Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
The heat of the building hit me first, smelling of steam radiators and winter coats. Mrs. Gable, the school secretary who was taking tickets at the wooden table, looked up from her metal cash box. She held a roll of red paper tickets in her left hand, her fingers stained with blue ink from the office stamp. Her eyes went from my face down to the hem of my skirt, then back up to my collar.
“Ticket, please, Nicole,” she said. Her voice was quiet, nearly lost under the bass notes of the music coming from the gymnasium.
I reached into my small purse and handed her the printed slip Principal Bradley had given me. My fingers brushed her palm, and her skin felt dry and warm. She tore a ticket from the roll and held it out, her eyes lingering on the blue chambray patch near my shoulder.
“Your aunt does beautiful work,” Mrs. Gable said. She did not smile, but her voice had a soft weight to it.
“She does,” I said. I twirled the silver signet ring on my right pinky finger, round and round against the skin.
