Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
“You really mean to go through with this,” he said.
“I do,” I said.
He reached into his pocket and laid two fifty-dollar bills on the table beside my tea. “For the motel bill,” he said, though we both knew it was for something else.
By nine in the evening, the motel room had grown cool again. The only sound was the hiss of the steam iron I had borrowed from the manager’s office. I spread my navy blue dress across the small ironing board, pressing out the creases from the suitcase.
Beside the dress lay Olivia’s graduation cap, its dark blue mortarboard catching the pale light of the desk lamp. I smoothed the yellow tassel, turning the metal year charm so the numbers faced outward.
The legal papers were sorted into four neat piles on the desk. The state board complaint sat on top, the signature line dry and dark.
There was no sound from the highway now. I folded the ironing board and slid it into the narrow space behind the wardrobe, then sat on the edge of the bed.
