My grandmother had been dying for months when prom season rolled around, and honestly, I did not care about any of the hype around the event.
My grandma Mary was 79, and the doctors had stopped pretending she was going to get better. Hospice had been coming to the house for three weeks.
I spent most afternoons in Grandma’s room after school, sitting beside her bed while she drifted in and out of sleep. Sometimes she knew exactly who I was. Sometimes she thought I was my mother.
So no, I was not in the mood to care about prom.
I only even had a date because my best friend, Dane, had asked me in the least romantic way possible.
“You are not spending prom night in sweatpants watching crime documentaries,” he told me in the cafeteria.
“I absolutely am.”