**Diary Entry June 5th**
In our little Yorkshire village, where gossip spreads faster than a Sunday roast burns, I thought my prom dreams had been snatched away before they could even begin. But on the morning of the big night, something entirely unexpected pulled up outside my house.
Im 17, a sixth-former in a place where everyone knows your favourite biscuit and your most embarrassing childhood memory. When I wasnt at school, I worked part-time at Boots to save for a prom dressonly to find out my stepmum had taken the money. Just when I thought it was over, a red Land Rover arrived and changed everything.
Here, you cant so much as buy a pasty at Greggs without the whole village knowing by teatime. The shopkeeper remembers your preferred brand of tea, and the lollipop lady could probably recite your GCSE results.
I worked evenings at Boots, stacking shelves and covering shifts whenever the manager misplaced his reading glasses. On weekends, I babysat for the Harrisons down the lane.
Every pound, every bit of change from customers who said, Keep it, love, went into an old biscuit tin tucked under my bed. That tin wasnt just moneyit was my dream.
Since Year 10, Id pictured my prom dress while scrolling through Pinterest, saving images of satin and lace. I didnt need something extravagantjust something simple and magical, something that made me feel like I belonged in a world where good things happened.
Mum, who passed when I was 12, always said, Life should have a bit of sparkle. I liked to think shed be watching from somewhere, pleased to see me in something that shimmered. Ever since, Ive chased that sparkle like it was the last train home.
Dad remarried when I was 14, and thats when Margaret came into the picture. She carried herself like a woman whod never owned a pair of wellies, with perfect posture and a voice that always sounded like she was correcting someone. Along with her came Chloe, her daughtermy agewho moved in during Year 12.
We werent enemies, but we werent mates either. We existed side by side, like two strangers waiting for the same delayed train.
When spring arrived, so did prom fever. Girls at school formed WhatsApp groups about dresses and playlists. Pinterest boards were shared like treasure maps.
Even Margaret caught the excitement. She stuck a Prom Planner on the fridge like it was some grand project. It was filled with lists: venue, nails, spray tans, shoes, hair trials, corsages.
Chloes name was written in glittery gold pen, circled like a headline. Mine? Nowhere.
I didnt care. I was saving quietly.
By April, the biscuit tin held £240. I counted it twice that morning. Enough 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 list waited:
Dress: under £150
Shoes: maybe from TK Maxx
Hair: DIY curls from YouTube
Makeup: Boots foundation and my one decent 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. Harmless, funny, kind. I liked him.
Then came that Thursday. I opened the door to the smell of fish and chips and Chloes high-pitched giggle. Shoes off, bag down, I followed the noise to the kitchen.
Chloe stood on a stool, twirling in a sequinned silver dress that caught the light like frost. The price tag dangled from her wrist. On the table lay a garment bag from a boutique Id seen on Instagramthe kind where they offer you prosecco while you browse.
Do you like it? she asked, spinning. Mum said every girl deserves her dream dress.
I forced a smile. Its lovely.
Margaret turned to me, her expression bright. And you, darling, can borrow one of my cocktail dresses. We can hem it, jazz it up. Practical, isnt it?
Ive been saving for my own, I said, raising my eyebrows.
Margaret blinked, then gave me a pitying smile that made my stomach twist. Oh, sweetheart. I assumed you were saving for uni. Prom is just one night. Degrees last forever.
My heart sank.
I steadied myself. I still want to choose my own dress.
She waved me off like I was a child begging for more sweets. Youll thank me later.
Upstairs, my chest tightened. I just needed to see my tin, hold it, remind myself it was still there.
But when I reached under my bednothing.
I checked again. Still nothing.
My hands shook as I tore through the room. Wardrobe? No. Desk? No. Behind the bookshelf? Gone.
Dad! I called. Have you seen my biscuit tin? The blue one?
He appeared from the living room, tie loose, looking tired. What tin?
The one under my bed, I said, my voice rising. It had all my savings.
Anyone seen her tin? I shouted, hoping Margaret or Chloe might answer.
Margaret 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 in yet. Youll get it back.
Dad frowned. How much was in there?
Two hundred and forty, I whispered.
Margaret didnt flinch. We needed it. We bought Chloes dress. And really, youre being dramatic. You dont need a fancy dress. Besides, youre not going to promyour dads away that weekend, so thered be no one here for photos anyway.
I clenched my jaw.
Margaret tilted her head. Youre a clever girl. You understand sacrifices.
I glanced past her at Chloe, still spinning in the hall, sequins flashing. From Margarets handbag poked a receipt: £375.
You used my money for Chloes dress?
Margarets smile hardened. 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, the weight of it pressing on him. Well sort it, he muttered.
When? I asked. Proms in a week.
Well talk, he said. Dad-code for nothing happening.
That night, I cried into my pillow. Not over fabric, but over the sparkle I thought Id lost.
Later, James texted: Got our tickets.
I stared at it before replying: Think Im gonna skip.
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 gold dust. Chloe floated through school in a bubble of excitement. Margaret buzzed about tanning appointments and lash lifts.
I stocked shelves and pretended prom was a film I hadnt been cast in. The night before, I told Dad, Im not going.
You sure, love? he asked.
Yeah. Im done.
Margaret nodded, satisfied. Sensible.
Prom morning, sunlight woke me. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of prom happening without melike a fireworks display Id chosen to miss.
Thenhonk!
Not a quick beep. A proper, cheerful honk.
I peeked outside. A red Land Rover. A woman stepped outbraided hair, sunglasses, wellies.
It was Auntie Grace.
Get dressed! she called, grinning up at me. Weve got places to be!
Grace is Mums younger sister. She smells like lavender and rain. 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 Grace, you didnt have to
She opened the car door. You can scold me later. Right now, three stops: coffee, magic, and payback. Lets go.
Stop one: a café on the high street. She handed me a cup. Decaf latte. Your mum always pretended she liked black coffee, but she didnt. Said decaf made her feel fancy. Dont ask me why.
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 had been cancelled. I asked questions. He answered some. I asked better questions. He answered the rest.
My eyes burned. He shouldnt have
He should
