**Diary Entry: The Night I Found My Sparkle**
Here in our quiet Yorkshire village, where gossip travels faster than the morning post, I thought my prom dreams had been snuffed out before they even began. But on the very morning of the dance, something extraordinary pulled up outsidea red Range Rover that changed everything.
Im seventeen, a sixth-former in a place where everyone knows your favourite biscuit and your last heartbreak. When I wasnt at school, I worked part-time to save for a prom dressonly to discover my stepmother had taken the money. Just when Id given up hope, that red Range Rover arrived.
In this town, you cant so much as buy a pint of milk without it making the rounds at the WI meeting. The Boots cashier knows your preferred lip balm, and the bloke at the newsagent could probably guess your A-level predictions.
I worked evenings at Tesco, stacking shelves and helping customers find their misplaced reading glasses. Weekends were spent babysitting the Taylor twins down the road.
Every pound coin, every bit of loose change from customers whod say, Keep it, love, went into an old biscuit tin tucked under my bed. That tin wasnt just full of moneyit held my dream.
Since Year 10, Id imagined my prom dress, scrolling through Pinterest and saving images of lace and chiffon. Nothing over-the-topjust something simple, something that made me feel like I belonged in a world where wishes could come true.
Mum, who passed when I was twelve, always said, Life should have a bit of shine. I liked to think shed be watching, smiling as I found mine.
Dad remarried when I was fourteen, and thats when Deborah came into the picture. She wore designer perfumes, spoke like she was always right, and brought along her daughter, Imogensame age as mewho moved in during Year 12.
We werent enemies, but we werent mates either. We just existed, like two strangers sharing a train carriage going opposite ways.
When prom season arrived, so did the frenzy. Girls at school formed WhatsApp groups about dresses and playlists. Mood boards were shared like treasure maps.
Even Deborah got involved, pinning a Prom Countdown board to the fridge like it was some grand project. It was packed with checklists: venue, nails, shoes, hair trials.
Imogens name was written in gold Sharpie, underlined twice. Mine? Nowhere.
I didnt care. I was saving quietly.
By March, the biscuit tin held £250. Enough for a sale dress at Debenhams, a modest pair of heels, and maybe a curling wand if I found a deal.
My own checklist was simple:
Dress: under £150
Shoes: Primark or TK Maxx
Hair: DIY curls from YouTube
Makeup: high-street foundation and my one decent eyeshadow palette
Boutonnière: for Jamie, my neighbour and prom date
Jamie and I werent a couplejust mates whod agreed to go together. Hes the sort who brings his spaniel to the park just to make kids smile. Kind, funny, harmless. I liked him.
Then came that Thursday. I walked in to the smell of greasy fish and chips and Imogens high-pitched giggle. Shoes off, bag dropped, I followed the noise to the kitchen.
Imogen stood on a chair, twirling in a silver sequin dress that caught the light like frost. The price tag dangled at her hip. On the table lay a garment bag from a boutique Id seen on Instagramthe kind where they offer you Prosecco while you shop.
Dyou like it? she asked, spinning. Mum said every girl deserves her dream dress.
I forced a smile. Its lovely.
Deborah turned to me, all warmth. And you, darling, can borrow one of my cocktail dresses. Well tailor it. Practical, isnt it?
Ive been saving for my own, I said, raising my brows.
Deborah blinked, then gave me a pitying smile that made my stomach twist. Oh, sweetheart. I thought you were saving for uni. Proms just one night. Degrees last forever.
My chest tightened.
I still want to pick my own dress, I said.
She waved me off like I was a child begging for sweets. Youll thank me later.
Upstairs, I reached under my bedbut the tin was gone.
I tore through the room. Wardrobe? No. Desk? Nothing.
Dad! I shouted. Have you seen my biscuit tin? The blue one?
He appeared, looking worn out, tie loose. What tin?
The one under my bed, I said, voice cracking. It had all my savings.
Deborah stepped in smoothly. Oh, that! I meant to tell youI borrowed it.
Borrowed?
For the gas bill, she said. We were short. Youll get it back.
Dad frowned. How much was in there?
Two hundred fifty, I whispered.
Deborah didnt flinch. We needed it. We bought Imogens dress. Besides, youre not going to promyour dads away that weekend, so theres no one to take photos with you anyway.
I clenched my fists.
Deborah tilted her head. Youre a clever girl. You understand sacrifices.
I spotted a receipt poking from her handbag: £380.
You used my money for Imogens dress?
Her smile stiffened. Its family money. We share. Youll thank me when youre not drowning in student debt.
Dad rubbed his temples. Well sort it, he muttered.
When? I asked. Proms in a week.
Well talk, he said. Dad-code for *nothings happening*.
That night, I cried into my pillow. Not over fabric, but over the shine I thought Id lost.
Later, Jamie texted: *Got our tickets.*
I stared at my phone before replying: *Think Im skipping.*
When he asked why, I blamed money and family stuff, adding a shrug emoji to keep it light.
He answered: *Shame. If you change your mind, Im still your date.*
The week dragged. Girls swapped nail salon recommendations like golden tickets. Imogen floated through school in a cloud of excitement. Deborah buzzed about spray tans and lash appointments.
I stocked shelves and pretended prom was a film I wasnt in. The night before, I told Dad, Im not going.
You sure, love? he asked.
Yeah. Its done.
Deborah nodded, satisfied. Sensible.
Prom morning, sunlight woke me. I lay there, thinking of the dance happening without melike a party Id been uninvited to.
Then*honk!*
Not a polite beep. A proper, blaring honk.
I peered outside. A red Range Rover. A woman stepped outbraided hair, sunglasses, jeans.
Auntie Grace.
Get dressed! she called, grinning. Weve got places to be!
Grace is Mums younger sister. She smells like vanilla and fresh-cut grass. We mostly text on birthdaysnever about prom.
Half in pyjamas, I rushed downstairs. What are you doing here?
She smirked. Heard someone needed rescuing.
Auntie Grace, you didnt
She swung the car door open. You can scold me later. Right now: three stops. Coffee, magic, payback. Move it.
Stop one: a café on the high street. She handed me a cup. Decaf latte. Your mum pretended she liked black coffee, but she didnt. Said decaf made her feel posh.
My throat tightened. How did you?
She shrugged. Your dad rang me last night. Sent a photo of you looking like Christmas was cancelled. I asked questions. He answered some. I asked better ones. He told me the rest.
My eyes stung. He shouldnt have
He shouldve, she said firmly. Months ago.
Stop two: Mrs. Patels alterations shop. The bell chimed. She peered over her glasses. This the girl?
Grace nodded.
In the back hung a soft rose-pink dress, delicate embroidery at the waist. It didnt screamit whispered.
Vintage, Grace said. My dress from 98. Wore it to a summer ball, snogged a bloke named Tom behind the marquee. We updated it.
I laughed through tears.
When I tried it on, it felt like it had been waiting for me.
Stop three: Bettys Bakery. Grace curled my hair, dabbed on blush, whispering, Your mum wouldve lost it over this. Youve got her smile.
I look like me, I whispered.
Back home, Deborah was posing Imogen by
