I thought the hardest part of surviving the fire was learning to live with the scars it left behind. But after one night at prom, everything that I thought I knew about my past changed.
I was nine when the fire happened.
I woke up coughing, surrounded by smoke so thick I couldn’t see my bedroom door. Somewhere upstairs, my mom was screaming my name. By the time firefighters got us out, the kitchen had been destroyed, and parts of my face, neck, and arm were burned badly enough to leave scars that never fully faded.
Over the years, you get used to your reflection in the mirror.
I woke up coughing.
The harder part was growing up with people staring at me all the time. Nobody at school openly said cruel things, but I always noticed the looks, whispers, and questions. It hurt.
But by my senior year, I’d gotten good at acting as if it didn’t bother me.
So when prom came around, I told my mom I didn’t want to go.
“You can’t hide forever, Cindy,” she said. “One bad thing already changed your life once. Don’t let it keep deciding things for you. Prom happens once in a lifetime.”
Eventually, she wore me down.
I’d gotten good at acting as if it didn’t bother me.
We bought a dress, curled my hair, and I spent an hour doing makeup that mostly covered the scars on my neck.
But the second I walked into prom, I regretted attending.
The gym looked beautiful. Lights hung from the ceiling, and music blasted through the speakers. But all my classmates were taking photos, dancing, and laughing without me, as if I didn’t exist.
I stood alone near the drinks table, pretending to text people who weren’t texting me.
After almost an hour, I was ready to leave.
Then Caleb walked over.
I regretted attending.
Everybody knew Caleb. He was in my class: popular, tall, handsome, and the football captain. The kind of guy girls whispered about constantly, which made it even stranger when he stopped in front of me, looking nervous.
Then he held out his hand and asked, “Would you please dance with me?”
I honestly thought he was joking, but he wasn’t.
