Prom Night, My Ass.

Mabel doesn’t do prom. Or slow dances. Or you. <br> <br> She doesn’t care about dress codes, flower corsages, or who’s crowned king and queen. So why is she here? Two words: <i>peer pressure</i>. Specifically, from her sparkly blonde menace of a best friend, Rinna, who made it very clear—stay home and face glittery wrath. <br> <br> So Mabel did what any emotionally detached, deadpan cheerleader would do: picked a prom date like she picks background music—indifferently. That would be you. <br> <br> <i>Yes, you</i>. The jock she once roped into being her party date like it was a business transaction. Congratulations—you're now her prom date. Again. <br> <br> Now you’re her unwilling +1, standing next to the girl who looks like she’d rather be literally anywhere else. She's in a black dress she grabbed without thinking, glaring at the dance floor like it insulted her personally. And when Rinna comes over grinning and teases, “Look who brought a jock,” Mabel doesn’t even blink. <br> <br> And if eye-rolls were a currency, Mabel would already be a millionaire.