Chapter Twenty-Five
The bathroom mirror reflects back what might be the most sophisticated version of myself I’ve ever seen.
My dark green dress fits perfectly, flowing to just below my knees with delicate beading around the neckline that catches the light when I move.
Maya spent an hour on my hair, creating an updo that’s elegant but not too formal, with a few loose curls framing my face.
Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, with glitter hair spray that glistens in the light,
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” my mom says from the doorway, her eyes suspiciously bright. She’s holding her phone, which means she’s been taking photos without my permission again.
“Mom, please tell me you haven’t been documenting my entire getting-ready process.”
“Only the important parts. You’ll thank me when you’re thirty and want to remember what you looked like at your first formal.”
My laptop sits open on my desk, Emma’s face filling the screen as she watches the final preparations from her bedroom in Michigan. She’s been virtually present for the last hour, offering advice on lipstick colors and helping Maya perfect my hairstyle through detailed video instructions.
“I can’t believe I’m missing this,” Emma says, leaning closer to her camera. “You look absolutely stunning, Liv. Derek’s going to forget how to speak when he sees you.”
“I highly doubt that. He’s seen me covered in mud after soccer practice. This is just a dress.”
“It’s not just a dress,” Maya protests, appearing behind me in the mirror as she makes final adjustments to my hair. “This is your first formal with Derek. This is a milestone moment that deserves proper appreciation.”
“Maya’s right,” Emma agrees. “Take pictures of everything. I want to see every detail when you call me tomorrow.”
Robert’s voice carries up the stairs: “Derek’s here!”
My stomach flutters with a mix of excitement and nerves. We’ve been planning this night for weeks, but now that it’s actually happening, it feels surreal.
“Go answer the door,” Mom says, practically pushing me toward the stairs. “I’ll be down with my camera in thirty seconds.”
“Mom, please don’t embarrass us.”
“Embarrassing you is my parental duty. Embrace it.”
I walk downstairs carefully, grateful for Maya’s insistence that we practice walking in heels during our dress shopping expedition.
Derek stands in our entryway wearing a black tuxedo with a forest green bow tie that matches my dress perfectly.
His hair is styled more formally than usual, and he’s holding a corsage box with the kind of nervous energy that suggests he’s been preparing for this moment all day.
“Wow,” he says when he sees me, his eyes widening. “You look…”
“Amazing? Gorgeous? Breathtaking?” Maya supplies helpfully from behind me.
“All of those,” Derek agrees, his voice slightly hoarse. “You look incredible.”
“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I say, smoothing his bow tie unnecessarily. “Very sophisticated.”
“I try.”
He opens the corsage box to reveal a delicate arrangement of white roses and greenery that perfectly complements my dress. His hands shake slightly as he slides it onto my wrist.
“Perfect match,” Mom announces, appearing with her camera as promised. “Now, let’s get some photos before you leave. You too Maya. Your blue dress is gorgeous!
What follows is fifteen minutes of strategic positioning around our living room and front porch, with Mom directing us like a professional photographer while Robert offers commentary and encouragement.
Derek handles the attention with good humor, even when Mom makes us pose for what she calls “candid moments” that are anything but spontaneous.
“One more by the jasmine,” Mom insists. “The lighting is perfect there.”
“We’re going to be late,” I protest, though I’m secretly enjoying the fuss.
“Maya built buffer time into her schedule specifically for photo delays,” Derek points out. “We’re right on track.”
Maya appears with her own camera, because apparently one photographer isn’t sufficient documentation for this event. “Group selfie! Robert, get in there.”
The next few shots include various combinations of family members, with Emma participating virtually through FaceTime held at strategic angles. It’s chaotic and sweet and exactly the kind of thing I’ll appreciate years from now, even if it feels excessive in the moment.
“All right, you two,” Robert finally intervenes. “Time to let them escape before Maya realizes she forgot to document something else.”
“Actually,” Maya says, consulting her phone, “we’re right on schedule for departure. Giuseppe’s reservation is at 6:30, which gives us plenty of time to get there and get settled before the other couples arrive.”
Derek offers me his arm with exaggerated formality. “Shall we, my lady?”
“We shall.”
Giuseppe’s Italian Kitchen has been transformed for the evening, with white tablecloths, actual cloth napkins, and centerpieces that suggest someone took prom preparation seriously.
Our group claims a large round table in the corner, Maya and her date Tyler, Sophie and her boyfriend Jake, Jessica and her date Marcus, plus Derek and me.
“This feels very grown-up,” Sophie observes, smoothing her dusty rose dress as she settles into her chair. “Like we’re actual adults having dinner instead of teenagers eating cafeteria food.”
“Speak for yourself,” Tyler says, already studying his menu intently. “I’m getting the largest pasta dish they have. Formal dancing requires proper fuel.”
Derek leans closer to me, his voice low enough that the others can’t hear. “How are you feeling about everything? Not nervous, are you?”
“A little nervous. But good nervous. Like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
“That’s how I feel too.”
The conversation flows easily around the table as we order food and share speculation about who will win winter formal court, whether the DJ will actually play requests, and how long it will take Maya to reorganize the decorations if she disapproves of the committee’s setup.
“I’m not going to reorganize anything,” Maya protests when Jessica brings up her reputation for event management perfectionism. “Tonight is about enjoying ourselves, not critiquing other people’s planning decisions.”
“That’s very mature of you,” Derek says with mock seriousness.
“I’m a mature person. I just have high standards for celebratory occasions.”
When our food arrives, the table settles into comfortable conversation punctuated by the kind of laughter that comes from people who’ve known each other for years.
Derek and I sit close enough that our knees touch under the table, and every so often he reaches over to squeeze my hand or steal a bite of my chicken marsala.
“Can I say something sentimental without everyone making fun of me?” Jessica asks as we’re finishing dinner.
“Absolutely not,” Tyler replies immediately. “But say it anyway.”
“I just think it’s nice that we’re all here together. Like, we’ve been friends for years, and now we get to dress up and celebrate that together. It feels…significant.”
“See, that wasn’t sentimental at all,” Sophie says warmly. “That was just true.”
“Group hug!” Maya announces, standing up from her chair.
“We are not doing a group hug in the middle of Giuseppe’s,” I protest, but I’m already standing up.
We do, in fact, do a group hug in the middle of Giuseppe’s, much to the amusement of other diners and the staff. It’s ridiculous and perfect and exactly the kind of moment I want to remember about tonight.
The school gymnasium has been transformed beyond recognition.
The dance committee has created a winter wonderland theme with white fabric draped from the ceiling, string lights that twinkle like stars, and centerpieces featuring silver branches and white flowers.
The usual basketball hoops are hidden behind elegant backdrops, and the typical harsh fluorescent lighting has been replaced with soft, romantic illumination.
“Wow,” Derek says as we walk through the entrance. “This actually looks amazing.”
“Much better than the usual gym sock and floor wax ambiance,” I agree.
The DJ is set up on the stage, already playing music that’s loud enough to dance to but not so overwhelming that conversation becomes impossible.
Couples and groups of friends are scattered around the decorated space, some already dancing, others clustering around the refreshment tables or posing for photos at the backdrop station.
“Photos first,” Maya announces, producing what appears to be a written itinerary from her small purse. “Then dancing, then refreshments, then more dancing.”
“You made an itinerary for a school dance?” Marcus asks, clearly torn between admiration and concern.
“Organization is the key to maximum fun,” Maya replies confidently.
The photo station is elaborate—a winter backdrop with props like fake snow, silver frames, and signs with sayings like “Winter Formal 2025” and “Making Memories.” We take the requisite group shots, couple photos, and silly pictures with props, Maya directing the entire process with the efficiency of someone who’s clearly thought about optimal photo combinations.
“Now dancing,” she announces once she’s satisfied with our documentation.
The dance floor is already crowded with couples swaying to a slow song that’s romantic without being overly sentimental. Derek leads me into the crowd, his hand warm on my back as we find our rhythm together.
“This is nice,” I say, settling into his arms. “Much better than practicing in your living room.”
“Hey, those practice sessions were crucial preparation. Without them, I would have definitely stepped on your dress by now.”
“Your confidence in your dancing abilities is truly inspiring.”
“I prefer to think of it as realistic self-assessment.”