“Are you kidding me?” Baby blue taffeta goes flying in the air, fluttering in a heap to the ground. “Could you please calm down?” her mother asks, sweeping the frock from the ground and shaking out the delicate fabric. “Don’t tell me what to do!” Abigail screeches and her mother lets out a frustrated sigh. Every weekend for a month they ventured out to formal wear shops to find the-one-dress-to-rule-them-all. Finally, after calling every formal wear shop in Indiana, they found it at Kate’s Bridal – 200 miles from home. “Great,” cries the over-dramatic-prom-queen as she bites back tears of panic, “they don’t have it.” “Honey, they said they hadn’t sold it,” her mother says, trying to fake enthusiasm. “We just have to keep looking.” Intent of ending this quest today, Mary shoves a bunch of dresses down the rack and starts flipping quickly through the gowns. Just as she reaches the end of the row, she sees the dress – in the hands of a petite blonde heading for the dressing room. Keeping her composure, Mary silently slips out of the aisle, away from her now inconsolable daughter. Looking around the corner into the dressing area, she sees the blonde emerge from the dressing room in the soft blue bedazzled frock they have sought for a month. “Maybe she doesn’t really like it,” Mary thinks, watching as the blonde transforms into a blubbering ball of glee. Needing more ammunition, she fishes out her checkbook and a pen. “Oh, hello there – you look lovely – let me ask you something,” Mary rambles as she approaches the girl. “Pardon my bluntness, but what would it take for you to let me have THAT dress?” she asks. Quaking internally, she presses though her fear, her determination focusing on the reward. “Really,” she continues, “my daughter is prom queen and she HAS to have THAT dress.” Silence fills the space and then the girl speaks, her expression morphing from ecstasy to seriousness. “Three hundred dollars,” she says, squaring up her shoulders with her hands perched on her hips. Unable to risk losing the dress, Mary pens the dollar amount on to the check without a second thought. Victoriously, the blonde glides into the dressing room, emerging moments later with the prize returned to its hanger. “Who do I make the check out to?” she asks, then exchanges the expensive paper for the key to her daughter‘s happiness. Xenon light spills over the glittery gown now hugging Abby’s petite frame, as Mary stands triumphant behind her daughter. “You know,” Abby says, at the dazzling prize with a cocked head and a pursed pout on her lips, “I don’t think I like this dress anymore.”