The File on Angelyn Stark Read online

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2011 by Catherine Atkins

  Jacket art copyright © 2011 by Getty Images

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Atkins, Catherine.

  The file on Angelyn Stark / Catherine Atkins. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Fifteen-year-old Angelyn Stark, a troubled high school student, is trying to get along while keeping a terrible secret about her past, but when one of her teachers tries to offer her encouragement and support, she does not know how to react.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89989-8

  [1. Secrets—Fiction. 2. Family problems—Fiction. 3. Sexual abuse—Fiction. 4. Teacher-student relationships—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.A862Fi 2011 [Fic]—dc23

  2011016681

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  To Michele and Ginger

  With thanks to the real Miss Bass, Jim Atkins, Sarah Carrillo,

  Cindy Dodge, and everyone who read for me,

  especially Amanda Jenkins.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  CHAPTER ONE

  Angelyn, Fifteen

  New girl walks through the three of us smoking in the bathroom. Jacey and me on the sinks, our long legs dangling. Charity, opposite, leaning against a partition. “She must think she’s hot,” Charity says as the girl disappears into a stall.

  I try and think if I’ve seen her before. One thing’s for sure.

  New girl doesn’t know about us.

  You don’t use this bathroom without asking first. Not during morning break.

  Ten-thirty to ten-forty, Monday through Friday, the second-floor Vocational Building girls’ room belongs to us. Everybody knows it.

  We snicker when we hear the girl peeing. As if we’ve never done that. Charity moves to the stall and thumps a fist against the door. Once. Twice. The flow stops. And starts. Jacey and I exchange a grin.

  “Thinks she’s so cool,” Jacey says when the girl comes out. She’s scared. Dark eyes taking us in. Ballerina body. Charity’s in her face, twice her size.

  I push off from the sink. Jacey does too. I flick my cigarette to the drain. Jacey drops hers on the floor. I’m warm watching the girl squirm, warm in my stomach like I’ve just had cocoa. Curious too. Excited. I’m not bored.

  We take Charity’s back, a triangle of tough.

  “This is our space,” Charity says.

  “I didn’t know.” The girl’s voice comes out dry.

  We have her blocked. The only way out that doesn’t go through us is the window high on the wall behind her. It’s a long way down.

  “Did you have a good pee?” Charity asks.

  “The way you were banging—” The girl takes a breath. “I thought you wanted to come in and see for yourself.”

  That makes me laugh. The girl lifts her chin. In profile, in the speckled mirror, she looks proud. Pretty girl in crap clothes. No makeup.

  “During break we come in here to smoke,” I say. “The first-floor girls’ room is where you want to be.”

  “What if I want to smoke?” the girl asks.

  “Try Mr. Rossi’s room, down the hall,” Jacey says. “He’s a sweetie. He’ll let you, no problem.”

  She’s messing with her. Mr. Rossi would never.

  “Got it,” the girl says. “Now can I go?”

  I lean to a sink and flip the water on. “Wash your hands first.”

  “Wouldn’t want to be unsanitary,” Jacey says.

  “Pig.” From Charity.

  The girl’s eyes get wide. “Don’t call me that.”

  Charity steps in. “I’ll call you whatever.”

  The girl stumbles from her. “I don’t want to be late.”

  “Then wash,” Jacey says.

  Time twitches at me. “Hey, I don’t want to be late either.”

  Charity looks at me. “Don’t try to stop this.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “But you know Mr. Rossi.”

  “He’ll wait for you,” she says.

  “Shut up.”

  “Maybe we should go,” Jacey says.

  “Come on!” Charity’s whining. “We’ve got time.”

  The girl starts through us. Charity hip-checks her to the sink.

  “Wash your damn hands,” she says in a voice that would scare me.

  The girl stands head down. She takes a shuddery breath.

  “I’ll fight you. All three. Is that how it is here?”

  Charity watches her. Jacey is still.

  “This school sucks,” I say. “Where are you from?”

  “The Bay Area,” the girl says. “San Jose. I know how to fight.”

  Small as she is, it’s hard to believe.

  “What, you got a knife?” Charity asks.

  The girl holds up her hands. “I got claws.”

  Her nails are short. Unpainted. No-style, like the rest of her.

  “Is she trying to be funny?” Jacey asks.

  “Wash,” I tell the girl. “Then we all can leave.”

  The water’s run hot. Steam on the mirror.

  “This is my first day at Blue Creek High,” the girl says.

  “Aww. Poor you,” Jacey says.

  “Angelyn, make her do it,” Charity says. “Make her wash her hands.”

  The first bell goes off. Five minutes to World Cultures.

  I stand back. “I’m not being late for this.”

  “Yeah, let her be dirty,” Jacey says.

  Charity jabs a finger at the girl. “Watch yourself.”

  We turn our backs on her.

  “Angelyn,” the girl says. “You’re not Angelyn Stark?”

  Jacey and Charity look at each other.

  “Yeah, I am Angelyn Stark,” I say. “You think you know me?”

  The girl says no. “But I know someone who does.”

  I wave my friends
out. Charity peeks back. I wait.

  “Who knows me?” I ask when we’re alone.

  The girl walks to the sink, adjusts the temperature, and sticks her hands under.

  “My mom is an aide at a nursing home. I was talking with one of the residents, and she said she knew a girl who goes here. You.”

  I watch her scrub. “I don’t know anyone like that.”

  “Thanks for not letting that girl kill me, by the way.”

  “I wanted to leave on time. That was it.”

  She shuts off the water. “Thanks, still. I’m Jeni Traynor.”

  I shrug.

  “I guess we should both leave,” Jeni says.

  “Wait,” I say as she hoists her backpack.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t come in here again.”

  I shake my head. “What exactly did this resident say about me?”

  “Well—that you used to be neighbors.”

  I get cold. “Is her name Mrs. Daly?”

  “The residents go by first names, mostly. Hers is Eleanor.”

  “Eleanor Daly.” I nod. “Don’t talk to her again.”

  Jeni blinks. “What?”

  “You heard me. Stay away from her.”

  “But—Eleanor didn’t say much, and all I did was listen.”

  My chest is tight. “All you did was listen to crap about me.”

  “No! She said nice things.”

  Even worse. “You don’t talk to her, you don’t talk about me. My friends will know if you do, and they’ll tell me.”

  “Those girls?” Jeni shudders. “I wouldn’t say a thing around them.”

  “So why’d you talk to me? I’m the same as they are.”

  She searches me. “Hey, Angelyn, I’m sorry.”

  “You will be,” I say. Staring.

  Jeni takes a step back. “Eleanor said you’d be friendly. Not like this.”

  I follow. “This is me. How I am.”

  We stop at the wall. She turns her head.

  “All right. I’ll keep quiet.”

  “What else did Mrs. Daly say about me?”

  “She said— She said you’d had some trouble.”

  I draw my fist back. “I am trouble.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Out of the girls’ room the hall is empty. I take off running, past pink lockers and closed classroom doors until I reach Mr. Rossi’s. The late bell is starting as I turn the handle. I’m in as it ends, door shut.

  Mr. Rossi stands from his desk. “Ms. Stark, you’re late.”

  “No.” I’m breathing hard. “The bell was still ringing.”

  He looks at the clock. “That’s a technicality. If you’re late, own it.”

  I straighten. “I’m not late. It’s a technicality if you say I am.”

  The class moans. Someone laughs. Charity?

  Through lowered eyes Mr. Rossi watches me. With a muscled body and blond buzzed hair, he looks more like a jock than a teacher.

  “I was not late,” I say.

  “Lunch detention,” he says.

  “Mr. Rossi! That’s not fair.”

  “Take your seat, Ms. Stark.”

  I face the class. “You guys saw. I got here in time. Tell him.”

  Some kids grin. Others look away. Charity mouths something.

  At the front of our row, prep-boy Eric takes the time to study me.

  Mr. Rossi is seated, frowning. “I’ve made my decision.”

  “Get me for something I do,” I say. “Not this.”

  “You’re holding up class,” he says.

  “I can’t have detention. My mom will be so mad.”

  Mr. Rossi’s eyes are icy. Chips of blue.

  “Please,” I say. Direct to him.

  He opens his mouth and shuts it.

  What people say about Mr. Rossi is that he’s a hard-ass. Tough on kids.

  But he’s young. He hasn’t taught long. Maybe he remembers.

  “We’ll discuss it after class,” he says.

  I can’t tell if I’m in more trouble or less.

  “Angelyn, take your seat.”

  My name. Not Ms. Stark. Still, I wait.

  Squeaky shoes in the corridor. The noise stops at the classroom door. A knock and the girl from the bathroom—Jeni—steps in.

  “Is this World Cultures?” Her voice falls off when she sees me.

  “This is World Cultures,” Mr. Rossi says. “You’re late.”

  I stare at her. Not one word.

  “I’m new,” Jeni says. “I got lost. I guess.”

  “You could have asked someone,” Mr. Rossi says. “Being new is no excuse.”

  I leave them. Down the aisle Jacey mimes applause. Charity is grinning. Mr. Rossi gives Jeni the lecture he started with me. The detention part too. I’m guessing that lets me off.

  After class I check.

  Mr. Rossi shuffles papers. “We’re good.”

  I meet my friends in the hall. I’ve won and don’t know why.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “It’s ’cause he likes you,” Charity says when we’re on our way to lunch.

  I shiver in my stomach. “Does not. He’s a teacher.”

  “Rossi let you out of trouble quick enough,” Jacey says.

  “It was that girl coming in. That’s why.”

  “Where does she know you from anyway?” Charity asks.

  “Nowhere.” I walk faster. “She was being stupid. I fixed that.”

  “You hit her,” Jacey says, like she’s seen it all before. With me, she has.

  I rub a fist against my jeans pocket. “Sure.”

  We take the sidewalk three across. Girls step off the curb. Guys let us by without giving us shit. It’s good to be us.

  Lunch is in the back of my boyfriend Steve’s truck on the street behind the Agriculture Building. While the boys holler up the block, Jacey, Charity, and I take beers from the cooler and share chips around. Every couple of minutes I check for Steve, pissed at the time he’s not spending with me.

  “He’ll count those cans,” I say when Charity reaches for a second one.

  “You don’t have to tell me!” But she pulls her hand back.

  “Angelyn,” Jacey says, a spark in her voice. “Your dog is following you again.”

  I swing around. “What?” And see him. “Shit.”

  It’s Nathan Daly, the Ghost of Blue Creek High, fingers twisted in the hurricane fence that divides the street from Ag, staring at me like I’ve got his dinner.

  I stand, wobbly on my heels. “Go home, dog!”

  The girls are laughing.

  “Retard,” Charity calls.

  “Loser,” Jacey says.

  Nathan doesn’t flinch. “Angelyn, I need to talk to you.”

  “No!” I say so loud it scrapes my throat. My friends stare at me.

  I call him the Ghost because I wish he’d disappear.

  Steve molds me to the driver’s side door, blocking out the daylight, my butt gripped in his hands, my arms around his neck. He kisses me and I taste beer and cigarettes and him. I try to forget that Nathan could be watching and that Charity is, as she passes beers over the side to Steve’s friends. Jacey’s up the street with her boyfriend, and I’m wishing mine weren’t quite so popular.

  “What we need is to be alone,” Steve says, an inch from my lips.

  I grin. “You read my mind.”

  With that he pushes off, shooing his friends, ordering Charity from the truck.

  I straighten my T. “Wait,” I say to no one. Nathan isn’t where he was.

  Steve comes back, his eyes lit up like Christmas. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Um.” Everybody’s watching. Charity looks mad. “Like, where?”

  “The reservoir,” he says, smile fading. He is big, sandy-haired, good-looking.

  “We’d never make it back in time.”

  Steve taps his fingers along his thigh. “So, today we ditch fifth period.”

  “I can’t. I almost got detention already. As
k Charity.”

  Charity steps forward. “She did. From Rossi. He barely let her off.”

  Steve’s head is down. “Angelyn, you’re not being cool.”

  I spread a look around the ones watching. Most of them turn.

  “Steve.” I touch his hand. “I said I couldn’t go today. I didn’t mean, not ever.”

  He raises his eyes. “It’s been too long.”

  Dry-mouthed, I nod. “Yes.” I’d say anything.

  Steve jerks his head to the back of the truck. “We’ll have some fun right here.”

  I roll with Steve in a slow-motion wrestle, my back to his chest, his legs anchoring mine like we’re on a toboggan. Empties and half empties rattle and tip around us, splotching my jeans and his from ankle to seat. Steve nips at my neck and runs his hands along my ribs like he’s trying to count them. I squirm, breath caught as his fingers spread and stretch. From the street I hear loud talk from the boys and Charity’s brassy voice trying to stay even with them.

  Steve flips me so I face him, my legs bent between his, his arm around my back, our shoulders to the cab. Covering my mouth with his, he dips his hand to my waist, my stomach, between my thighs, working the denim against me. The rising rhythm takes me and I reach for him, not caring anymore for anything but this feeling between us.

  The voices blur to a steady hum that’s easy to ignore. Until it stops.

  I pull my mouth from Steve’s, listening.

  He presses my hand where it rests on his crotch. “Angelyn—”

  “Wait.” My voice is ragged.

  “Teacher coming,” someone says.

  My heart beats like a bird’s as I struggle to untangle.

  “Relax,” Steve says, sprawling off. “They never come this far.”

  “Yeah, and if they do?” I ask, pissed that he can’t see it. “The beer.”

  Steve goes white. Possession can get you tossed from Blue Creek High.

  I peek over the gate while he crabs for cans, winging them into the cooler.

  Charity and the boys are gone. In the auto shop yard that borders the street, six or seven kids bend and stoop like they’re trying to find something. Sacks on their backs.

  “It’s the lunch detention crew,” I say. “Picking trash.”

  Steve grunts. “I got some cans for them.”

  In the yard a big boy shifts, and I see the teacher behind him.

  I duck, I turn, I grab Steve’s arm. “Mr. Rossi’s with them.”