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The boutique didn’t even look like the kind of place four Catholic school kids should be anywhere near. It was dripping in neon-pink light, with rhinestoned mannequins in corsets and feather boas gawking at them from the display window. The plastic faces had eyelashes so long they could have swatted flies. The hand-painted sign above the door read: *La Maison du Divine*—and beneath in smaller lettering, *Burlesque, Drag, and Evening Wear.*
Illi McMillan hesitated at the threshold, plaid school skirt flapping around her knees in the summer air. She clutched the strap of her messenger bag like someone was about to rip it away from her, flushed bright as a stoplight.
“We’re going to Hell,” Mikey muttered beside her, already adjusting his crooked tie like Sister Constance was about to materialize from thin air and mark him tardy.
Frank, on the other hand, was absolutely vibrating. He had been the one to suggest it. Nay—*insist* on it. He shoved the door open with one sharp burst of energy that sent the little bell above it screaming through the store. “No, we’re going to prom,” he said, grinning so wide it looked like it physically hurt. “*Properly.* C’mon, Illi, this is literally destiny.”
Ray was about three paces behind, scanning the racks of sequins and ostrich feathers that nearly swallowed him whole. He scratched at his ’fro like he’d wandered into some alternate dimension. "This looks like a boss level in a video game. You sure this place sells prom dresses and not, like, spell-casting robes?"
The air inside *La Maison du Divine* smelled faintly of glitter, hairspray, and very expensive candles. Mannequins lined the aisles, each one more outrageous than the last: long satin gloves up to elbows, fishnets, garters, wigs stacked high like frosted desserts.
And then Illi saw it.
It hung alone, in the middle of a rack otherwise sagging with rhinestones and tulle: a Victorian-inspired gown, red silk slashed through with panels of black brocade, corseted bodice hooked with shiny little clasps that spiraled down into flowing layers edged in lace. It looked like something a gothic vampire countess would wear to Devour a Victorian Ball, and yet—also like it could be worn at prom by someone brave enough to *own it.*
Illi’s jaw slackened. Her hands twitched at her sides. The neon lighting picked out the sheen of silk and painted it like a forbidden treasure.
“That one,” she whispered. Then louder, heart pounding: “I’m getting *married* in that dress.”
She didn’t realize she’d said it until Mikey snorted so violently he nearly choked. “Married? Right, let me pencil that in—the world ends before then. Guess it checks out.”
Illi shoved him with her shoulder, but couldn’t wipe the grin crawling up her face. Her cheeks hurt. Her stomach seemed to fizz like cola.
Frank, meanwhile, had already grabbed the hanger with no hesitation and shoved it against her body like an overeager stylist. “Yes. YES. This is it. Saint Peter himself couldn’t strike you down in this.” He half-dragged her toward the fitting rooms, already cackling under his breath.
The dressing rooms themselves were gilded with cracked mirrors and velvet curtains that definitely hid some sordid secrets. Illi closed herself in, heart hammering, and carefully, *so carefully*, tugged herself into the gown. The moment she pulled the corset ribbons tight, pulled the fabric high on her chest, it was like the air shifted.
She stepped out.
Her friends looked up.
Illi squealed. *Actually squealed.* The sound that left her mouth was like a balloon slowly letting out air mixed with the world’s most high-pitched kettle boil.
Mikey clapped a hand dramatically to his ears. “WHAT was that noise? Holy—my sister’s been replaced by a kettle. Do they do exorcisms at prom?”
“Shut *up*,” Illi laughed, clasping the skirts, turning to catch the mirror from all angles. Her reflection looked back at her with wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and a grin that wouldn’t settle. For once in her life, she didn’t feel like the weird peripheral kid at a Catholic high school. She felt like—well, exactly like herself. And it was dizzying.
Frank tilted his head, smirking slyly. “You’re missing something.” He darted off across the boutique.
When he returned, he slammed a cardboard box onto the chair beside her and popped off the lid like it was Holy Communion. Inside was a gleaming pair of silicone breast forms. Very… generously sized.
“Frank—no.” Illi’s laughter faltered. She tilted toward panic. “That’s too much. Everyone’s gonna—”
Then there was silence. She stared at the smooth, round shapes nestled inside, ridiculous and yet weirdly perfect. No one said anything. The world held its breath.
Finally, Illi set her shoulders back, exhaled like she was diving into a lake, and whispered, deadpan: “Get the double D’s.”
Mikey groaned, sinking into the nearest chair. “Please stop. You’re making me want to call the Pope.”
The next hour became a parade of chaos that the boutique employees either encouraged or simply ignored—Illi couldn’t tell. Her friends orchestrated the transformation like it was their magnum opus.
First came the breast forms, which Frank delighted in helping situate until Illi swatted his hand away and did it herself, standing straighter than she had in months. Ray, surprisingly methodical, picked out a pair of black heels with ribbon accents that actually matched the gown.
“Practically armor,” he explained, holding them up like an offering. “You can crush someone’s foot in these, guaranteed.”
Then came makeup. Illi sat while a shop assistant arched an eyebrow and smoothed eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon. Her lashes bloomed dark and thick, cheeks brushed with color that made her glow.
And finally, hair. Clip-in extensions flowed down over her shoulders, black and rippling with just enough curl to feel too glamorous to be real. Frank fluffed the ends dramatically, like a stylist on some cheesy makeover show. “This—is artistry. Michelangelo could *never.*”
When Illi stood in front of the tallest mirror, the room fell oddly quiet. Even Mikey had stopped making jokes. Her reflection was so radiant she didn’t recognize it at first. Then she barked a nervous laugh, spun on her heel, nearly tripped on the hem of the dress, and everyone broke into cackles simultaneously.
“Teen Vogue better *watch out,*” Frank crooned, hand over his heart.
Mikey buried his face in his hands, muffled: “I can’t believe I’m related to you.”
“That was never scientifically confirmed,” Illi shot back, steadying herself in the heels and striking an exaggerated pose, hand on her corseted hip. And though the laughter rippled and bubbled all around her, what stuck in Illi’s chest was that first moment—the squeal, the wide-eyed grin, the weightless joy of seeing herself reflected back exactly how she wanted.
And if Sister Constance caught them sneaking back to the dorms looking suspiciously bedazzled? …Well, Illi figured eternal damnation was worth it.
At least she had the dress.