“Cut” actually wasn’t a strong enough word. It was short. Very short. Pixie short. Over the month that I had spent as her, her roots had grown devastatingly out of control. So, she cut her hair to the roots. Every strand of blue was gone. Her hair clung to the curve of her head, in delicate sweeping tufts, highlighting the gentle softness of her face.

I felt bad. After all the extravagant hard work Wynonna and Imogen had put into themselves, Holden and I were left staring at the top of Wynonna’s head. It was unfair. It was also impossible to do anything else.

Wynonna shuffled awkwardly. Self-consciously. “Do you hate it?”

“What?” said Holden, snapping out of his trance. “No! It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

I just nodded my head, stupidly. Quickly turned my attention to Imogen.

“You look amazing, too,” I said. “I especially like the… um…” I absorbed her in one stifled breath. “Really, the whole thing is kind of perfect.”

Imogen lifted her shoulders bashfully, her long fingers interlocked, her arms twisting together. “You look pretty snazzy yourself.”

Suddenly, Wynonna took two steps forward, intercepting the space between Holden and me—completely moved on from awkward prom greetings. “Is that a limo?”

“Whaaaaaat?” said Imogen. She also wedged herself between Holden and me. “A freaking limousine?”

Holden and I exchanged a look. If looks could scream in falsetto, that would be the look we exchanged. But we kept our cool.

“Yup,” I said.

“Pretty sweet, huh?” said Holden. He pretended to be bored.

Wynonna and Imogen screamed at each other, then they screamed at us—at which point, Holden and I could hold it in no longer, and we screamed, too. We all ran to the limo screaming. The driver—a dapper gentleman who belonged in a ’90s British sitcom—looked mildly alarmed.

But only mildly.

We piled inside. The interior was all plush white leather upholstery. The seating wrapped around one side of the limo, while the other side was a fully functional bar.

Well, almost fully functional. There was no actual alcohol. (Holden and I checked.)

“Where to?” said the driver in a disappointingly non-British accent.

“To the prom!” Imogen exclaimed, giddy on limousine vibes. “And step on it!”

“One prom coming right up.”

“Wow,” said Holden. “I feel like I’m in Frozen.”

The Activities Committee didn’t take their prom themes lightly. They Winter Wonderlanded the shit outta the place. Blue-tinted lights cast the gymnasium in an azure glow. Icicle lights were strung across the ceiling, filling an artificial sky with constellations. Fake, white, leafless trees lined the walls like ghostly forest sentries. An aurora borealis of sheer streamers flowed over our heads—blues and greens and purples. There were clusters of balloons, a range of every arctic hue between blue and white. White chairs with white tablecloths.

And fake snow.

Lots of fake snow. The floor was dusted in gallons of it.