Eleven
“You can’t wear jeans to the Four Seasons Dance,” Genevieve insisted as she dragged me into her room Friday afternoon.
“Why not?”
She didn’t bother to respond.
“Not even light blue ones?”
“Not even light blue ones.”
When she had knocked on my door thirty seconds ago and seen me sporting clean versions of what had become my daily uniform, she shook her head and grabbed my hand. I had a feeling things were only going to go downhill from there.
“Are you sure going to a dance is part of cowgirl life?” I asked skeptically.
“It is in Rocky Gulch.” She walked over to her closet and pulled open the door. “I’m thinking something floral in with a lot of green.”
Color and flowers? I suppressed a shudder.
As she slid clothes to the side, I glanced over my shoulder at Eddie. From the b
