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“Don’t test me, Jessie,” my mom said. “Let me think.”

At this point I didn’t even want to go shopping with my mom anymore, which is why the following suggestion didn’t sound as ridiculous as it might seem.

“Have you looked in Bethany’s closet?”

“Ugh,” was all I could reply, remembering the suit I wore to the disastrous Piedmont tea.

“She’s got at least a dozen formal dresses up there. Aren’t the eighties back in style again?”

“Mom, that’s a swell idea and all. Only you’re forgetting that Bethany had boobs in high school and I do not.”

“Come,” she said. “Let’s take a look-see.”

So my mom and I scoured Bethany’s prom archives. There were a lot of truly god-awful dresses up there. An iridescent purple Gone with the Wind ball gown. A white multilayered knee-length number that looked like a wedding cake. A skintight hot-pink minidress with ostrich feathers sprouting from the shoulders.

But then, in plastic, toward the back, was a red silk, one-shouldered dress with a swishy, asymmetrical bottom. It was so retro it was cool again.

“Ooooooh,” my mom said. “I always loved this one. It’s so fiery. So Carmen.”

I held it up to me and was shocked that it looked like it could fit. I thought my sister was always way more bodacious than me, but my mom assured me that Bethany was as boobless as I was back in high school.

“She didn’t fully develop until college,” she confessed. “Neither did I.”

“Really?”

“Really. We’re a family of late bloomers here.”

So there’s hope that I’ll be busting out of my A-cup bra yet.

I tried on the red dress, and would you believe it? With a slightly padded strapless bra, this sucker would actually fit me.

My mom burst out crying when she saw me in it.

“You’re”—sniff!—“all”—sniff!—“grown”—sniff—“up!” She hugged me tightly and blubbered into the back of my head.

“Moooommmmm . . .”

“I guess”—sniff!—“you’re old enough”—sniff!—“to decide what college is right for you”—sniff!—“even if”—sniff!—“your father and I disagree.” Huge sniff!

“Thanks for finally realizing that, Mom.” I was still stuck in her maternal headlock.

“It’s just that”—sniff!—“we worry.”

“Bad things happen everywhere, even close to home.”

As soon as I said it, I felt horrible. Of course she knows this. My mom had every reason to be paranoid about my well-being. Her only son died in his nursery while she slept less than twenty-five feet away.

I wish this was something we could talk about. Maybe one day she’ll trust me enough to tell me how she feels about the loss. Maybe she never will. But it’s not up to me to decide, now, is it? The only thing I can do is be the best daughter I can be to her. I’ll fall short of her ideals, inevitably and often, but I’ll just have to take Bethany’s word about having kids: The blessings of being my mom’s child outweigh the pains-in-the-ass.

“This was fun, Mom,” I said, finally breaking free of her grip. “Thanks for your help.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said. “We should do things like this more often.”

“We should,” I said, so caught up in the moment that I actually meant it.

“I hear the shopping is outstanding in New York City.”

“It is,” I replied.

“Well, you’ll have to show me around,” she said, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “Big-city girl.”

And this time we both sniffled through our tears.

the eighth

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here are some highlights from the Pineville High Senior Prom 2002:

So many girls were bent over at the waist, butt-clapping and body-slapping, that the administration couldn’t even attempt to enforce the “no lewd dance moves” rule.

Sara and P.J. were sent home before they even set foot through the hotel doors, as it was clear to the chaperones by the way they had taken turns vomiting in the parking lot that they had raided the D’Abruzzis’ wet bar and gotten roofed before they arrived.

Manda was voted Prom Queen and Scotty was voted King. This caused more than a minor stir. The royal non-couple broke time-honored Pineville High tradition and