Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“My father says a school should have standards,” Gary said, his voice rising so the students nearby could hear. “He says when people start wearing quilts to a formal event, it makes the whole county look like a depression-era camp. I am going to Dartmouth in the fall, Nicole. I do not want my graduation pictures looking like a charity drive.”
“Your father did not build this school, Gary,” I said.
“He donated the scoreboard,” Gary shot back, pointing his thumb toward the black and yellow scoreboard hanging on the brick wall. “That is more than your old man ever did.”
“My father kept the roof from falling on your head,” I said. “He spent three days in the crawlspace during the freeze, wrapping the pipes so they would not burst and ruin the classrooms. He did it while he was coughing so hard he had to sit down every ten minutes.”
Gary jangled his keys again, but his grip was looser now. “That was his job. He got paid for it.”
