Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I looked at him then, my fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “Why would your mother do that?”
“The school does not need people talking,” Gary said, his tone dry and thin. “We want the senior class picture to look right. Nobody wants to see cleaning rags in the front row.”
“They are not rags,” I said.
“They look like what your dad wore when he cleaned the boys’ bathroom, Nicole,” he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Everyone knows you do not have the money for a real dress. Just take the catalog one.”
“We do not need your charity, Gary,” I said, my voice steady despite the heat rising in my neck.
He jangled his keys again, his jaw tightening as he looked down at me. “It is not charity. It is a favor. You should learn the difference before you end up like him.”
He turned and walked toward the checkout desk, his heavy boots clicking against the floor. I sat there for a long time, my fingers tracing the grain of the oak table until the bell rang for the lunch hour.
