“Or maybe Grandma’s ghost.”
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.
Then Brielle leaned in.
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.
I wanted to run.
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.
I caught Austin looking at me.
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.
I drifted toward the wall.
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.
She talked about him.
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.
Brielle found me.
I gripped the plastic cup so hard that the rim bent. My eyes stung, but I refused to let her see them spill over.
“This dress belonged to my grandmother,” I said quietly. “She asked me to wear it. I’m here because I promised her.”
Brielle tilted her head, considering me as if I were a stain on her shoe.
“Cute story,” she said. “Nobody cares.”
A teacher drifted past on chaperone duty, and Brielle’s whole face transformed. Suddenly, she was laughing softly and touching my arm as if we were old friends sharing a joke.
“Nobody cares.”
The teacher smiled and kept walking, but the instant they were gone, Brielle’s hand dropped. So did the smile.
“Run along, ghost girl,” she whispered.
I walked not toward the dance floor but toward the bathroom, where I locked myself in the last stall and finally let the tears come.
I pulled out my phone with shaking fingers and called my mom.
“Mom,” I whispered. “I can’t do this.”
My mom’s voice was soft on the other end. “Tell me what happened, baby.”
Brielle’s hand dropped.
I told her.
The curtain comment.
The ghost line.
Brielle blocked my path as if I owed her an apology for existing.
There was a long pause.
“Emma,” my mom said gently, “your grandma would be proud of you for just walking in that door. If you want to come home, I’ll be there in 10 minutes. No questions asked.”
I pressed my forehead against the cold stall wall. “But?—”
“But,” my mom said, “the choice is yours. Not Brielle’s. Not even Grandma’s. Yours.”
I’ll be there in 10 minutes.
I thought about Grandma Ruth’s shaking hands, smoothing the satin and the pearl buttons my mom had cleaned one by one at the kitchen table.
“One more song,” I whispered. “I’ll stay for one more song.”
I splashed water on my face and stepped back out into the noise. That’s when I saw Austin across the gym, leaning against the bleachers and watching the door I’d come through. His jaw was tight.
“I’ll stay for one more song.”
Brielle, who’d planted herself at his elbow again and was talking up at Austin, gesturing with both hands. As I watched, she reached for his arm. He shifted, just enough, and her fingers closed on air.