Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
A pair of headlights swept across the grass, and Kayla’s small blue sedan pulled up to the curb.
She turned off the engine, her door creaking as she stepped out, and jogged over with her hands shoved into her pockets.
“Did they listen to you?” Kayla asked, sitting down close enough that our shoulders touched.
She adjusted her glasses, her fingers tapping against the plastic frame with rapid, nervous energy.
“They listened,” I said, staring at the dark windows of the school.
“But they did not hear anything I said,” I said.
“What did Vance do?” Kayla asked.
“He told them I was overwhelmed by grief,” I said.
“He made it sound as if I were the one causing Olivia’s memory to fade by bringing it up,” I said.
Kayla looked down at her sneakers, her mouth a thin, tight line.
“They looked at me as if I were the one causing Olivia’s memory to fade,” I said, repeating the words to myself.
“They looked at me with pity, Kayla,” I said.
“Like I was a distraction they had to manage,” I said.
