Sophia
Mia dragged me to three different boutiques before we found the one she declared, with the finality of a woman who had strong opinions about formalwear, "the one."
"This one," she said, pulling a deep green gown off the rack and holding it up against me in the mirror before I'd even had a chance to object. "This is the one. Try it on. I'm not asking."
"I already went shopping with my mom for the gala dress."
"And I'm sure whatever your mother picked is very tasteful and very appropriate," Mia said, already pushing me toward the fitting room, "which is exactly why we're finding you a backup option that isn't tasteful and appropriate. This is a hospital fundraiser, Sophia, not a funeral. You're allowed to look like you know it."
I gave up arguing, mostly because arguing with Mia
