Pink Tulle

Three people wearing floor-length gowns with full ruffled collars. The first two have large bows tied around their waists in the front. The third has their back turned to the reader, looking over their left shoulder. The person on the left has light hair in a curly updo, the person in the middle has chin-length dark hair, and the person on the right wears a ribboned sun hat. Their hair is in a bun at their neck.

Mom lets me

pick bridesmaids’ dresses

from the pastel offerings

in a JCPenney catalog.

A month before her wedding

I’ll be wearing

that “timeless elegance”

satin dress to the prom

since it costs three times

my most expensive jeans and

it’s silly to buy two dresses.

Especially since

I’m going to the prom with

some random red-haired guy

from study hall

who asked me,

after a tall underclassman

turned me down.

Rejected

despite offering

to pick him up in

Lewis’s white convertible

since the sophomore doesn’t drive yet.

Caring about my prom dress

at this point

would be pathetic.

Not that the shiny pink monstrosity

that arrives in the mail

could be mistaken for anything

but sad.

Stiff and bridesmaid-looking

it barely resembles the polished ad

and grips my growing waist

like a shimmering pink python

that clashes with my date’s mullet.