A few days later, someone knocked.
I opened the door in yesterday’s clothes. Eli stood on the porch in a faded hoodie, holding a small notebook to his chest. He looked nervous. He also looked certain, which was new for him.
“Mrs. Mave. Can I talk to you out here?”
I stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind me.
“Is Hazel okay? Did she text you?”
“No, ma’am.” He inhaled. “I need her measurements.”
“Eli, what—”
“Prom is in two weeks. I can do this. I know how that sounds. But I need you to trust me. And I need you not to tell her anything. Not one word.”
I stared at the boy I had watched grow up just two houses away. Seventeen years old. Chewed fingernails. Holding that notebook like it was a signed agreement.
“Eli, you have never made a dress like this in your life.”
“No, ma’am. I haven’t.”
“Then how—”
“I just need you to say yes.”
I nearly refused. I had every reason to. But there was something in his eyes that did not look seventeen. Something steadier than anything I had felt all year.
“Yes,” I whispered.
That night, I stood by my kitchen window and watched the light in Eli’s bedroom stay on long past three in the morning, wondering what in the world I had agreed to.
Eli’s bedroom light became my new clock.
Past midnight, past two, past three. Some nights, I stood at the kitchen sink and watched it glow while the whole street slept.
His mother called me on the third day.
“Mave, his fingers are sore,” she said. “I wrapped them in cold bandages, and he unwrapped them. He missed a chemistry test.”
