Behind me, silver streamers shimmered beneath the gymnasium lights. Teenagers in tuxedos and glittering dresses stood frozen near their tables. Parents stared openly. Teachers exchanged uneasy glances.
And there I was—
A seventy-year-old woman standing in the middle of prom wearing a dead girl’s dress.
My granddaughter’s dress.
I could barely breathe.
The note shook violently between my fingers.
“Mrs. Patterson…” the principal whispered carefully beside me, “perhaps this isn’t the right—”
“No.”
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