Chapter 9 - The Ashes of Yesterday
Z
The fallout from prom night hit Maplewood High like a tidal wave on Monday morning.
By Sunday evening, photos of Eli’s dress had spread like wildfire across social media. Students who had been present on the terrace posted videos of Hazel standing up to Chloe Vance, accompanied by close-up shots of the astonishing gold embroidery. The story of the boy who spent two sleepless weeks turning his best friend’s bullied journals into a haute-couture masterpiece captured the entire town's imagination.
By Monday afternoon, the school principal had called a mandatory assembly. Chloe Vance and Ryan Smith were formally suspended for severe, prolonged harassment, and Victoria Vance resigned from her position on the high school athletic board following public outrage over her behavior at the pharmacy.
I stood in our kitchen on Tuesday afternoon, making a fresh pot of coffee, watching the sunlight stream through the window. For the first time in over a year, the house didn't feel quiet in a dead way. It felt peaceful.
The back door opened, and Hazel walked in, carrying her school books under her arm. She was wearing a simple yellow sundress—no oversized hoodie, no hiding in the dark. Her hair was down, catching the sunlight, and her eyes were bright.
"Hey, Mom," she said, leaning over to kiss my cheek.
"How was school?" I asked, setting down two mugs.
"Strange," she admitted, sitting at the island. "People kept coming up to my locker trying to talk to me. Some of them apologized for... past things. I didn't say much. I just took my books and walked to class."
"Are you okay with that?"
"Yeah," Hazel smiled softly, taking a sip of her coffee. "I don't need them to be my friends, Mom. I just needed them to stop making me feel like a shadow."
A heavy knock sounded at the front door.
Hazel and I exchanged a confused look. I walked down the hallway and pulled the door open. Standing on the porch was a middle-aged woman wearing an immaculate charcoal suit, clutching a leather briefcase. Behind her, parked at the curb, was a sleek black sedan with New York license plates.
"Mrs. Mave?" the woman asked, offering a sharp, professional smile.
"Yes?"
"My name is Eleanor Vance—no relation to the local Vances, I assure you," she added with a small, dry chuckle. "I am a senior admissions director at the Parsons School of Design in New York City. A video of a certain midnight-blue gown made its way to my desk yesterday morning."
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My heart did a sudden leap in my chest. "Eli," I whispered.
"Is Mr. Hudson home?" Eleanor asked, looking past me toward Eli’s house down the street. "Because if the young man who crafted that garment doesn't have a full scholarship offer in his hands by five o'clock today, my department head is going to fire me."
