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Prom night arrived. The venue buzzed with lights and music. I walked in, and whispers began almost immediately.

A girl sneered: “Is that dress made from our janitor’s rags?!”

A boy laughed: “Is that what you wear when you can’t afford a real dress?”

Laughter rippled outward. My face burned. “I made this dress from my dad’s old shirts,” I blurted. “He passed away a few months ago, and this was my way of honoring him. So maybe it’s not your place to mock something you know nothing about.”

Silence hung for a moment, then another girl rolled her eyes: “Relax! Nobody asked for the sob story!”

I felt 11 again, hearing “She’s the janitor’s daughter… he washes our toilets!” I sat near the edge of the room, breathing slowly, refusing to break in front of them. Then someone shouted that my dress was “disgusting.” My eyes filled.

Just then, the music cut off. The principal, Mr. Bradley, stood at the center with a  microphone.