“No, it used to be her winter-formal dress, but now the back goes down to her butt and the leg slit goes up to her elbow! What message does it send to have the creator’s own kid turning Mora into some kind of pinup girl?”

Vera drops her head back, pulling her jet-black hair into a ponytail that shows off her undercut before walking over and kissing Mom on the temple. Even when they bicker, I swear they’re still the poster children for happily ever after. It’s perfect and gross all at once.

“Lil,” she coos, and my mom visibly softens. “So they took a little artistic license; it’s fine. And the message it sends, if that’s really your concern, is that people shouldn’t have to choose between being feminine or strong; they can be both. And may I remind you that this is an all-ages, dry event—”

“Exactly. All ages, Vera,” Mom interrupts. “Which means it’s not just kids that will be there. All the pervy dinosaurs might show up too.”

“They’re not going to let people in to party with the kids,” Vera says. “You were there last year; the only adults allowed were sponsors and chaperones.”

“I still think she should at least wear a shirt over it,” Mom says, crossing her arms. “You know what teenage boys are like.”

Vera arches an eyebrow. “And I think it’s bullshit to make women cover up instead of holding men accountable for their actions.”

Mom purses her lips. “I hate when you’re right.”

“You know, I could have just stayed home and happily rehearsed all weekend.”

“You needed some sunlight, kid,” Vera says. I don’t bother pointing out that there is literally no natural daylight in this hotel–slash–casino–slash–convention center. “Go. Enjoy yourselves. Let me take care of your mom.” She winks, which makes my mom blush, and ugh, gross. Shouldn’t the lovey-dovey newlywed stage be over by now?

“Okay, yuck, bye,” I say, grabbing Jayla’s hand.

“Bye!” Jayla calls as I drag her down the hall, and we hear my mom giggle and say “Vera!” as she shuts the door. “Wow,” Jayla says. “You know they’re probably gonna—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.”

By some miracle, the elevator doors are open as we round the corner, but thanks to these ridiculous shoes, we don’t have a prayer of making it in time . . . which means potentially being trapped on this floor for several more minutes. Several more minutes, during which either one of my parents could decide to run out and change her mind about letting us go alone or making me wear a T-shirt. Somehow I don’t think “pushing the boundaries of my experiences” means going to FabCon prom with my mothers. Again.