Last year my sociology teacher read an article about a girl’s expectations for prom to our class. The perfect dress had to be paired with the perfect weight. Then came the perfect date, which obviously culminated in the perfect night.
“Great expectations or tragically unrealistic?” our teacher had asked us.
Tragic, duh. Way too many perfects for one measly night. Of course, at the time I didn’t have any of the items on the list. But now...
The perfect dress, check. Mine was sleeveless, with an empire waist and long, flowing white material adorned by turquoise beading at the right shoulder. Though it was simple, I felt like an angel in it.
The perfect weight was never going to happen. Not with my athletic build and bones that refused to be tiny or delicate. But my mom had always said it wasn’t about being skinny, it was about being healthy. My mom rocked.
The perfect date, double check. I'd crushed on Trey Rawson since eighth grade because of his shaggy auburn hair and yummy, deep blue eyes. Five months ago I somehow snagged him as my boyfriend.
So maybe now that I was a senior, I had great expectations for my own prom night. At least I did until I woke up this morning with the Worst. Headache. Ever. It was like I’d agreed to host a fencing tournament in my brain.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
I almost couldn’t blink. The thought of crossing “perfect night” off my list made my head hurt even worse.
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