I didn’t feel like anything was missing for the first time since the hospital phoned. I had the impression that my father was there, simply folded into the fabric in the same manner that he had always been woven into everything commonplace in my life.
Prom night was finally here, after much anticipation.
With loud music and dim lighting, the space was alive with the heated atmosphere of a night that had been planned for months.
Before I had taken ten steps into the door, the prickling muttering began as soon as I entered in my dress.
I had the impression that Dad was there, simply tucked up in the cloth.
“Is that dress made from our janitor’s rags?!” exclaimed a girl near the front, loud enough for the entire area to hear.
Beside her, a boy chuckled. “Is that what you wear when you can’t afford a real dress?”
Laughter spread around the room. Students in my immediate vicinity moved away, forming that particular, tiny, ruthless void that surrounds someone a crowd has chosen to find funny.
My face became heated. My dad died a few months back, and this was my way of paying tribute to him. “I made this dress from my dad’s old shirts,” I exclaimed. So perhaps you shouldn’t make fun of something you don’t understand.”Is our janitor’s rags used to make that dress?
There was silence for a moment.
Then another female giggled and rolled her eyes. “Relax! Nobody asked for the sob story!”
Standing in a corridor and listening to the statement, “She’s the janitor’s daughter… he washes our toilets!” made me feel eleven again even though I was eighteen. The only thing I wanted was to blend in with the wall.
There was a seat waiting close to the room’s edge. Falling apart in front of them was the one thing I refused to give them, so I sat down, laced my fingers together in my lap, and breathed steadily and slowly.
Another cry from the audience, loud enough to be heard over the music, called my clothing “disgusting.”
The only thing I wanted was to blend in with the wall.
I was struck deeply by the sound of it. Before I could stop them, my eyes flooded.
The music stopped just as I was about to reach my limit. The DJ moved back from the booth after looking up in confusion.
Mr. Bradley, our principle, was holding the microphone while he stood in the middle of the room.”There’s something important I need to say before we continue the celebration,” he said.
Everybody in the room turned to face him. And everyone who had been giggling two minutes before fell silent.
Everybody in the room turned to face him.
Before he spoke, Mr. Bradley glanced across the prom floor. There was only the distinct stillness of a multitude waiting in the room—no music, no murmurs.”I would like to take a moment to tell you something about this dress that Nicole is wearing today,” he added.
Mr. Bradley turned to face the other side of the room and resumed speaking into the microphone.Her father, Johnny, took responsibility of this school for eleven years. In order to prevent pupils from losing their possessions, he worked late repairing damaged lockers. He stitched the ripped backpacks back together and sent them back without a word. In order to prevent athletes from having to confess that they couldn’t afford the laundry cost, he also cleaned sports uniforms before to games.
There was no sound in the room.
