Mom shook her head. “He’s playing at a wedding today.”

I sighed. “Fine.” I shrugged on my down puffer coat, pulled my knit cap over my head, and opened the front door. A burst of icy air slapped me in the face and I cursed Margot all the way to the car.

Twenty minutes later, clutching a caramel apple latte, I stepped into the Macy’s juniors’ section, yawning. It was depressing to think that soon I’d have to get up this early every Saturday for extra rehearsals, which would start after winter break.

As I looked for Margot, “Waltz of the Snowflakes” came on over the speakers. Ugh. Besides the Christmas trees and twinkly lights everywhere, the fact that you couldn’t go to any moderately upscale place in December without hearing Nutcracker music was not helping my withdrawal.

“Alina, thank God.” Margot barreled out of the dressing room. Her sweatshirt was crooked, and her usually sleek turquoise bob was staticky and disheveled. “I told her I wasn’t going to Winter Formal. The theme is ‘Neon,’ for God’s sake. That’s not even a theme, it’s a gas!”

My eyes widened. I’d never seen Margot so frazzled.

A tall, elegant woman walked out of the dressing room, several gowns with varying degrees of pouf and sparkle draped over her arm. She wore a wide-leg jumpsuit in taupe, belted at the waist, and her hair was pulled back into a low bun. I would have mistaken her for a runway model if she hadn’t been in her seventies.

“Abuela,” Margot said, “this is Alina. She’s looking for a dress, too.” Sorry, she mouthed, but I didn’t mind. I figured this was what Margot had had in mind when she said “distract her.” And it didn’t mean I was going to Winter Formal. It meant I’d help placate Margot’s abuela for a while by trying on some dresses.

“Isabel Correa,” the woman said as she shook my hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.” She did look very pleased. And a little surprised. “Margot, it’s wonderful you have a friend to try on dresses with. That’s a very important thing in life.”

“Oh, geez,” Margot said under her breath, but only when Isabel had safely turned away.

Isabel started hanging the rejected dresses on the rack outside the fitting room. “Sometimes the friends we choose when we’re children disappoint us,” she said. “I always find it admirable when young people who outgrow their old friends find”—she glanced at me, taking in my vintage sweater and seeming to approve—“better ones.”

“Okay, can we get on with this, please?” Margot said, inching away, clearly ready to end the conversation.

Isabel barely hid her smile. “Okay. I’ll let you two look. Pick some things out together, and I won’t give my opinion until the dressing room.”