Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
Olivia’s graduation cap rested there in the center of the wood.
The white fabric seemed to catch every bit of the fading sun.
At nine the next morning, I stood by the counter in the high school main office, holding the single sheet of white paper Kayla had left on my porch. The school secretary pointed toward the inner office without looking up from her typing, her fingers clicking rhythmically against the keyboard.
Principal Vance sat behind his desk with a blue ceramic mug in his hand, a thin trail of steam rising from his tea. He did not rise when I entered, only offering a brief nod.
I laid the draft program on his desk, placing it directly over his legal pad, and pointed to the alphabetical listing for the senior class.
“Olivia is not on here,” I said.
Vance took a slow sip of his tea and set the mug down on a round cork coaster, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He glanced at the paper, then back up at me.
“The printer had a rough draft to work from, Margaret,” he said. “It was a clerical oversight, nothing more.”
