I had spent four years there learning to walk with my eyes on the linoleum, counting tiles instead of facing the snickers.
My older sisters’ jeans hung loose on me in some places and squeezed too tight in others, and everyone noticed.
Jason noticed loudest of all.
“Look who crawled out of the pond today,” he announced as I passed the cafeteria. “Our swamp frog is back.”
Jason noticed loudest of all.
His friends laughed on cue, the way they always did.
I kept walking and pretended I didn’t hear, but my face burned anyway.
That night at the dinner table, I finally said it out loud.
“I’m not going to prom, Mom. I’ve already decided.”
My mother set down the casserole dish and looked at me for a long moment.
“Honey, prom only happens once.”
I finally said it out loud.