Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
I leaned forward, the plastic of the chewed blue pen fitting into my fingers.
My hand was steady as I wrote my name, the blue ink flowing smoothly across the white paper.
The signature was clear and sharp on the page.
The kitchen table was covered in manila folders by the time the first Tuesday of July arrived.
Brian poured fresh coffee into two blue ceramic mugs, the steam rising to meet the morning light that cut across the linoleum floor. He set one mug down next to my stack of papers and pulled his chair close to mine, his shoulder brushing against my sleeve.
“How many do we have left to read?” he asked.
“Sixteen,” I said. “Three of them came in late yesterday afternoon.”
I handed him the folder on top of the pile, which was labeled with the name of a boy who lived three streets over on Maple Avenue. Brian put his glasses on, his fingers tracing the edge of the cardboard folder before he flipped it open to the first page.
“He wants to study agricultural science,” Brian said. “He wrote his essay about his grandfather’s orchard.”
