**Diary Entry 14th June**
In our little Yorkshire village, where gossip travels faster than the post, I was sure my prom dreams had been crushed before theyd even begun. But on the morning of the big night, something utterly unexpected pulled up my driveway.
At seventeen, Im a sixth-former in a place where everyone knows your favourite biscuit and your last heartbreak. When I wasnt at school, I worked evenings to save for a prom dressonly to discover my stepmum had taken the money. Just when I thought it was hopeless, a red Land Rover arrived and changed everything.
Here, you cant so much as drop a pound coin at Tesco without the whole WI hearing about it. The Boots cashier knows which sweets you buy, and the lollipop lady could probably recite your predicted grades.
I worked shifts at Boots, stacking shelves and helping the elderly pharmacist whenever he misplaced his reading glasses. Weekends were for babysitting.
Every pound coin, every bit of loose change from customers whod say, Keep it, love, went into an old red biscuit tin under my bed. That tin wasnt just savingsit was hope.
Since Year 10, Id imagined my prom dress, scrolling through Instagram, saving pictures of satin and lace. I didnt need anything extravagantjust something simple and lovely, something to make me feel like I belonged in a world where good things could happen.
Mum, who passed when I was twelve, always said, I want your life to have a bit of magic. I liked to think shed be watching from somewhere, smiling if she saw me in something beautiful. Since then, Ive chased that magic like it was the last train home.
Dad remarried when I was fourteen, and thats when Elaine came into the picture. She carried herself like shed stepped out of a magazineperfectly coiffed, always smelling of expensive perfume, with a tone that suggested she knew best. Along with her came her daughter, Gemmamy agewho moved in during Year 12.
We werent enemies, but we werent exactly friends either. We existed side by side, like two people waiting for different buses.
When prom season arrived, so did the frenzy. Girls at school created group chats about dress colours and Spotify playlists. Pinterest boards were shared like secret maps.
Even Elaine caught the excitement. She stuck a Prom Planning Board on the fridge like it was some grand project, filled with lists: venue, nails, spray tans, shoes, hair trials, corsage etiquette.
Gemmas name was written in glittery purple, underlined in gel pen. Mine? Nowhere.
I didnt mind. I was saving quietly.
By March, the biscuit tin held £250. I counted it twice that morningenough for a sale dress at Debenhams, a pair of sensible heels, and maybe a curling wand if I found a deal.
On my phone, my own checklist waited:
Dress: under £150
Shoes: maybe from TK Maxx
Hair: DIY curls from YouTube
Makeup: high-street foundation and my one decent palette
Boutonnière: for James, my neighbour and prom date
James and I werent togetherwed just agreed to go as friends. Hes the sort who brings his spaniel to the high street just to make kids smile. Kind, funny, harmless. I liked him.
Then came that Thursday. I opened the door to the smell of fish and chips and Gemmas laughter. I kicked off my shoes, dropped my bag, and followed the noise to the kitchen.
Gemma stood on a chair, spinning in a silver-sequinned dress that shimmered like frost. The price tag dangled from her wrist. On the table lay a garment bag from a boutique I recognised from Instagramthe kind of place where they offer you tea while you browse.
What dyou think? she asked, twirling. Mum said every girl deserves her dream dress.
I forced a smile. Its gorgeous.
Elaine turned to me, all warmth. And you, love, can borrow one of my old cocktail dresses. Well hem it, jazz it up. Practical, yeah?
Ive been saving for my own, I said, raising an eyebrow.
Elaine blinked, then gave me a pitying smile that made my stomach twist. Oh, darling. I thought you were saving for uni. Proms just one night. Unis forever.
My heart sank.
I steadied myself. I still want to pick my own dress.
She waved me off like I was begging for an extra pudding. Youll thank me later.
Upstairs, my chest tightened. I just needed to see the tin, touch it, remind myself it was still there.
But when I reached under my bednothing.
I checked again. Still nothing.
My hands shook as I searched my room. Wardrobe? No. Desk? No. Behind the bookshelf? Gone.
Dad! I called. Have you seen my biscuit tin? The red one?
He stepped out of the living room, looking tired, tie loose. What tin?
The one under my bed, I said, my voice rising as I hurried downstairs. It had all my money.
Anyone seen her red tin? I shouted, hoping Elaine or Gemma might answer.
Elaine appeared, as if on cue. Oh, that! I meant to tell youI borrowed it earlier.
I froze. Borrowed?
For the gas bill, she said smoothly. We were short this month. Your dads bonus hasnt come through. Youll get it back.
Dad frowned. How much was in there?
Two hundred fifty, I whispered.
Elaine didnt flinch. We needed it. We got Gemmas dress. And honestly, youre being dramatic. You dont need a fancy dress. Besides, youre not goingyour dads away that weekend, so thered be no one here for pictures anyway.
I clenched my jaw.
Elaine tilted her head. Youre a clever girl. You understand sacrifice.
I glanced past her at Gemma, still spinning in the hall, sequins catching the light. From Elaines bag peeked a receipt: £380.
You used my money for Gemmas dress?
Elaines smile stiffened. Its family money. We share. Youll thank me in ten years when youre not drowning in student debt.
Dad rubbed his temples. Well sort it, he muttered.
When? I asked. Proms in nine days.
Well talk, he said. Dad-code for nothing happening.
That night, I cried into my pillow. Not over fabric, but over the magic I thought Id lost.
Later, James texted: Got our tickets.
I stared at my phone before replying: Think Im skipping.
He asked why, and I said it was money and family stuff, adding a shrug emoji to keep it light.
He replied: Shame. If you change your mind, Im still your date.
The week dragged. Girls swapped nail salon recommendations like golden tickets. Gemma floated through school, buzzing with excitement. Elaine fussed over spray tans and eyelash appointments.
I stocked shelves and pretended prom was just a film I wasnt in. The night before, I told Dad, Im not going.
Sure, love? he asked.
Yeah. Im done.
Elaine nodded, satisfied. Sensible.
Prom morning, sunlight woke me. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining the night happening without melike a fireworks display Id decided to miss.
Thenhonk!
Not a quick beep. A proper, joyful honk.
I peeked out. A red Land Rover. A woman stepped outplaited hair, sunglasses, wellies.
It was Auntie Liz.
Get dressed! she called, grinning up at me. Weve got places to be!
Liz is Mums younger sister. She smells like vanilla and fresh-cut grass. We mostly text on birthdays, never about prom.
Half in pyjamas, I hurried downstairs. What are you doing here?
She grinned. Heard someone needed rescuing.
Auntie Liz, you didnt have to
She opened the car door. Tell me off later. Right now, three stops: coffee, magic, payback. Move it.
Stop one: a café on the high street. She handed me a cup. Decaf latte. Your mum pretended she liked black coffee, but she didnt. Said decaf made her feel posh. Dont ask.
My throat tightened. How did you?
She shrugged. Your dad texted me last night. Sent a photo of you on the sofa looking like Christmas was cancelled. I asked questions. He answered some. I asked better questions. He answered the rest.
My eyes burned. He shouldnt have
He shouldve, she said firmly. Months ago
