STELLA
Prom is supposed to be the night you remember forever, not me, I'm already counting down the hours before I can forget it.
Marina doesn’t get that though.
She’s been fluttering around my room since I put the dress on, adjusting straps that don’t need adjusting, reapplying lipstick I didn’t ask for, and making these little squeaky noises like I’m about to accept an Oscar instead of attending a glorified school dance.
“It’s your big night, Stellochka,” she keeps saying, smoothing my curls over my shoulder like she’s arranging me for a magazine cover.
I nod, because it’s easier than explaining that I don’t feel anything big-nighty. Not excitement, not nerves either. Just the faint twitchiness, that tells me I'm still being watched, even here.
The dress is right. Red silk –that
