fall to study agricultural business.”
Kaylee smiled, her cheeks red under the bright floodlights as the crowd clapped again.
“Presents for the escort,” Howard said into the microphone, his administrator tone dropping down to an old neighbor’s voice.
Kaylee turned toward my father, holding the long-stemmed red rose in both hands.
Her hands were steady now, no longer twisting the hair tie around her wrist.
My father lifted his seed corn cap off his head with his free hand, holding it against his ribs, his thin grey hair flattened from the cap band.
Kaylee pressed the stem of the red rose into his calloused palm.
My father looked down at her, his face plain and stern under the white gym lamps, and nodded once.
A photographer from the local weekly paper stepped onto the court boundary line and took two quick photos.
The flashbulbs reflected off the brass head of
