Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
“They want me to step down,” he said, nodding toward the office window.
The gold pen was gone from his hand, replaced by a paper cup of lukewarm water.
“I wanted the ceremony to be perfect,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
“I am sorry about the program,” he said, his eyes staying on the floor.
“I am sorry about all of it.”
The anger that had kept me awake for six weeks did not rise to meet his words.
“We both wanted something that wasn’t possible, Vance,” I said.
He looked at me, his mouth opening slightly as if to ask a question.
“I won’t be calling the board president,” I said.
He let out a slow, ragged breath and leaned his shoulder against the painted cinderblock wall.
I turned and walked back down the empty hallway toward the exit.
Brian drove us home without turning on the radio, his left hand resting on the gearshift while his right hand held mine.
The kitchen was warm when we walked in, the afternoon light cutting across the empty counter.
Brian took my coat and laid it over the back of the chair, his movements slower than usual.
