Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
The spring formal was still five months away, in the middle of May, and my father had never once asked about my school events.
The neon sign of Miller’s Pharmacy buzzed with a low, wet hum as I stepped inside from the twilight. The air smelled of peppermint drops and rubbing alcohol. David, the clerk who graduated two years ahead of me, was wiping down the glass counter with a yellow cloth.
“The prescription for Albert is ready, Nicole,” David said, reaching under the counter before I could speak. “Mr. Miller filled it about an hour ago.”
He slid a thick brown paper bag across the counter, the paper stiff and heavy.
“That will be sixty-eight dollars and forty cents,” David said, his pencil poised over the ledger.
I stared at the black numbers on the small white receipt stapled to the top. My father’s weekly groceries rarely came to forty dollars, and his usual cough syrup was six.
“Is there a mistake?” I asked.
“That is the price for the new ones,” David said, looking down at his ledger. “The doctor wrote the order yesterday morning.”
