Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“Just let us know if you need us to pass the hat around, Nicole,” Gary said.
My locker was cold when I opened it, the metal shelves smelling of dry winter air.
I took out my history binder and closed the door without making a sound.
At six o’clock that evening, the kitchen table was covered in unpaid utility bills and three separate dry-cleaning receipts.
Clara sat with her hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm tea, her eyes red-rimmed.
The sewing machine sat on the small sideboard behind her, its black cast-iron body gleaming under the low ceiling bulb.
“The roofers came by at noon,” Clara said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“They want twelve hundred dollars just to patch the valley before the next rain.”
“We have the college deposit money,” I said, sitting opposite her on the wooden chair.
“No,” Clara said, her voice sharpening.
“That is your father’s money, Nicole. He worked those extra shifts at the middle school so you wouldn’t have to take out a loan for your room.”
“But the shop is how we live,” I said.
