I was 18, but in that moment, I felt 11 again, standing in a hallway hearing, "She's the janitor's daughter… he washes our toilets!" I wanted nothing more than to disappear into the wall.
A seat waited near the edge of the room. I sat down, laced my fingers together in my lap, and breathed slow and even, because falling apart in front of them was the one thing I refused to give them.
Someone in the crowd shouted again, loud enough to carry over the music, that my dress was "disgusting."
I wanted nothing more than to disappear into the wall.
The sound of it hit me somewhere deep. My eyes filled before I could stop them.
I was close to the edge of what I could hold when the music cut off. The DJ looked up, confused, and then stepped back from the booth.
Our principal, Mr. Bradley, was standing in the center of the room with the microphone in his hand.
"Before we continue the celebration," he announced, "there's something important I need to say."
Every face in the room turned toward him. And every person who had been laughing two minutes ago went completely still.
Every face in the room turned toward him.
Mr. Bradley looked out across the prom floor before he spoke. The room remained completely quiet; no music, no whispers, just the specific silence of a crowd waiting.
"I want to take a minute," he continued, "to tell you something about this dress that Nicole's wearing today."
