What I like about the formals most is looking for new dresses. That search for the perfect one. I like scouring through celebrity gossip magazines and blogs and taking cues from what the stars are wearing to premieres and award ceremonies. Of course no way can I shell out for Vera Wang or Oscar de la Renta or Chanel, but I’ve learned that if you look hard enough you can find cheaper alternatives. I sort of have this dream of one day writing for one of those magazines, being the person who critiques celebrity fashion; Mrs. Finch even let me publish a few Fashion Dos and Don’ts columns in the Grand Lake High Gazette. I’ve never told anyone about that career goal, though, not even Kristen—she got all pissed when I wrote about frosted lipstick being a fashion “Don’t,” since she loves it, and then told me someone who wears gold shimmery eye shadow isn’t one to talk. I still don’t understand what’s so wrong with gold eye shadow, but I threw it out anyway.
By the time I get home from school, all I want to do is zone out, so I go upstairs and sit in the middle of my bed with my laptop, opening all of the celebrity blogs I read religiously. I scroll through a set of photos of Kate Hudson wearing this dress that reminds me a little of the one I bought for this year’s Homecoming, a low-cut silver number plated with tiny glittery sequins. It was flashy and over-the-top and made me look not unlike a disco ball, but it was the kind of dress you wear to have fun in, to stand out, to say, hey, take a look at me, and people did.
Of course, it was effectively ruined when we went to Kristen’s after and Joey pushed me into her dirty swimming pool. Ass.
For the Winter Formal, I’d go with something less outlandish and more elegant. Probably a solid dark color, with maybe a few rhinestones on the collar, or sequins down by the hem, but nothing extreme. Something classic.
If I was going, that is. Which I’m not. Obviously. I don’t have a death wish.
I’m just about done reading the comments section when I notice one new email sitting in my in-box. I switch to the window, fully expecting a piece of spam touting penis enlargements or Russian mail-order brides, and instead see a message from Kristen waiting for me. My heart picks up speed in my chest like I just downed a shot of Red Bull. Could it be? Is she reaching out to me to make an apology, or an offer of amends? There’s no subject line to tip me off on what it could possibly say, so I hold my breath and click on it.