The first week back after Christmas break always felt like a slap to the face, and this year was no exception. Harriet got out of her mom's car, her boots crunching through the thin layer of frost still clinging to the pavement, her breath curling in the winter air. Her backpack weighed heavier than usual—not because of books, but from the silent pressure that came with waiting.
She'd submitted her college applications just before New Year's, hitting "send" with trembling fingers in the glow of her dim bedroom lamp. Now, there was nothing left to do but wait—and that was the part she hated most. The not-knowing. The in-between. The silence.
As she pushed through the front doors of St. Phillips, she adjusted the collar of her coat and scanned the hallway. Familiar chatter bounced off the lockers, kids comparing holiday gifts, New Year's resolutions already being abandoned, couples reuniting with dramatic hugs. It all felt surreal—like a play she'd wandered into halfway through the second act.
"Look who survived the holidays!" a voice called out behind her.
Harriet turned to find Finola bouncing up beside her, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, her curls tucked beneath a navy beanie. Finola, who was always ten steps ahead of everyone else, already had a coffee in one hand and a school-issued planner in the other, color-coded tabs sticking out like battle flags.
"Barely.." Harriet said with a wry smile.
Finola laughed. "You know what would make you feel better?"
Harriet arched a brow. "If you say 'prom planning,' I swear—"
"Prom planning!" Finola squealed, completely unbothered. She spun around dramatically and gestured to the hallway. "Come on, H. It's our senior year! Our last big event before graduation. We can't leave it in the hands of—" she lowered her voice—"Heather Mahoney and her glitter budget."
Harriet groaned. "She wants a masquerade ball, Fin. In the gym. That's not 'elegant mystery,' that's 'sticky floors and tulle in the vents.'"
"Exactly why we should be in charge." Finola looped her arm through Harriet's and led her down the hall. "Come to the student council meeting today. Let's pitch something actually cool."
Harriet hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. She'd been trying to keep her plate clean—school, essays, scholarship deadlines—but the idea of doing something fun for once... something that didn't revolve around stress and expectations...
"What did you have in mind?" she asked carefully.
Finola's eyes lit up. "A garden party theme. Evening lights, floral installations, outdoor space if the weather holds. Think 'enchanted night' but not cheesy. Elegant. Classy. Us."
Harriet tilted her head. "That... actually sounds amazing."
"Right?" Finola beamed. "We could host a design night, let people submit music ideas, help with decoration. Oh—and I found this amazing local bakery that does mini pavlovas—"
Harriet laughed, the first real laugh of the new year. "Okay, okay, I'm in. You win."
They reached their lockers, and as Harriet fished out her books for first period, her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. A reflexive pang of hope jolted through her. She pulled it out quickly.
Email from: Admissions — Glendwood University
Her heart nearly stopped.
Finola noticed immediately. "Is that...?"
Harriet nodded, unable to speak. Her fingers hovered over the screen, trembling.
"Open it, right now." Finola whispered, stepping closer.
Harriet tapped. The email expanded slowly. Her breath caught.
Then—
"Congratulations, Harriet Baldwin..."
She gasped.
"I got in!" she said, blinking fast. "I got in. Oh my god. I got in."
Finola shrieked and pulled her into a tight hug, spinning her around. "YES! YES, you did! I told you, you killed that application!"
Harriet grinned, a tear slipping down her cheek as she clung to her best friend in the middle of the crowded hallway. All the hours of writing, rewriting, doubting, dreaming—they had led to this moment. A door had opened.
She wasn't just surviving anymore.
She was moving forward.
As the bell rang for first period, Finola leaned over and whispered. "Garden party prom, college-bound queen. This is your year."
The student council room was stuffy and smelled vaguely like old printer ink and dry-erase markers, but Finola acted like it was the freaking Capitol building. She swept in with her notebook held high and her posture straight, already speaking before they'd even shut the door.
"Thank you all for being here." she said brightly, as if the other students had been summoned by her and not the weekly school bell. "Harriet and I have a proposal we'd love to share with you for this year's prom."
Harriet trailed behind her, trying not to make eye contact with Heather Mahoney, who sat at the head of the long table, arms crossed and lips pursed. Heather was everything Harriet had tried not to be in high school—greedy, power-hungry. Her mom was in the PTA and her dad donated the new scoreboard. She'd been calling the shots since freshman year.
Heather flipped her perfect ponytail. "Let me guess. You're here to shoot down the masquerade idea."
"Well.." Finola said diplomatically, "we're here to enhance it. Improve it. Elevate it."
"It's a glorified costume party." Harriet muttered under her breath. Finola elbowed her.
Harriet cleared her throat and took a step forward. "Look, I get it. Masquerades are romantic in theory. But when you picture prom—our last prom—we should be aiming for something a little more meaningful than paper masks and plastic chandeliers."
A few students nodded.
"We're proposing a garden party theme." Finola said, flipping open her sketchbook. She held it up so the group could see her drawings: lanterns hanging from trellises, tables with soft floral centerpieces, string lights crisscrossing above a polished dance floor. "Enchanted, but not fantasy. Elegant, simple, us. Think evening garden wedding, not third-grade fairy tale."
Heather raised an eyebrow. "You want to do this outside? What if it rains?"
"We already looked into venues with indoor/outdoor flexibility." Harriet said, tapping the flyer she'd printed out from a local event hall. "There's the Mayfield Conservatory, just outside town. They have a glasshouse ballroom and a private garden. It's in budget if we use the fundraising money and drop the chocolate fountain."
Heather's mouth dropped open. "The chocolate fountain is a staple!"
"It's also disgusting by the end of the night, Heather." Finola shot back. "Do we want romance and memories or a river of melted Hershey's?"
More laughter. A few of the other council members were leaning in now, clearly intrigued.
"And we're thinking about making it more student-led." Harriet added, surprising even herself. "A design night to let people vote on songs, decorations, photo booth themes. This year's been heavy—we all know that. It would be nice to have something that feels like a group effort. A celebration of... getting through it together."
That quieted the room.
But here Harriet was. Still standing. Still dreaming.
"Fine." Heather said finally, clicking her pen. "We'll vote. Majority wins. But if it flops, don't say I didn't warn you."
One by one, hands went up.
Six in favor of the garden party. Two abstained.
Heather's hand stayed firmly in her lap.
But it didn't matter.
They'd won.
After the meeting, Finola let out a high-pitched squeal and spun in a circle, her arms flailing. "We did it! Harriet Baldwin, you glorious goddess of persuasion!"
Harriet laughed, the sound feeling light and new in her chest. "I guess we're really doing this."
They walked out of the room together, blueprints and sketches in hand, already discussing color palettes and catering.
It was still cold outside, the January wind biting at their cheeks. But for the first time in a long time, Harriet didn't mind the chill. Spring was coming. Prom was happening.
And she was starting to believe again—in joy, in plans, in the beauty of what came next.