In 1988 when Dylan Montgomery moves to Beverly Hills after her mother remarries, she must navigate the challenges of fitting into a glamorous but daunting upper-class life. Living across from the charmingly cocky Nicholas and his introspective broth...
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UPPER CLASS | cherriasian
march '89
It was March now when the temperature of Los Angeles finally went beyond into the seventies. The girls entered their fourth boutique of the day, Dylan marveled at the rows of colorful taffeta, sequins, and chiffon in styles she'd only ever seen in movies. The day had been a whirlwind, starting at I. Magnin & Co., and weaving through the upscale fashion spots along Rodeo Drive, including the famous Giorgio Beverly Hills. Each shop felt more glamorous than the last, and it was clear that Katie, Marissa, and Tiffany weren't about to settle until they'd found the perfect dresses. Not that Dylan minded anywho.
Katie had been the driving force of the trip, declaring they had to get a head start on finding their dream gowns before anyone else at Beverly Hills High swooped in. Most especially if they were going to be prom dates for other boys outside of their school.
The air was filled with the scent of expensive perfume, and soft pop hits played from a distant radio as they sifted through racks of prom dresses in every shade from bold electric blues to soft pastel pinks. The designs screamed trendy—the puffed sleeves, cinched waists, and daring sweetheart necklines made each dress look ready for a spotlight.
Katie held up a strapless satin gown with a ruffled mermaid hem in deep red, eyes sparkling as she looked at Dylan. "You have to try this one. I'm telling you—it's going to be perfect on you."
Dylan took it with a laugh, feeling both excited and intimidated as she headed for the fitting room. She could hear the other girls chatting and teasing each other, each one already picturing their grand entrance on prom night. Sliding into the dress, she felt its luxurious weight settle around her. The crimson color was daring, yet the style—tight at the bodice with a dramatic flare at the knees—felt classic.
When she stepped out, the other girls gasped, rushing over to admire her.
"Dylan, this is the dress," Marissa said, taking in the gown with wide eyes. "Christian is going to be speechless."
Dylan rolled her eyes, laughing to brush off Marissa's comment, but she couldn't ignore the tiny thrill of imagining his reaction. She smoothed her hands over the soft fabric, trying not to think too hard about it. But she couldn't help it.
Dylan studied her reflection, letting her gaze travel over the sleek lines of her dress, the carefully done hair, the hint of gloss on her lips. She looked like she belonged here—at least, that's what her mother would say. And sometimes, Dylan felt it, too. In moments like this, there was a part of her that was comfortable, even exhilarated, by this life. She liked the feel of nice clothes, the buzz of belonging to a world she used to only see on TV. This wasn't Springfield anymore, and she was okay with that.
But then, there was that nagging voice that tugged at her confidence, a whisper that reminded her she was still out of her depth. Maybe she liked being here, but was she good enough at it? Good enough to hold her own next to girls like Katie and Tiffany, who wore this lifestyle like a second skin, as effortlessly as if they were born into it? She tried to see herself with the same ease, but all she could focus on was the way her hair seemed to frizz in the dry California air or how her smile never seemed quite as bright.
