“It’s fine,” I said quietly.
“No, actually, it isn’t.” She waved at the dress. “It looks pathetic.”
Noah’s face turned bright red. “I made it.”
That seemed to please her even more.
“You made it?” she asked sweetly. “That explains a lot.”
I took a step forward. “Enough.”
She ignored me.
“Oh, this should be fun,” she said. “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?”
I looked at her and said, very quietly, “I’d rather wear something made with love than something bought by stealing from kids.”
The hallway went silent.
Her face changed.
“Get out of my sight,” she said, “before I really say what I think.”
I wore the dress anyway.
Noah helped zip me into it that night, his hands shaking the whole time.
I turned to look at him.
“Hey,” I said.
