damp potting soil.
Clara Miller came out from behind the green plastic curtain at the back of the room, wiping her hands on her canvas apron.
“Afternoon, Brenda,” Clara said, looking over her reading glasses. “Are you here for Kaylee’s senior night rose?”
“I need the long-stemmed red rose,” I said.
Clara turned to the tall refrigerated display case and pulled out a long, clear plastic presentation box.
A fresh red rose lay inside on a bed of green tissue paper, bound with a maroon satin bow.
She laid the box carefully on the glass counter between us.
“Fifteen dollars flat,” Clara said. “The athletic office sent down the official requirement list this morning.”
I handed her the twenty-dollar bill my father had given me at the kitchen table.
Clara opened her cash register drawer and counted out five single bills onto the glass.
“Is Travis driving the team bus
