Another girl tilted her head and squinted at my seams.
“That’s obviously a rag. Did you sew it in shop class?”
“Look at those stitches. It’s literally homemade!”
I couldn’t feel my hands.
I couldn’t feel anything except the ache behind my eyes and the thought of Grandpa’s fingers guiding a thread through fabric.
I couldn’t feel my hands.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but I didn’t even have the strength to argue.
So I turned around. I was going to leave.
I was going to walk back to that apartment and cry into the pillow that still smelled of my grandpa’s aftershave. I was never going to tell anyone that this was how I’d said goodbye to him.
Then a hand closed gently around mine.
I was going to leave.
I looked up. Glenn.
He wore a dark navy suit and stared at me with something I couldn’t quite name. Not pity. Something quieter. Sadder.
“Tina.”
“Please let go,” I whispered. “I just want to leave.”
“Stay right here for 10 minutes.”
“Glenn, I can’t.”
“Please.” His grip tightened just barely. “I’ll be back. I promise.”
He wore a dark navy suit.
Glenn let go before I could argue and walked straight across the dance floor.
I was confused as I watched him weave between couples, past the punch bowl, past Lorraine, who lifted her chin as if she expected him to stop and flirt with her. He didn’t even look at her.
The most popular boy kept walking up the three shallow steps to the stage and leaned over to say something to the DJ. The DJ nodded. The music cut off mid-song.
Glenn let go before I could argue.
The ballroom noise rolled to a confused stop.
Heads turned. Someone laughed nervously, then stopped when nobody joined in.
Glenn took the microphone.
He tapped it once. The soft thud echoed against the walls.
My legs felt like water, and I gripped the back of a chair to stay upright.
Glenn took the microphone.
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