Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
The bell above the door of Clara’s shop chimed three times when I pushed it open that afternoon. The small room smelled of pressed steam and wool, a comforting heat that usually took the edge off the Indiana wind. Clara, my aunt, stood behind the counter with three silver safety pins pinned to her collar, her fingers smoothing a length of blue velvet.
“There is a plate of molasses cookies in the back, Nicole,” Clara said, not looking up from her shears. “Eat two. You look thin.”
“I am not hungry, Aunt Clara,” I said, setting my books on the scarred cutting table. “Did my father come by here today?”
Clara stopped her shears, the metal blades resting silent against the velvet. “He did. He spent twenty minutes asking about the bolt of silk brocade I keep in the back closet. The cream-colored one with the silver thread.”
I leaned against the counter. “We cannot afford brocade.”
“He wanted to know what three yards of it would run, plus the pattern fee,” Clara said, her voice dropping as she adjusted a pin on her collar. “He said a girl only has one senior spring dance, and she ought to look like she belongs there.”
