“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” I say, leaning on the counter and accidentally invading her personal space. “Even though it won’t fit, I gotta have that dress.”

I point to the window and she eyes me up and down, one blue ruffle at a time. “Do your thing, girl. Anything’s better than what you have on.”

She hops off the stool and heads for the window display. “You going to prom?” she asks.

“Yeah, changed my mind last minute,” I say, following her past the racks of clothes. “I wasn’t going to, ’cause it’s all about pictures and dates and uncomfortable shoes. But then this guy I like, I mean as a friend, offered me a ride, so…”

She unbuttons the dress from the mannequin’s plastic back and hands the white lace fabric to me. “Good for you. Life’s too short not to go to prom.”

“Uh, last time I was here, you were shitting on prom.” I follow her to the dressing room and strip down in the tiny space.

“Just ’cause something’s stupid doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it,” Izzy calls through the closed door. “Honestly, it’s so much better that way. It frees you up to do your own goddamn thing. Now lemme see.”

I zip the dress up and open the door. When I look down there are miles and miles of material across my chest, just hanging there like Please love me. “I’m having a bit of a boob situation, which I’m sure could be fixed with two balloons and a bicycle pump, but I’m trying to be accepting.”

“Don’t worry,” Izzy says. “I’ll be right back.” She heads toward the front of the store and calls out, “Is the guy with the vigorous dance moves in the car out front your date?”

“Not my date,” I say quickly, attempting to downsize the nest in my hair from squirrel babies to chipmunk babies. “He’s just my ride, and he wasn’t even supposed to be that. He just showed up at my house.” Also, he brought me the moon.

“Well, that’s good timing. Here, use these,” Izzy says, coming back with four pieces of thin black duct tape. “Gather up the material and tape it like an X.”

I stand in front of the mirror hesitantly, then do it. I mean I can’t really look more ridiculous than I do with saggy ghost boobs. At first it’s awkward pulling the fabric up then down, but finally I’ve effectively taped two Xs on my chest.

“Ooooh!” she says, nodding in approval. “X-tits might be the next big thing.”

I grin. “Gotta admit, I actually look good. In a lived-through-a-horror-movie type of way.”

“Which you did,” she says, patting my shoulder. “But I’m done shit-talking high school. Now pay up.”

I rip the tag off the back of the dress and she walks over to scan it at the computer. As my card goes through I look at Brendan, jamming out alone in his car. It’s like he’s holding his own private prom between the seat and the steering wheel.