scene forty-nine - suit - year eleven

“What’re you wearing to Prom, Jey?”

The question came out of nowhere, and caught them off guard, so that they couldn’t speak for a moment. That moment was enough: it allowed her to go off on a tirade about Prom dresses and Prom suits and all sorts of Prom clothes which they really didn’t give a shit about—why would they? They’d never wanted to go to Prom, and, for a while, didn’t expect to get this far in life anyway. It was a stupid party, for all the stupid people in their year, plastered in makeup and expensive fabric which they’d never wear again, but she was forcing them to listen to her rant on and on about it, periodically showing them images on her too-bright phone screen of blurry colours and shapes—she was going to run her battery down if she kept her screen that lit-up for all of school.

“See, I was looking at this suit that would be perfect on you, if you’re wearing a suit. If not, I could look for a dress—what’s your favourite colour, again?”