“You should get married,” Rack tells her. “Just because you look so damn good in white. Don’t do it for any other reason.”

“Remember when we were in middle school, that girl who died of brain cancer right before her wedding?” Angel picks up the hem and starts shaking the dust out of the folds. “This was going to be hers. It’s still here.” She chokes out the last words. The ensuing dust cloud is so thick we have to open all the windows.

Grimshaw gathers her hair back up behind her head and studies herself in the mirror. “Give me the veil, too,” she says. “And the garter belt. I want the works.”

They put me in tea-length hot pink, or try to. I go through several dresses, but they are all too short. “I don’t think they like tall bridesmaids in Colchis.”

“You might be right,” Angel says. “Just wear the pink, though. At least it covers your knees.” She offers me a matching hat and then kneels down next to me and rips both seams up to the thigh. She gets out a pair of scissors and makes several other strategic rips. “There,” she says. “That’s sexier. Now you can go have your big night with Tim.”

I stand in front of a full-length mirror and do some voguing. “Pink is too springy, though, don’t you think, for an October dance?”

I am eclipsed by Grimshaw, a glowing vision in white. She tips up the bottle and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She points at herself. “Nice swallow,” she says. At this, Grimshaw lets out a long peal of laughter and takes another swig of whiskey. “Why don’t you just get pregnant and stay home?” She sees me over her shoulder, looking at her reflection in the mirror. I look away.

Behind us, Angel is squirming into a strapless sapphire gown that lets out its own cloud of dust. “Help me with the zipper,” she says. We stuff her into the bodice, find the hooks and eyes, and fasten them.

Near the window, Rack watches snow falling into the street. Her outfit is her barn jeans and a gray sweatshirt. “No dress for me,” she says.

At the dance in the gym, the best I can do is sit on the bleachers near my friend while she gets drunk on whiskey. I’ve done it before, but this time she’s trying to get caught, and if that happens, she’s automatically off the squad. She takes nips from the bottle tucked into her garter belt, while I stand between her and the chaperones. Fortunately, Colchis won the football game, which packs the dance and gives the chaperones plenty of other people to worry about.

Like a heat-seeking slug, Tim Marhaver finds me on the bleachers and comes up to me with his hand out. “My queen,” he says. “I require this dance.”