Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
I opened the notebook and ran my thumb over the pencil sketch of the frog. The lines were quick and light, the crown slightly crooked on its head.
“She wanted to be a writer, you know,” Kayla said quietly. “She told me once she wanted to write stories about people who lived in small towns like this, but she wanted to make the endings happier than they usually are in real life.”
“She would have written beautiful stories,” I said.
“I am going to major in journalism,” Kayla said, adjusting her glasses with a quick tap of her index finger. “I told my advisor I want to work for the campus paper starting in September.”
“They will be lucky to have you, Kayla.”
“I just want to make sure people keep asking questions,” she said. “That is what Olivia would have done if she were the one going.”
She stood up and brushed some cookie crumbs off her jeans, her movements quick and full of that familiar energy that always reminded me of the afternoons the girls spent shouting in our backyard.
