Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I handed the microphone back to Principal Bradley, my fingers slipping off the cold metal. He took it with a slow nod, his spectacles reflecting the bright overhead lights.
“Thank you, Nicole,” he said, his low, measured voice carrying to the very back of the gym.
The silence stayed for several seconds before the first pair of hands started to clap near the bleachers. It was a slow, deliberate sound, and then another classmate joined in, and then another, until the applause filled the vast space.
I walked down the wooden steps, keeping my eyes fixed on the exit doors at the far end of the room. The space beside me remained empty where my father should have been standing, but the quiet respect of the room followed me.
Clara was waiting near the double doors, her hand pressed against her collar. She did not speak, but she reached out and squeezed my arm as we stepped into the hallway.
The heavy doors of the gymnasium swung shut behind us, dampening the sound of the applause to a low, rhythmic thud. The long hallway was empty, lit by the fluorescent tubes that my father had wiped clean every Tuesday evening.
