YOU ARE A PROM QUEEN,DANCE DANCE DANCE

01

I hate my dress (pale blue). I hate my heels (silver). I hate my size 32D underwire Chantelle bra (nude) that my mom and the saleslady at Neiman Marcus made me buy to go with the aforementioned hated dress and hated heels. Yet here I am, wearing all three, standing near the snack table at P.S 182's Mardi Gras-themed Junior-Senior Prom.

And all the while, my best friend, Emilie Lang, who's nearly six feet tall and strong from four years of playing volleyball, is squeezing my forearm so hard I can feel a bruise forming. But that's okay. The pain distracts me from the hate.

"He's dancing with Madison Trimabali," Emilie moans.

"He is?"

Emilie'sbeen obsessed with this "he" since the middle of sophomore year when she was possitive they shared a moment while filling into the auditorium for an assembly on the dangers of drunk driving. I glance in the general direction of writhing black tuxedos and pastel sateen gowns, trying to locate Madison's garish orange strapless number