Chapter 8: The Party

Hannah found the dress at a church sale for eleven dollars.

It was white, a little old-fashioned, with a high waist and a skirt that moved when I walked.

She hemmed it on our dorm floor with a needle and a lot of swearing.

"If she wants secondhand, she can have secondhand," Hannah said, biting off the thread. "You look like a movie."

I wore my good boots with it, the only ones I owned.

The Harlow Club had a marble staircase and two hundred people in white.

Every one of them turned when I walked in.

I held my chin level and kept going.

Across the ballroom, a champagne tower stood taller than I was, glittering under the chandeliers.

Chase stood near it with a glass in his hand.

He saw me, and his face did something complicated and helpless.

I gave him a small nod.

Then the lights dimmed.

Peyton stepped onto a low stage in a silver dress, with a microphone, and Preston at her elbow.

"Thank you all for coming," she said, sweet as pie. "Tonight I want to celebrate someone special."

A huge screen lit up behind her.

It showed a bank statement.

The name across the top said Chester Brandvold.

The balance at the bottom was a red number: minus $41,200.

A gasp went through the ballroom, followed by a few nervous laughs.

"Isn't it brave," Peyton said, "when a girl from the farm tries to play with the big kids? Let's give her a hand."

She started clapping, slowly.

Some people joined in.

Most people did not.

The heat in my face was like a stove, and I felt every set of eyes on my dress.

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