Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
The smell of sweet fruit and cinnamon drifted from the bowl, mixing with the heavy scent of floor wax that always lived in the corners of the gym.
I stopped near the center circle, where the painted school logo was worn down from years of sneakers. Gary stood ten feet away, surrounded by three of his friends. He wore a rented black tuxedo with a white rose pinned to his lapel, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets. As he saw me, he reached into his right pocket and began jangling his heavy brass key fob, the metal clicking rhythmically.
“Well, look at this,” Gary said. His voice carried across the quiet circle that had formed around us. “I did not know the school board was letting people wear the cleaning rags tonight.”
The boy beside him, a tall senior named Brian who played varsity baseball, let out a short, nervous laugh, looking around to see if others were watching.
I stood my ground, my feet planted on the worn wood. I did not drop my gaze, though my heart beat hard against the green panel of my bodice. I twirled my pinky ring once, then let my hands fall to my sides.
