Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
I held my single blue guest ticket between my thumb and forefinger, the paper slightly creaked from where it had been tucked into my purse since Thursday. My other hand clutched the cup of lukewarm chamomile tea costing three dollars that I had bought at the station down the road, though the paper cup was already soft and losing its shape. My fingers went to the silver locket around my neck, the cold metal offering a brief anchor against the hum of the gathering crowd. Parents in their summer linens and light cardigans were already streaming past us, their voices rising in a nervous, cheerful chatter that made my throat tighten.
“Do you think he will try to stop us at the gate?” I asked, looking toward the heavy glass doors.
“He can try,” Arthur said, his calm baritone steadying the air between us. “But he knows the risk of a public scene.”
“We paid the one hundred and fifty dollars filing fee for the petition yesterday,” I said, watching a group of teachers walk past in their black robes. “That should give us the right to be here.”
