Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“These are not cleaning rags, Gary,” I said. My voice was low and deliberate, the way my father used to speak when he wanted me to listen.
Gary took two steps closer, his polished black shoes gleaming under the high gymnasium lights. He tilted his head, looking at the faded blue chambray fabric of my skirt.
“Could have fooled me,” he said. “It looks like the stuff your old man used to mop up the hallway spills with. You should have taken the offer for a real dress, Nicole. This is just embarrassing for the rest of us.”
He turned to Brian, expecting another laugh, but Brian was looking at the green fabric of my collar.
“Is that the old work shirt?” Brian asked, his voice quieter than Gary’s.
“Yes,” I said, looking at Brian. “It is.”
“The one from the basement?” Brian asked.
“The very one,” I said.
Gary frowned, his hand going back into his pocket to jangle the brass key fob. “What does it matter what shirt it is? It is still a work shirt. This is a formal dance, not a clean-up shift.”
