Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“The girls at that school,” Clara started, then stopped herself, her hand going to her collar where the safety pins gleamed. “They have those silk gowns their mothers ordered from Indianapolis. They will look at you, child.”
“Let them,” I said, lifting the collar of the oldest blue shirt. “This fabric is stronger than silk.”
Clara did not answer right away. She stood up and walked to the narrow pantry closet behind the stove, her shoes clicking on the linoleum. When she came back, she was holding her heavy iron shears, the black painted handles chipped near the thumb loop.
“These belonged to your grandmother,” Clara said, laying the heavy metal shears on the table with a dull clank. “They can cut through denim if you hold them right.”
“Will you help me?” I asked.
“We will have to strip the seams first,” Clara said, her voice rising with a sudden, sharp energy. “We will use the blue shirts for the skirt, Nicole, and save the green one for the very center.”
“The green one?” I asked.
