The most popular guy in school asked me to prom, and I ignored every warning sign because my mother wanted me to have one beautiful night. Then I stepped into the gym, saw the prom queen on his arm, and knew I had walked straight into a trap. But I had one thing they never saw coming.

The laundromat hummed on Saturday mornings, a steady mechanical heartbeat under the buzz of the overhead lights.

The smell of detergent had soaked into my hair, my jeans, my skin, and I had stopped trying to wash it out years ago.

I folded a stranger’s shirt and listened to Aunt Rosa count quarters at the front counter.

“Ivy, baby, you sure you don’t want to take a break?” she called.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Mom’s shift used to be longer than this.”

Aunt Rosa’s mouth tightened the way it always did when I mentioned Mom.

Mom had mopped floors at the hotel downtown for fifteen years. Fifteen years of aching knees and night buses so I could have new notebooks every August.

Three months ago her cough turned into something worse, and the hospital became her second home.

After my part-time shift after school, I walked the six blocks to see her. She was thinner than last week, but she smiled when I pushed open the door.

“There’s my girl,” she whispered.

I sat on the edge of her bed and held her hand, careful of the IV.

“Prom’s in two weeks,” she said softly. “Rosa told me.”

“I’m not going,” I weakly protested.

“I don’t have a dress, Mom,” I said. “I don’t have a date, and I don’t want to give Kenzie another reason to laugh.”

The name slipped out before I could stop it.

Mom’s eyes searched mine. “She still picks on you?”

“She breathes,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“That’s enough.”

A memory bled in without permission. Sixth grade cafeteria. Kenzie holding up a juice box, announcing to the table that my mom had mopped up someone’s puke near the hotel lobby one morning.

The laughter was a sound I never stopped hearing.

“You deserve one pretty night,” Mom said. “Just one. Will you try?

For me?”

I wanted to say no.

“I’ll think about it,” I lied, because I could never tell her no when she looked at me like that.

She squeezed my hand with the little strength she had left. “Promise me something else. If anyone ever tries to hurt you, really hurt you, don’t carry it alone.”

“Mom, it’s just high school.”

“I promise,” I said.

Outside her room, Aunt Rosa was waiting with two cups of hospital coffee.

“She talked about prom, didn’t she?” She murmured.

“Your mother called me yesterday and asked if I still had my sewing machine.”

I almost laughed. Almost cried. Mom was dying, and she was thinking about hems.

***

That Monday I walked into school feeling something I couldn’t name.

Carter was at his locker, surrounded by his usual crowd, baseball jacket slung over one shoulder. His eyes lifted as I passed.

He looked at me. Not through me, the way he had for four years.

At me.

Across the hall, Kenzie was watching him watch me, and her smile curved into something I didn’t recognize yet.

The flowers were the first thing I noticed. Cheap carnations in grocery-store cellophane, a sticker still on the side. Carter held them out like a trophy.

“Will you go to prom with me?”

I looked behind me.

Twice. The hallway was suddenly too quiet, too full of phones angled our way.

Across the corridor, Kenzie leaned against her locker, smiling as if she already knew how the story was going to end.

“Is this a joke?” I asked.

“It’s not a joke, Ivy,” Carter said. “I’m serious.”

My mouth opened.

The word no sat right there on my tongue.

Then I thought about Mom in that hospital bed, the way her eyes lit up whenever I mentioned anything close to normal teenage life.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Yes.”

For three days, Carter played the part beautifully. He texted asking what color my dress would be.

He wanted to know if I liked roses or lilies. On Wednesday, he stopped me in the cafeteria.

“I know I have a reputation,” he said. “But I’ve wanted to ask you for a while.”

I almost believed him.

That was the worst part.

I went to the hospital that evening to tell Mom. Aunt Rosa was just leaving, balancing empty coffee cups and a stack of mail.

“Your mama’s been busy today,” she said. “On the phone half the morning.

And Mr. Lewis stopped in after lunch, brought her some papers to sign.”

“Mr. Lewis?”

Aunt Rosa just patted my arm and kept walking.