I Sewed My Prom Dress From My Late Father’s Work Shirts—My Classmates Called It Janitor’s Rags, Until the Principal Stopped the Music and the Whole Room Went Silent

Sixty-two dollars.

It was every cent from the shifts I had picked up at the bakery on Main Street.

I opened the green book on the cart beside me.

Raul had given it to me that morning.

Under my father’s last entry, in my own handwriting, I wrote a date.

Then the initials of a freshman who had stood in the cafeteria line the day before, staring at the floor while his card beeped red.

I did not ask his name.

I did not let him see me.

At 2:40, I slid the envelope under the register.

Mrs. Eriksen did not look up.

She just smiled at the cash drawer, and pressed a small yellow note against the envelope.

For whoever’s card is empty.

Outside the cafeteria windows, the late-afternoon sun came in across the floor, golden on the wax.

It smelled like lemon cleaner and starch.

It smelled like being safe.