Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
The hallway was crowded, but Principal Bradley was waiting near the main office door, his wire-rimmed spectacles glinting under the yellow corridor lights. He adjusted them with his thumb as I approached.
“Nicole,” he said, his voice slow and measured. “Step into my office for a moment, if you please.”
I followed him inside, the heavy walnut door clicking shut behind us. The office smelled of old paper and the lemon oil he used on his desk.
“I had a visit from your aunt Clara this morning,” Principal Bradley said, sitting behind his desk and folding his hands. “She was concerned about your preparations for the spring dance.”
My hand went to my pinky ring. “Clara should not have come here.”
“She is worried about you,” he said gently. “And so am I. Your father was a valued member of our staff for over a decade, Nicole. We have an emergency fund for student fees and activities.”
He reached into his top drawer and pulled out a small pink voucher printed with the school seal.
