Lorraine stood near the drink table in a shimmery champagne gown that probably cost more than our rent.
Then I heard her voice.
Her friends turned in slow motion, like a pack of birds spotting something small. They looked at my dress and started laughing.
The same girls who’d always mocked me at school because of my clothes couldn’t help themselves.
“Oh, look, the local frog finally found a dress that matches her!” one commented.
Someone giggled behind a manicured hand.
Her friends turned in slow motion.
Another girl tilted her head and squinted at my seams.
“That’s obviously a rag. Did you sew it in shop class?”
“Look at those stitches. It’s literally homemade!”
I couldn’t feel my hands.
I couldn’t feel anything except the ache behind my eyes and the thought of Grandpa’s fingers guiding a thread through fabric.
