**Diary Entry June 12th**
In our little Yorkshire village, where gossip travels faster than the postman, I thought my prom night was over before it began. But on the morning of the dance, something unexpected turned up on my driveway.
Im 17, a sixth-form student in a place where everyone knows your favourite biscuit and your most embarrassing crush. When I wasnt in class, I worked part-time to save for a prom dressonly to find my stepmother had taken the money. Just when Id given up, a red Land Rover pulled up and changed everything.
Round here, you cant so much as buy a pasty at Greggs without the whole Womens Institute knowing by teatime. The Boots cashier remembers your go-to lip balm, and the lollipop lady could probably recite your A-level predictions.
I worked evenings at the local chemist, stacking shelves and helping the spectacled pharmacist find his misplaced reading glasses. Weekends, I babysat the Cooper twins down the lane.
Every pound coin, every bit of spare change from customers who said, Keep it, love, went into an old biscuit tin tucked under my bed. That tin wasnt just full of moneyit held my dream.
Since Year 10, Id pictured my prom dress while scrolling through Pinterest, saving images of satin and lace. Nothing flashy, just something simple and lovelysomething that made me feel like I belonged in a world where good things could happen.
Mum, who passed when I was 12, used to say, Lifes too short not to shine. I liked to think shed be watching, smiling, if I wore something that sparkled. Ever since, Id chased that feeling like it was the last train home.
Dad remarried when I was 14, and thats when Margot arrived. She carried herself like shed stepped out of a Boden catalogue, all crisp vowels and knowing smiles. With her came her daughter, Poppymy agewho moved in during Year 12.
We werent enemies, but we werent mates either. More like strangers sharing the same bus route, heading opposite ways.
When spring rolled in, so did prom fever. Girls at school started WhatsApp groups about dresses and playlists. Pinterest boards were passed around like treasure maps.
Even Margot got swept up. She stuck a Prom Planner on the fridge like it was a GCSE revision timetable, filled with checklists: venue, nails, tanning appointments, shoes, hair trials.
Poppys name was scribbled in glitter gel pen. Mine? Nowhere.
I didnt mind. I was saving quietly.
By March, the biscuit tin held £250. Enough for a dress from New Look, a pair of heels from Primark, and maybe a curling wand if there was a sale.
On my phone, my own checklist waited:
Dress: under £150
Shoes: secondhand if needed
Hair: DIY curls from a YouTube tutorial
Makeup: drugstore foundation and my one decent eyeshadow palette
Buttonhole: for James, my neighbour and prom date
James and I werent a couple. Wed just agreed to go together. Hes the sort who brings his spaniel to the park just to make kids smile. Decent, funny, kind. I liked him.
Then came that Thursday. I walked in to the smell of fish and chips and Poppys giggling. Shoes off, bag dropped, I followed the noise to the kitchen.
Poppy stood on a stool, twirling in a sequinned silver dress that caught the light like frost. The price tag dangled from the sleeve. On the table lay a garment bag from a boutique Id seen on Instagramthe sort of place where they offer you a cuppa while you browse.
Dyou like it? she asked, spinning. Mum said every girl deserves her dream dress.
I forced a smile. Lovely.
Margot turned to me, all false warmth. And you, darling, can borrow one of my cocktail dresses. We can take it up, jazz it up. Practical, yeah?
Ive been saving for my own, I said, raising a brow.
Margot blinked, then gave me a pitying smile that made my stomach twist. Oh, pet. I thought you were saving for uni. Proms just one night. Degrees last forever.
My chest tightened.
I still want to pick my own dress, I said.
She waved me off like I was a toddler begging for sweets. Youll thank me later.
Upstairs, my hands shook as I reached under the bednothing.
I tore through the room. Wardrobe? No. Desk? No. Behind the books? Gone.
Dad! I called. Have you seen my biscuit tin? The blue one?
He emerged from the living room, tie loose, looking knackered. What tin?
The one under my bed, I said, voice rising. It had all my savings.
Anyone seen her tin? I shouted, hoping Margot or Poppy might answer.
Margot appeared, smooth as ever. Oh, that! I meant to tell youI borrowed it earlier.
I froze. Borrowed?
For the gas bill, she said smoothly. We were short. Your dads commission hasnt come in yet. Youll get it back.
Dad frowned. How much was in there?
Two hundred fifty, I whispered.
Margot didnt flinch. We needed it. We bought Poppys dress. And really, youre being dramatic. Its just a silly dance. Besides, your dads away that weekend, so whod take your pictures?
I clenched my jaw.
Margot tilted her head. Youre a clever girl. You understand sacrifice.
I glanced past her at Poppy, still spinning in the hall, sequins scattering light. From Margots handbag peeked a receipt: £420.
You used my money for Poppys dress?
Margots smile stiffened. Its family money. We share in this house. 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 changing.
That night, I cried into my pillow. Not about the dress, but the sparkle I thought Id lost.
Later, James texted: *Got our tickets.*
I stared at it before replying: *Think Im skipping.*
When he asked why, I said it was money and family stuff, adding a shrug emoji to keep it light.
He answered: *Ah, sorry. If you change your mind, Im still your date.*
The week dragged. Girls swapped nail salon recommendations like golden tickets. Poppy floated through school in a bubble of anticipation. Margot buzzed about spray tans and eyelash appointments.
I stocked shelves and pretended prom was a film I hadnt been cast in. The night before, I told Dad, Im not going.
Sure, love? he asked.
Yeah. Im done.
Margot nodded, satisfied. Sensible.
Prom morning, sunlight woke me. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the dance happening without melike a fireworks display Id chosen to miss.
Then*honk!*
Not a quick beep. A proper, cheerful honk.
I peered outside. A red Land Rover. A woman stepped outbraided hair, sunglasses, wellies.
Auntie Claire.
Get dressed! she called, grinning up at me. Weve got places to be!
Claire is Mums little sister. She smells like vanilla and garden soil. We mostly text on birthdays, never about prom.
Half in pyjamas, I rushed downstairs. What are you doing here?
She grinned. Heard someone needed rescuing.
Auntie Claire, you didnt have to
She flung the car door open. You can moan at me later. Right now, three stops: coffee, magic, payback. Move it.
Stop one: a café in the high street. She handed me a mug. Earl Grey, dash of milk. Your mum always pretended she liked it black, but she didnt. Said a splash of milk made it proper.
My throat tightened. How did you?
She shrugged. Your dad rang 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.
Stop two: Mrs. Patels alterations shop. The bell chimed. She peered over her glasses. This her?
This is the lass, Claire said.
In the back hung a mannequin in soft peach chiffon, tiny pearls at the waist. It didnt shout.
