Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“And the blue shirts,” I continued, my voice steady, “are the ones he wore every single day while he repaired the desks we sat at. He even fixed the brass hinge on your locker door, Gary, when you jammed it after the winter break.”
Gary opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He looked down at his own polished shoes, his face turning a dull red under the bright lights. The students around us had gone completely quiet, the only sound being the distant needle scratching on the record player at the far end of the gym.
The music stopped. The sudden silence in the gymnasium was heavy, broken only by the hum of the ventilation fans high on the brick walls.
Principal Bradley stepped up to the wooden podium at the side of the stage. He adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles, his fingers moving slowly as he set down a manila folder on the stand. He reached for the microphone, his knuckles white against the metal neck of the stand.
“If I could have your attention for a moment,” Principal Bradley said. His voice was slow and measured, carrying clearly through the speakers mounted on the rafters.
