy.
“Bag of chips?” I raise an eyebrow. “Mom, no. Did people saythat?”
She laughs. “Hey, it was the late nineties, cut me some slack.All that and a bag of chipswas a compliment, and Lance? Well. You have no idea how cool Lance was in his leather bomber jacket and tie. He had a motorcycle. I thought he was the shit.”
I chuckle, unable to picture my mom in some frilly gown, hair teased with a cloud of hair spray, riding on the back of a teenage boy’s motorcycle.
She’s a completely different person now.
