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.
“Oakhaven is twenty miles away, Iris.”
“But they have the good ones, Mom, the ones girls only wear once.”
She stopped spinning her hair and pressed her palms flat against the laminate tabletop.
“Who is asking you?” I asked.
She looked toward the window, her gaze fixing on the gravel driveway where our rusty Buick sat.
“His name is Ryan,” she said, her voice lifting on the name.
The name did not sound familiar, but a cold prickle of heat started at the back of my neck.
“Is he in your English class?” I asked.
“He just moved here last semester from the county line,” she said.
I stood up to clear the butter plate, wanting an excuse to turn my back on her wide, hopeful eyes.
“We will have to see about the budget,” I said.
“He is really nice, Mom, and he drives a real car, not an old boat like ours.”
She took the flyer off the table, folded it into a small square, and tucked it into her cardigan pocket.
“I have to catch the bus,” she said, already moving toward the screen door.
“Do not leave your lunch on the counter,” I said.
She grabbed the brown paper bag and was gone, the screen door bouncing twice against the frame.
I stood by the sink, my hand resting on my pinky finger, listening to the gravel crunch under her sneakers as she ran for the corner.
The clock on the microwave read ten past eight.
