Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
Behind her, the hallway stretched toward the gym entrance. The floor tiles were buffed to a high gloss, showing the clean reflection of the fluorescent overhead lights. I could hear the murmur of voices, a low hum that grew louder as I walked past the row of brown trophies in their glass cases. Each step I took made a small, distinct tap on the floor.
The trophy cases were dusty in the corners, but the brass plates on the wooden bases were polished bright. I recognized my father’s handwriting on one of the paper labels tucked inside the glass frame, a neat, slanting script that marked the year the track team won the sectional championship. He had always taken care to keep those cases clean, using a soft flannel cloth he kept in his back pocket.
I stopped for a second before the glass, my reflection overlaying the silver cups and the faded photographs of students from decades ago. In the glass, my dress looked like a blue and green quilt, the seams straight and even, just as Clara had promised. The green bodice was fitted close, the chambray skirt falling in soft, heavy folds to my ankles. I took a deep breath, smelling the faint trace of cedar shavings and laundry soap that still clung to the fabric.
