“You’re going to love it. But close your eyes…I want this to be a surprise.” Her face looks so joyful I can’t say no.

“Okay.” I shut my eyes.

As the dress slips over my head, Mom asks the question all seniors dread: “How are your assessments going?” This is a grueling year-long process that ends with being assigned a life-long service.

“The tests haven’t started yet.”

“Have you thought about becoming a seamstress?” Mom gives my arm a gentle pinch. “We could work at home and be together all the time. Would be much safer than the Arena.”

Stop fighting in the Arena? No freaking way! I’m about to tell her that, but the hope glistening in her brown eyes stops me cold. I can’t burst her bubble yet. “Wow, that’s a really great offer.” I shift my weight from foot to foot. “But, you know, senior year started a few weeks ago. I’ve still got time.”

Mom zips up the back of my dress. “Don’t take too long. Graduation will be here before you know it, and Arena fights aren’t enough of a service on their own.”

“Uh, they aren’t?” My mouth falls open. “Are you sure?”

“What do you think?” She winks. She probably researched this years ago.

My body feels cold. “Uh, let’s not talk about that now.”

“Fine with me. But if you don’t start to advocate to be a seamstress, you could be assigned something awful like latrine duty.”

She may have a point.

“Okay, Mom. I promise I’ll think about it soon.” I fidget in my gown, dying to open my eyes a crack. The skirt feels a little weird, but then again I don’t wear dresses very often. “Can I look now?”

Mom claps her hands. “Yes!”

Glancing in my mirror, I see myself wearing an ankle-length gown with a massive hoop skirt. The entire monstrosity is covered in flounces, bows, and the color orange.

Hells bells, orange. I so want to puke, die, or both.

At that moment, the doorbell rings. “Cissy must be here.” Mom clasps her hands beneath her chin. “I’ll go get her. I can’t wait for her to see you!”

Um, I can.

Mom walks to the front door, letting a giddy Cissy inside. There’s a lot of cooing and hugging, then footsteps pad toward my bedroom. Cissy pauses in my doorway, her hand covering her bow-shaped mouth. She’s wearing a slinky black dress that’s floor length and sliced half-way up her thigh.

I let out a low whistle. “Cissy, you look gorgeous.” All quasis are beautiful by human standards, but Cissy’s dress takes it to a new level. Why couldn’t Mom have called Versace, too?

“Thanks, Myla. You look…” Cissy smacks her lips, searching for the right word.