In our little Yorkshire village, where gossip travels faster than the postman on his rounds, I thought my prom dreams were well and truly dashed before theyd even begun. But on the morning of the big night, something utterly unexpected rolled up to my front gate.
Im 17, a sixth-former in a place where everyone knows your favourite biscuit and your most embarrassing childhood moment. When I wasnt at school, I worked part-time at Boots to save up for a prom dressonly to find my stepmum had swiped the lot. Just when I thought all hope was lost, a red Land Rover pulled up and changed everything.
Round here, if you so much as sneeze in the Co-op, the entire WI group chat knows before youve blown your nose. The newsagent knows your go-to chocolate bar, and the lollipop lady could probably tell you your predicted A-level grades.
I worked evenings stocking shelves and weekends babysitting the Parker twins, who had a habit of hiding my shoes in the freezer. Every quid, every spare bit of change from customers whod say, “Keep it, love,” went into an old biscuit tin tucked under my bed. That tin wasnt just full of moneyit was full of dreams.
Since Year 10, Id been pinning pictures of prom dressesnothing too flashy, just something elegant, something that made me feel like I belonged in a world where good things actually happened.
My mum, who passed when I was 12, always said, “Lifes too short not to shine a little.” I liked to think shed be watching from somewhere, smiling if I did just that. Ever since, Id been chasing that shine like it was the last train home.
Dad remarried when I was 14, and thats when Deborah waltzed in. She moved like shed been trained by royalty, spoke like she was always right, and smelled of expensive perfume. With her came her daughter, Tabithamy agewho moved in during Year 12.
We werent enemies, but we werent mates either. We coexisted, like two strangers sharing a bus seat in silence.
When prom fever hit, the girls at school formed WhatsApp groups buzzing with dress codes and playlists. Pinterest boards were traded like rare football cards.
Even Deborah got swept up. She stuck a “Prom Planning Board” on the fridge like it was a military operationchecklists for nails, spray tans, shoes, hair trials, even how to pin a buttonhole.
Tabithas name was scrawled in glittery gold. Mine? Nowhere.
I didnt mind. I was saving quietly.
By March, the biscuit tin held £250. Enough for a dress in the sale at Debenhams, sensible heels, and maybe a curling wand if TK Maxx had a deal.
My own checklist was simple:
Dress: under £150
Shoes: Primarks finest
Hair: YouTube tutorial curls
Makeup: Boots foundation and my one decent eyeshadow palette
Buttonhole: for Oliver, my neighbour and prom date
Oliver and I werent dating. Wed just agreed to go together. Hes the sort who brings his spaniel to the park just to make kids smile. Harmless, kind, the kind of bloke youd trust to hold your chips. I liked him.
Then came that Thursday. I walked into the smell of chippy tea and Tabithas giggles. Shoes off, bag dumped, I followed the noise to the kitchen.
Tabitha stood on a chair, twirling in a silver sequinned dress that caught the light like a disco ball. The tag still dangled. On the table lay a garment bag from a posh boutiquethe 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. “Lovely.”
Deborah turned to me, all fake warmth. “And you, darling, can borrow one of my cocktail dresses. Well take it up, jazz it up. Practical, yeah?”
“Ive been saving for my own,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
Deborah blinked, then hit me with 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 heart sank.
“I still want my own dress,” I said.
She waved me off like I was a toddler begging for sweets. “Youll thank me later.”
Upstairs, my chest tightened. I just needed to see my tin, touch it, remind myself it was still there.
But when I reached under my bednothing.
I checked again. Gone.
My hands shook as I tore through the room. Wardrobe? No. Desk? No. Behind the bookshelf? Nothing.
“Dad!” I yelled. “Have you seen my biscuit tin? The blue one?”
He wandered out of the lounge, 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 called, hoping Deborah or Tabitha might answer.
Deborah appeared, smooth as ever. “Oh, that! I meant to tell youI borrowed it.”
I froze. “Borrowed?”
“For the gas bill,” she said breezily. “Your dads bonus hasnt come through. Youll get it back.”
Dad frowned. “How much was in there?”
“Two hundred fifty,” I whispered.
Deborah didnt flinch. “We needed it. Tabithas dress. And really, youre being dramatic. Its just a dress. Besides, youre not goingyour dads away that weekend, so no ones here for photos anyway.”
I clenched my jaw.
Deborah tilted her head. “Youre a clever girl. You understand sacrifices.”
I glanced past her at Tabitha, still spinning, sequins flashing. From Deborahs handbag peeked a receipt: £400.
“You used my money for Tabithas dress?”
Deborahs smile stiffened. “Its family money. We share. Youll thank me in ten years when youre not drowning in debt.”
Dad rubbed his temples. “Well sort it,” he mumbled.
“When?” I asked. “Proms in a week.”
“Well talk,” he said. Dad-code for nothing changing.
That night, I cried into my pillow. Not about the dress, but about the shine I thought Id lost.
Later, Oliver 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, tacking on a shrug emoji to keep it light.
He answered: Ah, rubbish. If you change your mind, Im still your date.
The week dragged. Girls swapped nail salon recommendations like trading cards. Tabitha floated through school in a bubble of excitement. Deborah buzzed about tanning appointments.
I stacked shampoo bottles 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. Done with it.”
Deborah nodded, smug. “Sensible.”
Prom morning, sunlight woke me. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the dance happening without melike a party Id been uninvited to.
Thenhonk!
Not a polite beep. A proper, cheerful blare.
I peeked out. A red Land Rover. A woman stepped outbraided hair, sunglasses, jeans.
Auntie Meg.
“Get dressed!” she called, grinning up. “Weve got places to be!”
Megs my mums little sister. She smells like vanilla and freshly cut grass. We mostly text on birthdays, never about prom.
Half in pyjamas, I dashed downstairs. “What are you doing here?”
She grinned. “Heard someone needed rescuing.”
“Meg, you didnt have to”
She flung the car door open. “Tell me off later. Three stops: coffee, magic, payback. Move it.”
Stop one: a café in the retail park. She handed me a cup. “Decaf latte. Your mum pretended she liked black coffee, but she didnt. Said decaf made her feel fancy. No idea why.”
My throat tightened. “How did you?”
She shrugged. “Your dad rang me last night. Sent a pic of you on the sofa looking like Christmas was cancelled. I asked questions. He answered some. I asked better ones. He spilled the lot.”
My eyes stung. “He shouldnt have”
“He shouldve,” she said firmly. “Months ago.”
Stop two: Mrs. Patels alterations shop. The bell jingled. She peered over her glasses. “This the lass?”
“This is her,” Meg said.
In the back stood a mannequin in soft blue chiffon, tiny flowers at the waist. It wasnt loud. It was perfect.
