Margot grabbed my elbow and darted away. “Sorry about that,” she said as we snaked through racks of dresses to the far end of the department. “I kind of vented to her a lot when the whole Izzy thing blew up, so she’s been treating me like a pity project ever since, making sure I go to stupid school things so I don’t ‘miss out.’” Margot scoffed. “Like I’d miss out on anything by not going to Winter Formal. God, what even is this?” She picked up a dress that had the color and texture of pulpy orange juice.

I couldn’t hold back my laughter anymore.

“Alina!” Margot yelled. “She made me try on so much taffeta! I’m traumatized!”

I was full-on laughing now, and so was Margot. Once we recovered, Margot wandered to another rack. “Okay, let’s just get this over with. We’ll pick out some dresses that don’t make us look ridiculous. Those yearbook photographers will be everywhere, and—”

“Wait, you’re really going? You’re not just trying on dresses for your abuela?”

“No, we are really going. Abuela will be here until after Christmas.” Winter Formal was on December twentieth, the last day of school before winter break, and it hadn’t been remotely on my radar. Margot flashed her teeth at me. “Come on, we can literally walk in, take one picture for Abuela, then walk out and go to Waffle Country.”

I smiled inadvertently when she said “Waffle Country.” It was this retro place with checkerboard floors, powder-blue booths, and sparkly red tabletops. A total eyesore, but their waffles were life-changing.

I eyed the rack and lifted up a magenta ball gown with a heart-shaped cutout in the back. I held it up to Margot’s chin. “I’ll go if you wear this.”

“Honestly,” Margot said, taking the dress and eyeing it warily, “I’ve tried on worse.”

As we pawed through racks of dresses, I learned that Isabel ran an art gallery in New York that showcased Mexican-American artists, and that her visits to Pennsylvania were often unannounced. “I swear, she just decides to get on the train sometimes. She’s my favorite person in the world, but whenever she gets an idea in her head, there’s no stopping her. Today’s idea was: get Margot a Winter Formal dress. I knew something like this was going to happen when I didn’t let her buy me a quinceañera dress last year,” Margot muttered. “Damn last year me!”

“You had a quinceañera?” I asked, curious. I didn’t know much about them. But I’d read a magazine article once about Latinx girls celebrating their quinceañera, and in the picture, they were all wearing big, beautiful ball gowns and tiaras. I couldn’t imagine Margot all dressed up like that.