She stopped.
“I was wrong.”
Eli looked at the floor.
The principal continued.
“We saw clothing. We saw a disruption. We failed to see a promise.”
Nobody moved.
Then she asked Eli if he wanted to say something.
At first, he shook his head.
Then he looked at Maya’s daisy in my hand.
And changed his mind.
He walked back to the stage in the red dress.
This time, nobody laughed.
He stood behind the podium.
“My sister’s name was Maya Carter.”
His voice trembled, but he kept going.
“She was supposed to graduate tonight too.”
A photo appeared on the large screen behind him.
Maya.
Seventeen days before her final hospitalization.
Standing outside our house in ripped jeans, sunglasses, and that ridiculous grin she’d inherited from her father.
I heard people gasp.
“She picked this dress herself,” Eli said.
“She bought it when she still thought there was a chance she’d be here.”
