The yellow legal pad already held three columns of numbers, and not one of them added up to a total I could manage on a dental receptionist’s pay.

I circled three hundred and eighty-nine dollars twice, pressing so hard with the ballpoint that it tore straight through two sheets.

Ben put his turkey sandwich down on the Formica breakroom table and nudged his glasses up by the bridge with his thumb.

“You’ve been adding up those same six numbers since nine this morning, Jodi.”

“The dress by itself is three hundred and eighty-nine dollars,” I said, keeping my voice low so Dr.

Miller wouldn’t hear from the operatory down the hall.

“That doesn’t count the forty-dollar ticket, or shoes, or the two-hundred-dollar salon deposit every girl in town is putting down.”

“Where’s Rory in all this?” Ben asked.

I rubbed the pad of my thumb along the side of my index finger, feeling the rough patch I always worried at when my nerves started climbing.

“He said he’d cover his half when the time came.”

“The time is eight weeks off,” Ben said.

He picked up half his sandwich and aimed the crust at my legal pad.

“Prom isn’t some surprise emergency room bill.

It shows up every spring, same as tax season.”

“He had a slow winter with his welding rig,” I said, sounding defensive even to myself.

“He told Sadie straight out last month that he was taking care of her senior year.”

“Rory tells people whatever keeps them from asking hard questions for half an hour,” Ben muttered, taking a slow bite.

I took a blue highlighter out of my cardigan pocket and drew a thick line through the row labeled hair and makeup.