It was another dance, and her step-mom seemed to be catching onto this theme of Tatum actually going to them. She had received her dress almost a week before the actual night of the dance and it had been hanging on it's hanger on the back the door in her room, like a looming pink nightmare. She had been trying to avoid thinking about it, but knew the day to actually wearing it was getting closer and closer.

Now fully dressed up, feeling foreign all over except for her feet, Tatum was fidgeting uncomfortably with the top of the dress, giving it a rough pull upward. It kept sliding down, and even with the padded bra she had been sent to go with it, there wasn't much improvement. Between the god awful outfit, Frankie seemed to be in some kind of piss that Tatum just couldn't put her finger on.

Asking about it seemed sort of dangerous, and she wasn't sure she wanted to go there. It would be best to salvage what was left of the night.

Glancing over at her taller than usual girlfriend, Tatum offered a little smile. "You wanna go smoke or something? It's still pretty early," she suggested, turning to glance at the crowd as she said it. Some people were around, but most were just showing up.