Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
The next morning at nine, Principal Vance did not offer me a seat. The smell of fresh print from a stack of newly delivered graduation programs on the side table was heavy in the small room, a sharp reminder of how close the day had come.
Vance stood behind his mahogany desk, his face set in a polite, rigid mask. In his right hand, he held a heavy gold pen, tapping it against the wooden edge with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made my chest tighten.
“This is an official administrative directive, Margaret,” Vance said, his voice carrying the formal, patronizing politeness he used when speaking to disgruntled parents.
He picked up a white envelope from his blotter and slid it across the desk. The envelope was thick, bearing the official seal of the school district in raised blue ink.
“Open it, please,” he said.
I did not touch the envelope. I kept my fingers wrapped around the silver locket at my neck, squeezing the metal until the edges pressed into my skin.
