I was twelve when I went to Geraldine's birthday party. She was twelve too. Her mum gave her a pale blue dress covered in sequins and ridiculous little pom-poms. She spun around in it, laughing, soaking in the attention like light. Everyone clapped. Something ugly lit up in me right then. I didn't want to be her. I wanted to cut her down to my size. She took the dress off so as not to spoil it. When no one was watching, I slipped away into the spare room, found a pair of scissors, and went back for the dress while she was distracted. I took it apart in long, ugly cuts. Pom-poms fell to the floor like silent confetti. I left it in a heap and returned to the party as if nothing had happened. The crying started minutes later. Nobody ever knew it was me. We don't speak now. But I still hear the sound of that fabric tearing.