I slipped into Ms. Carter’s English class, the hum of teenage chatter wrapping around me like a familiar song. The room was a mess of backpacks, scribbled notebooks, and the faint smell of eraser dust. At the heart of it was Kyle, slouched at his desk, doodling in his notebook, his short hair and baggy hoodie screaming casual indifference. Oh, Kyle, you’re about to become my masterpiece.
With a snap of my fingers, reality rippled. Kyle’s hoodie and jeans dissolved, replaced by a floor-length prom dress, a cascade of deep emerald satin that hugged his frame before flaring into a delicate train. The dress gleamed under the fluorescent lights, its bodice laced with intricate silver embroidery. Strappy silver heels appeared on his feet, and his nails—now manicured and painted a soft coral—shone as they gripped his pencil. His hair, once a practical crop, bloomed into glossy chestnut waves, spilling past his shoulders. His skin smoothed to a luminous glow, and a touch of makeup—subtle blush, winged eyeliner, glossy lips—settled on his face. To the class, to Kyle, this was just another Tuesday. To me? Pure art.
Kyle shifted in his seat, the dress rustling. He felt… right. The mirror in his mind showed him looking polished, put-together, exactly how he wanted to be. He ran a hand through his long hair, savoring its softness, and adjusted the dress’s neckline with a casual grace. The gown’s weight felt normal, like it was just his style. A quiet confidence bloomed in his chest—he liked how he looked, how the dress made him stand out. He didn’t question why he was wearing it; it was just… him.
Ms. Carter clapped her hands at the front. “Alright, everyone, let’s focus. Kyle, can you read the next passage from The Great Gatsby?”
Kyle stood, smoothing the dress with a fluid motion. The train swished as he moved through the aisle, his heels clicking steadily. The dress was heavy, tugging at his waist, but he navigated it with ease, shoulders squared, steps deliberate. The gown forced smaller strides, a slight sway in his hips, but to him, this was how he always walked. His classmates’ eyes followed—not with confusion, but with quiet respect. They saw nothing odd, just Kyle, owning his look.
“Nice dress, Kyle,” said Emily, a broad-shouldered girl with a buzzcut, her tone warm. She leaned back, doodling. “It’s super cool.”
Kyle smiled, a blush creeping up. “Thanks, Em. Just felt like wearing it.” He twirled a strand of hair, the gesture instinctive. The compliment settled into him, fueling his confidence. He did look good, and he loved that it showed.
He reached the front and opened his book, the dress catching the light as he read. “In my younger and more vulnerable years…” His voice was steady, but his mind lingered on his appearance. He liked how the dress moved with him, how the heels gave him height. He pictured himself walking through the halls, the train trailing like a shadow, his hair bouncing. It made him feel… special. Not for any event, just for himself.
As he read, he shifted his weight, the heels pinching his toes. The train brushed the floor, and he adjusted his stance to avoid stepping on it. It was a lot to manage—more than his old sneakers—but he liked the effort. It felt purposeful, like he was curating his presence. He finished the passage and looked up, catching Christopher’s eye. The lanky boy with curly hair gave a small nod, and Kyle’s chest warmed. He liked being noticed.
Ms. Carter nodded. “Well done, Kyle. Sophia, you’re next.”
Kyle returned to his seat, the dress swishing. He gathered the train to avoid tripping, a motion that felt second nature. Sitting, he crossed his ankles, the satin cool against his skin. The desk felt cramped with the dress’s volume, but he tucked the fabric under his thighs without thinking. He glanced at his nails, admiring the coral polish, and a small smile curved his lips. He felt like he was glowing, and the class’s casual acceptance amplified it.
“Hey, Kyle, that dress is awesome,” said Brenda, a petite girl with glasses, leaning across the aisle. “Where’d you get it?”
Kyle shrugged, grinning. “Just had it in my closet, I guess.” He glanced at Christopher, who was pretending to read but clearly listening. The class saw nothing unusual in Kyle’s outfit—it was just his vibe, always had been.
Brenda laughed. “You pull it off so well.”
Kyle’s confidence surged. “Thanks. It’s just… comfortable, you know?” He smoothed the dress, the motion calming. The fabric was heavy, but it grounded him, like armor he chose to wear. He didn’t think about why he wore it; he just knew it felt right. He caught himself imagining how it would look in different lights, how it would move if he spun. The thought thrilled him.
The class shifted to discussing Gatsby’s obsession with image, but Kyle’s mind stayed on his dress. He doodled in his notebook—a sketch of himself in the gown, hair flowing, standing tall. He didn’t question his attachment to it; it was just part of his day. He wondered about accessories—maybe earrings? A bracelet? He made a mental note to check his room later, unaware his closet had been hoodies and jeans until minutes ago.
When he stood to grab a pencil from his backpack, the train caught on his desk. He paused, then chuckled, untangling it with a quick flick. “This thing’s got attitude,” he muttered, and Emily snorted.
“Worth it, though,” she said. “You’re killing it.”
Kyle grinned, settling back. The dress was a lot—physically, mentally—but he loved it. It made him feel bold, like he could walk into any room and own it. He adjusted his hair, tucking a strand behind his ear, and caught Christopher glancing again. Kyle’s smile widened. He felt unstoppable.
The bell rang, and the room erupted into motion. Kyle stood, gathering his things carefully to avoid wrinkling the dress. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, the strap awkward against the gown’s delicate straps, and moved through the crowded aisle. His heels clicked, the train swished, and he walked with a poise he didn’t question. His classmates parted for him, not out of confusion, but because he carried himself like he belonged.
“See you later, Kyle!” Brenda called, heading out.
“Catch you,” Kyle replied, his voice light. He glanced at Christopher, lingering by the door, and gave a playful nod. Christopher smiled, and Kyle’s heart lifted. He stepped into the hall, the dress shimmering, his hair bouncing. He felt like he was floating, like the world was his to command.
I leaned against the wall, watching him go. Kyle’s ease, his unshakeable belief that this was just his normal, was better than any script I could’ve written. The class, the school, saw nothing amiss—just Kyle, the guy in the prom dress, radiating confidence. I smirked, already plotting my next twist. This game was too good to quit.
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