“You can make a dress?”
He hesitated. “I can try.”
I grabbed his arm immediately.
“No. I love the idea.”
For the next two weeks our kitchen turned into a workshop.
We worked when Carla was out or locked in her room.
Noah pulled Mom’s old sewing machine out of the laundry closet and set it on the kitchen table.
The dress slowly came together piece by piece.
Different shades of blue denim layered and stitched together.
Pockets. Seams. Faded patches.
It looked like pieces of Mom’s life sewn into one dress.
When Noah finished it, he hung it on my door.
I touched the fabric and whispered, “You made this.”
He just shrugged.
But he was smiling.
The next morning Carla saw it.
She stared at the dress for a second.
Then she burst out laughing.
“What is that?”
“My prom dress,” I said.
“That patchwork mess?” she said.
Noah stepped into the hallway.
“I made it.”
She looked at him slowly.
“You made it?”
He lifted his chin.
“Yeah.”
She smiled in that slow, cruel way she had.
“That explains a lot.”
I stepped forward.
“Enough.”
Continued on the next page
