“My name is Teagan Faulkner,” I said.
My voice shook, then steadied.
“Tonight someone asked if my dress was made of rags.”
Somebody in the crowd made a small, pained sound.
“It isn’t,” I said. “It’s made of receipts.”
I put my hand on a pocket.
“There are eighteen more in here. I carried them all night and didn’t know what they were.”
“My father didn’t need you to know his name. He didn’t want a plaque. He just needed you to eat.”
“He used to tell me, You don’t have to be loud, kiddo. You just have to show up.”
I looked at the green book.
“So I showed up.”
I took a breath.
“I’m not going to ask anyone to feel bad. He wouldn’t want that.”
“But the next time you want to laugh at somebody’s shirt, you should know whose lunch it might have paid for.”
Nobody clapped.
