I guess you’re not writing back. I guess no answer is my answer. I give up. This is it. I’m not gonna bother you ever again.

PARISA

The first week of senior year, I forced Gabriela to come with me to Bloomingdale’s after school so we could try on prom dresses together.

“Isn’t it a little premature to think about prom already?” she asked me.

“No. Trust me. If we buy our dresses now, then there’s way less chance that some girl will be wearing the same dress on prom night. I do not want to be in a ‘who wore it best’ contest because I’ll lose.”

I know she was just humoring me by coming along, but we ended up having so much fun that day, strutting around the extra-large fitting room, trying on about forty gowns between us. What I never disclosed to Gabs was that I secretly dragged my mom back the same night, hoping she’d agree to purchase my favorite one: an olive-green floor-length Nanette Lepore with a halter top and low back.

It felt like a miracle that my mom, the pickiest woman on earth, liked the dress as much as I did, and as we stood together in the fitting room—the setting of all our most dramatic fights—she declared that it was practically made for me, and I think she was right. The particular shade of green was meant to be worn by a brunette, and for once, the silhouette didn’t make me so self-conscious of my body. I felt a little guilty that it was also Gabriela’s favorite dress, but to be fair, everything she tried on that day looked amazing on her. I’m not built the same way. For every twenty dresses I try on, I might find one that works—and even then, it would require alterations. Apparently, no one designs gowns for short girls with wide hips.

My plan was to wait it out a couple of months and then tell Gabs I went back to the store and only found one dress in my size on the clearance rack. I was too embarrassed to tell her we actually paid full price for it. None of that matters now. It’s not like she’ll ever see me wearing it… unless she trolls Lizzy Pearson’s IG account.

“You look gorgeous,” Neda says as I walk down the stairs to our living room. “I love that color on you.”

“You sure I don’t look like I should be floating in a martini?” I reply.