“You’d tell me if I looked like a marshmallow, right?” I scrunch my nose in the mirror at the tulle monstrosity I’m wearing before turning to give my dad a worried look.
“You look great, sweetheart,” he says gruffly, glancing up at me from the sports section of the newspaper that’s holding his attention.
It’s not like I want to be wearing a knee-length, skintight, pale-blue satin dress with six inches of white tulle along the hem, which makes me look like some kind of snowman-mermaid hybrid. But when your dad tells you that this year’s Seattle Ice Hawks ice princess is bedridden with mono, and he begs you to step in as her replacement, you don’t have that many options.
wantWhat was I supposed to do, tell him to ask his other daughter, who just happens to be reliably free on a Friday eve
