Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
We walked past the row of green metal lockers, their painted surfaces dull in the quiet light. Near the center of the hall, the silence of the corridor felt heavy and vast compared to the noise of the gym.
Gary stood near locker 114, his back pressed against the brass hinge of the door my father had repaired. The heavy brass key fob in his right hand was completely still, no longer jangling against his knuckles.
He looked down at his leather shoes, his shoulders pulled forward in a way I had never seen before. His face was pale under the harsh fluorescent lights, his jaw set tight.
I kept my chin up, my boots clicking against the polished linoleum floor as we drew closer to him.
“Nicole,” he said, his voice much quieter than the loud tones he used in the cafeteria. He did not look up, his eyes remaining fixed on the floor between us.
I did not stop walking. I did not offer him a word of anger, nor did I smile at the quiet that had finally settled over him.
