Colton stared at the slip in my hand.
"That's me," he whispered. "My mom was laid off. My card was at negative two hundred dollars. I thought the school had just—"
He couldn't finish.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody moved.
It was the quietest I had ever heard a room full of seventeen-year-olds.
I looked down at the dress.
At the pockets that I had sewn on so carefully.
Every single one still held a folded square of white.
Nineteen slips.
Nineteen receipts, sitting against my hips the whole night.
I had walked into that gym carrying the proof.
Raul stepped up beside me.
He smelled like lemon cleaner and old coffee.
He put one rough hand on my shoulder.
"He told me never to tell you until you asked, kiddo," he said quietly. "You never asked."
"I didn't know there was anything to ask."
"I know." He swallowed. "That was how he liked it."
