“Mom, come quick! Something’s happened to Ada!” Abby yells after she and Mom come into our room later.

I’m standing in front of the mirror, wearing a new dress. This afternoon, just as I was ascending the stairs from the spa, buffed and polished and primed and filled to the brim with the cucumber-infused water they serve there, something in a store window caught my eye: a dress, floor length and black, with three red, pink, and orange tropical flowers printed on the front.

It’s strapless, held up by elastic stitching all around the bodice. I’ve never worn a strapless dress before. I’ve been too self-conscious of my cavewoman shoulders. But this is pretty. Simple. Elegant. It’s formal, but not too formal. The tag says one size fits all, and it does. It fits like it was made for me. I finger the light cotton fabric. It feels like wearing a cloud.

I already had a dress for the awards ceremony. Ruthie picked it out for me: navy blue, short sleeved and knee-length, with a V-neck. It would have been fine for the stupid dinner and schmoozing.

But this dress—this flower dress—is special.

So I bought it. The ridiculous one hundred and fifty dollars of it. And, like with the spa treatments, I charged it to the room.

Now I’m standing in front of the mirror, assessing the new dress, loving how it clings and flows in all the right places. I’ve got a new pair of fancy black flip-flops on my feet, my toes painted a saucy red, a new shell bracelet around my right wrist, French-manicured nails, and earrings of tiny white hibiscus flowers.

But Abby’s talking about my hair. It’s glorious, shiny and smooth, cut to just below my shoulders and blown straight, then curled again into soft, beachy waves. It’s easily the best my hair has ever looked. Ever.

I’m wearing makeup, too. Eye shadow and blush and lip liner.

“Ada, you’re a princess!” Abby exclaims.

I do kind of feel like one. Part of me feels silly, like I’m trying to act out the make-over scene in a romantic comedy and now I expect everyone to find me suddenly, irresistibly gorgeous, and I know I’m not. A nice dress and good hair and makeup can only get me so far.

But I do look good. I feel good, too. Like I am taking charge of my life.

Mom comes into my room to see what all the fuss is about. “Well,” she says softly. “Don’t you look grown up?”

“That’s what I was going for.”