“Will you design a dress for me? Maybe not this extravagant. Maybe a classic design, but colorful instead of the requisite black. I hate black. I blame Mom. I mean, I don’t know if I’m ever going to a red-carpet event again, but I’d like to think someday I will.”

“You will. Eloise.” I put my hand over hers. “I would love to make you a dress.”

One she’ll never actually get to wear until I can get Tuesday to happen. I shove the thought away. Dwelling won’t help.

Eloise’s phone trills with a call, the ringtone emanating from somewhere under the pile of fabric.

She delves into the stack and recovers it from under a purple strapless ballgown. She glances down at the screen and then meets my eyes with a wince. “It’s Mom. Should I answer?”

“What? Is that even a real question? Do you hate good times and being happy?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “She’s been calling me every day for the past week and I’ve been avoiding her.” Her eyes search mine and then her brows lift. “Maybe we should talk to her together?”

My mouth twists. “Um, no?”

She shifts toward me. “Come on, Jane. We can come clean, get it over with, tell her the truth about our situations, as a team. We can support each other and maybe . . . maybe it will help.”

We stare at each other, the phone continuing to ring between us.

“Do you not have voicemail set up?”

She rolls her eyes.

I bite my lip.

She’s right. This is one more scary thing I need to face. And the only way out is through.

“Okay.” I roll my hand. “Let’s do it. Quick, like a Band-Aid.”

She nods and answers the call, putting it on speaker and holding the phone between us.

“Oh, interesting.” Mom’s voice is a sarcastic whip, lashing the room before Eloise can even say hello. “You can answer the phone. I wasn’t sure if it had been turned off for nonpayment or if you had forgotten how to use the device.”

Eloise and I lock gazes. She rolls her eyes and I stifle a giggle. She’s right. It is easier when I’m not the only one on the receiving end of a verbal flogging.

“Hello, Mother. It’s nice to hear from you. How are you doing?”

“That’s very cute, Eloise, but we need to talk about Stanford.”

Cutting right to the chase, right where it bleeds.

Eloise swallows and I take her free hand. The laughter in our eyes dies. Both of our palms are clammy, but it doesn’t matter.

“I’m not going back. I’m dropping out.” Her eyes widen at me, like she’s surprised herself, and then her gaze dips to the phone.

The silence is deafening.

Eloise points at me, asking permission, and I nod.