One Saturday afternoon, I was hunched over my desk, thread in my mouth and Dad’s jacket spread out in front of me, when my door flew open.
Jen barged in without so much as a knock, arms overflowing with pastel dresses and tangled straps.
I startled, yanking the blanket over my project so fast I nearly sent the sewing box flying.
“Careful, Jen!”
She cocked an eyebrow, peering at the lumpy shape beneath the blanket. “What are you hiding, Cinderella?” Her lips curled in a smirk as she dropped the armful of dresses right onto my feet.
“What are you hiding, Cinderella?”
“Nothing,” I said, forcing a yawn and glancing at my open math book. “Just homework.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. Whatever.” She dug out a wrinkled mint dress and shoved it at me. “Lia needs this steamed by tonight. And don’t burn anything, she’ll freak.”
“Got it.”
Jen’s gaze lingered on the covered project, but then she shrugged and left. When her footsteps faded, I pulled back the blanket and smiled at the stitches. Dad would’ve called it “stealth sewing.”
“Lia needs this steamed by tonight.”
***
Three nights before prom, I stuck myself with the needle again, hard. A bead of blood welled up on my finger, staining the inside hem.
For a moment, staring at the crooked seams, I thought about giving up.
But I didn’t.
When I slipped the finished dress on and faced the mirror, I didn’t see a maid or a shadow.
I saw my dad’s jacket, my stitches, my story.
