Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“My locker has been stuck since Tuesday,” Gary said, turning his glare toward me as if I were the one who had locked it. “Your dad is supposed to keep this place running, Nicole, but I guess he is too busy coughing down in the basement.”
Before I could reply, my father appeared from the basement stairwell, carrying his gray metal toolbox in one hand and his push broom in the other. He did not say a word to Gary, but he set the broom against the tiled wall and knelt on the cold floor.
“The latch is bent, Gary,” my father said, his voice a low, raspy whisper that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete.
“Then replace the whole thing,” Gary said, stepping back and crossing his arms. “My father paid the school activity fee three months ago, and I should not have to fight my locker every morning just to get my books.”
My father pulled a brand new brass hinge from his gray toolbox, his fingers moving slowly as he aligned the metal with the pre-drilled holes in the frame. I noticed his denim vest pocket was flat, the silver pocket watch sitting inside it without the weight of its usual silver chain.
