Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
The next morning, the school library was cold. The steam radiators clanked behind the tall oak bookshelves, but the draft from the north windows kept the air damp and thin.
I sat at the back table with my history textbook open, though the words on the page had stopped making sense twenty minutes earlier.
A shadow fell across the table, followed by the metallic jangle of a heavy brass key fob. Gary stood there, his leather varsity jacket smelling of expensive hair gel and clean wool.
“You still going to that dance, Nicole?” he asked, his voice carrying over the quiet rows of books.
I did not look up from my book. “Yes.”
Gary pulled out the wooden chair opposite me, the legs scraping loudly against the linoleum. He did not sit, but rested one foot on the bottom rung, jangling the keys in his right hand.
“My mother has three different catalogs from the dress shops in Indianapolis,” he said, leaning forward. “She said she would buy you the blue taffeta one on page twelve. It has the little pearls on the straps.”
