PART 1 Dresses
“A prom dress is throwing money away.”
Carla said it without even looking up from her phone, as if I’d asked her for a trip to Cancun and not something for a night I’d been wanting since middle school.
I was standing in the kitchen, clutching the school circular between my fingers. It said deadline, event fee, dress code. I’d practiced all afternoon how to ask without sounding demanding.
“Mom left money for things like this,” I said quietly.
Carla let out a dry laugh.
“Your mom left a lot of nice ideas, Valeria. But ideas don’t pay the electricity bill, the property tax, or the grocery bill.” Jeans
At that moment, she threw a brand-new, incredibly expensive designer bag onto the counter. The tag was still hanging off.
I felt something catch in my throat.
My mom died when I was twelve. My dad remarried Carla two years later, and although she was never affectionate, she feigned respect while he was alive. But Dad died last year of a heart attack, one of those that come without warning, and the house changed hands overnight.
Carla took over the accounts, the mail, the credit cards, the decisions. She also took the money my mom had left for my younger brother, Mateo, and me.
“Dad said that money was for college, school supplies, graduations… important things.”
Carla finally looked at me.
“Your dad was very naive too. And you should learn not to go dreaming about ridiculous dresses.”
“But there is money for your purse.”
Her face hardened.
“Watch your tone.”
“It’s not fair.”
Carla stood up so fast the chair scraped against the floor.
“What’s unfair is that I have to maintain this house while you two play the victim. Nobody wants to see you parading around like a cheap princess in an overpriced dress.” Dresses
I went to my room before crying in front of her.
I buried my face in the pillow, trying not to make a sound. But Mateo heard me. He always heard me, even though he pretended not to notice anything.
He was fifteen years old. The year before, he had taken a sewing class in high school because the carpentry workshop was full. His classmates made fun of him for months. They called him “seamstress” in the hallways. He never spoke of it again after that.
Two nights later, he knocked on my door.
He came in carrying a stack of old jeans.
They were my mom’s. Jeans
She kept them in boxes: light denim, dark blue, some ripped at the knees, others with paint stains from when she helped us paint our bedroom.
Mateo carefully placed them on my bed.
“Do you trust me?”
I looked at him, confused.
“For what?”
“I can try to make you a dress.”
I felt like crying again, but differently.
“You?”
He turned red.
“If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I just thought… it would be better than not going.”
I took his hand.
“I want to.”
For two weeks, the kitchen became his workshop whenever Carla went out or locked herself in her room. Mateo got out my mom’s old sewing machine, watched tutorials, measured, unstitched, and sewed again. Sometimes he got frustrated. Sometimes he pricked his fingers. But every night the dress seemed more real.
It was beautiful.
Panels of different shades of denim formed a flowing skirt. There were clean seams at the waist. She used old pockets as details, and a faded section was positioned right over the chest, as if it had been designed by someone famous. Skirts
On graduation morning, Carla saw it hanging on my door.
She froze.
Then she came over and burst out laughing.
“Please tell me you’re not serious.”
Mateo came out of his room.
“I am serious,” I said.
Carla pointed at the dress. Dresses
“That looks like a community service project costume. If you show up like that, the whole school is going to laugh.”
Mateo looked down.
“I made it,” he muttered.
Carla smiled cruelly.
“Ah. That explains a lot.”
That night I wore the dress anyway.
When I got to the reception hall, I saw Carla in the back, her phone ready to record me. She was whispering something to some other women and laughing.
But no one laughed at me.
People stared at the dress in surprise. A classmate asked me where I had bought it. A teacher touched the fabric and said, “This is art.”
Then the principal went up on stage to give the speech. He spoke about effort, family, and the future.
Suddenly, he stopped reading.
His eyes locked on Carla.
He gripped the microphone tighter.
“Please, focus the camera on the back row. On that woman.”
The giant screen showed Carla’s face.
She smiled at first, thinking it would be something nice.
The principal stepped down from the stage and said slowly,
“I know that woman.”
I couldn’t believe what was about to happen…
PART 2: For more information, continue on the next page
