“Relax, Cham, it’s rabbit.” Abigail sniffs the collar and wrinkles her nose. “Or was rabbit.”

“You can’t wear a fur shawl to prom,” I say, throwing it back to her with a quick Hail Mary because I have a moral compass, thanks for asking.

“Why not? It’s basically a winter prom, given that the end of April is as cold as a dead guy’s ball sack.”

I cringe and Abigail laughs. She loves disgusting me with her taste in just about everything.

“Besides.” She pokes me in the ribs. “It’s our debut into society. The end of high school! The precipice of Real Personhood! I can wear whatever I damn well please.”

“Yeah, which is exactly why you don’t want to wear a dead animal as a shawl.” I continue browsing the racks of orphaned clothes just waiting to find the right home. “It could be the best night of our lives. You don’t want pictures of you with a carcass around your neck.”

She checks herself out in the mirror. “Fine, you’re right.”

“Does this make my neck look ostrich-y?” Hilary calls from a dressing room at the far end of the store. Sometimes I pretend Hilary isn’t there, and then I actually forget she’s there. There’s nothing wrong with Hilary, but it comes down to numbers. Two is perfect. Three is one-of-these-isn’t-like-the-others.

“Hilary, you have a slender neck that necklaces throw themselves at,” I call to the row of dressing rooms, each with a different mirror and feather boa decorating its door. “Please don’t make me strangle it.”

Behind Abigail, I spot a white lacy dress on one of the mannequins in the window. Because it’s on display, it’s probably a million dollars. Or a size impossible.

“All the pressure is going to be off once prom rolls around.” Abigail sighs as I slide past the woman who just walked in to check out the dead-grandma dresses. “Just about everyone who didn’t do early decision will know where they got into college, so we can finally all relax—”

My hand stiffens on the neck of the white lace (I swear I’m not trying to strangle a mannequin). Abigail looks at me skeptically. “You did start your applications, didn’t you?”

“Of course I started,” I say. “I’m almost done, but can’t we enjoy this glorious last leg of high school without obsessing about college?”

“You don’t have a future unless you plan one in advance,” Abigail says.

“Well, there’s still a whole two weeks before regular applications close. And after that there’s rolling admission, so basically the amount of time I have is forever. I’ve been waiting for this moment since I was a freshman. I’m gonna savor it.”

“Okay, I think I found the one,” Hilary says, sashaying over to us in an emerald-green ball gown. She recently dyed her hair a cool blue that makes her dark eyes look even darker.

“I love it, Hil,” I say, patting one of the ruffles awkwardly. Love is maybe an exaggeration.