The yellow flyer lay on the oilcloth table right next to my toast, its bright paper reflecting the morning sun. Iris leaned over the back of my chair, her breath smelling of peppermint toothpaste.
The flyer was for the Millfield High School senior prom, scheduled for the third Saturday in May.
“Everyone is going to the country club this year, Mom,” Iris said, her voice rising at the end of the sentence like a question.
She twirled a strand of her dark hair around her index finger, wrapping it tight until her fingertip turned white.
“The tickets are forty dollars each,” I said.
I slid my thumb over the gold wedding band I wore on my right pinky finger, turning the worn metal twice.
“They have a chocolate fountain, and the committee hired a real photographer from Columbus,” she said, her words crowding together in a rush.
The old Kenmore refrigerator gave a heavy shudder, its motor clattering to a halt in the corner of our small kitchen.
I looked down at the flyer, noting the date.
“Forty dollars is just the start of it,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“We can find a dress at the consignment shop in Oakhaven,” she said.
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