Two nights later, Noah came into my room carrying a stack of old jeans.

Mom’s jeans.

Noah set them on my bed and said, “Do you trust me?”

“With this?”

Advertisement
I looked at the jeans. Then at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I took sewing last year, remember?”

“And you can make a dress?”

We worked when Carla went out or locked herself in her room.

Noah met my eyes. “I can try.” He panicked instantly. “I mean, if you hate the idea, that’s fine. I just thought—”

I grabbed his wrist. “No. I love the idea.”

We worked when Carla went out or locked herself in her room. Noah dragged Mom’s old sewing machine out from the laundry closet and set it up on the kitchen table.

Advertisement
I said, “Bossy.”

The next morning, Carla saw it hanging on my door.

It felt like Mom was in the room with us. In the fabric. In the way Noah handled it so carefully.

The dress was fitted through the waist and flowed at the bottom in panels of different blues. He had used seams and pockets and faded pieces in ways I never would have imagined. It looked intentional. Sharp. Real.

I touched one panel and whispered, “You made this.” I went to bed incredibly proud of myself that night.

Advertisement
***

The next morning, Carla saw it hanging on my door.

She stopped. Then she walked closer.

“Please tell me you are not serious.”

Then she burst out laughing.

“What is that?”

I stepped into the hallway. “My prom dress.”

She laughed harder. “That patchwork mess?”

Advertisement
Noah came out of his room immediately.

Carla looked between us and said, “Please tell me you are not serious.”

Noah’s face went red.

I said, “I’m wearing it.”

She put a hand over her chest like I had wounded her. “If you wear that, the whole school will laugh at you.”

Noah went stiff beside me.

I said, “It’s fine.”

Advertisement
“No, actually, it’s not fine.” Carla waved at the dress. “It looks pathetic.”

Noah’s face went red. “I made it.”

She looked delighted that I had spoken back.

Carla turned to him. “You made it?”

He lifted his chin. “Yeah.”

She smiled the way people do when they want to hurt you slowly. “That explains a lot.”

I took one step forward. “Enough.”

Advertisement
Carla looked delighted that I had spoken back. “Oh, this should be fun. You’re going to show up to prom in a dress made out of old jeans like some kind of charity project, and you think people are going to clap?”

Noah helped zip the back. His hands were shaking.

part2