Any girl who couldn’t afford a prom dress could come in on Thursday afternoons, and we would sew her one.
No forms.
No names.
Just thread and time.
The first Thursday, nine girls showed up.
The second Thursday, there were seventeen.
Aunt Kaitlyn learned to hem.
Colton Vickery turned out to be a surprisingly good ironer.
Raul fixed the loose wheel on the sewing machine cart and left a thermos of coffee on the counter without saying a word.
I stood at the head of the table with a pair of fabric scissors and a mouth full of pins.
I told them the rule.
“You don’t have to be loud,” I said. “You just have to show up.”
Graduation was the first Saturday in June.
Under the stadium lights, in a sea of maroon gowns, I sat in the second row with my cap in my lap.
In the front row, directly in the center, there was an empty folding chair.
