Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“He probably had to take a long nap,” Gary said, louder now. “Old men get tired of cleaning up after us.”
My chest felt tight, the blood rushing to my ears as the surrounding students paused to watch.
I did not stop, turning the corner toward the library to keep from crying in front of them.
The librarian, Mrs. Gable’s sister, looked up from her desk but said nothing as I hurried past the stacks.
I sat at a wooden table in the back corner, staring at the pages of my biology book without reading a single word.
The school bell rang for first period, but I could not bring myself to stand up and walk to my desk.
Three days later, the air in room 312 of the county hospital was heavy with the smell of bleach.
Aunt Clara stood on the opposite side of the metal bed, her collar pinned with three safety needles, her hands clenching a paper tissue.
She had closed her sewing shop early, her face pale and lined with worry.
The late afternoon light came through the small window, casting a long, pale square across the green linoleum floor.
