The File on Angelyn Stark Read online

  Together we tamp the cooler lid. “Stay down,” he says to it, to me, to us.

  On our backs I stare at the sky. Cloudless blue.

  “Rossi hates me,” Steve says. “He has since freshman football.”

  I snort. “He almost gave me detention today.”

  “Yeah. But he didn’t, did he?”

  We look at each other, noses close to touching.

  The shop gate creaks open to the street.

  “Hurry it up.” Mr. Rossi’s voice.

  Steve’s throat works. Me, it’s hard to swallow.

  “We should sit up,” I say. “It’ll look worse if—”

  “Quiet,” he says.

  Outside, the scrape scrape of shoes on asphalt works my nerves as it stops and starts, each time a little closer to where we hide.

  Then: “Party down,” some guy says.

  Steve’s eyes look questions at me. I shrug, one-shouldered.

  “Whose truck is this?” Mr. Rossi asks.

  “Coslow’s, I think.”

  “Steve Coslow’s?” Mr. Rossi’s voice is sharper. Closer.

  Steve is mouthing swears. I curl in like that’s going to save us.

  His shadow knifes across. Mr. Rossi, looking down.

  “Well, what is this?” he says after forever.

  “We were just—” I’ve got nothing else.

  Steve lifts himself on an elbow. “Coach, hey. We fell asleep. Is lunch over?”

  “Sit up,” Mr. Rossi says. “Both of you.”

  As Steve rises, his arm hits the cooler. The lid slides, settling tilted. I kneel beside him, trying not to look.

  Mr. Rossi watches us. Behind him, the detention kids point and grin, whispering things I’m glad that I can’t hear. One girl isn’t smiling. Jeni, from the bathroom this morning. She’s seeing this. I shut my eyes.

  “What’s the deal?” Steve says. “We were only sleeping.”

  Mr. Rossi points outside the truck. “Sleeping it off?”

  We look. Beer cans around the back tire where the boys stood. Some tipped, others flattened, some nearly full, ready to drink. Souvenirs.

  Steve clears his throat. “Those aren’t mine. Right, Angelyn?”

  “Right.” I croak it out.

  Mr. Rossi eyes me. “Is this what you do for lunch?”

  My face burns. “We’re off-campus, Mr. Rossi.”

  “That excuses nothing. Tell me about the beer.”

  Steve squeezes my thigh. I put my hand on his.

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  Mr. Rossi takes a step in. The cooler pulses, sending its own light.

  “I should have given you detention before.”

  Steve’s fingers twine with mine. His hand is wet.

  “Give it to me now,” I say.

  Mr. Rossi looks off. “Ms. Stark, you come see me after school.”

  I sink back on my heels. “Okay.”

  He faces the trash crew. “I need someone to pick up these cans.”

  Everyone but Jeni finds somewhere else to look.

  Mr. Rossi points to her. “Get them, please.”

  He leads the crew off as Jeni crouches by the truck scooping cans. I’m almost sorry for her. Our eyes meet. The look she gives makes me wish I’d hit her after all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I push into the V building as everyone is pushing out. My boot heels ring like gunshots on the steps to the second floor. You’re the best, Steve said when we were alone. Down the hall to Mr. Rossi’s room, I play the words back.

  “Come in,” he says, like he’s been waiting.

  I check the clock. “I can’t stay long. I have to meet my mom.”

  Mr. Rossi points to a desk near his. “Sit.”

  I slide in. “Sorry for whatever.”

  “I hated seeing you like that,” he says.

  “Can you just give me the detention?”

  “You changed your shirt,” Mr. Rossi says.

  “Yes,” I say, like a question. “I keep an extra in my gym locker.”

  He stands. “I can still smell it on you.”

  In shock I watch him start down the length of the board. Erasing.

  “Smell what? Mr. Rossi, I do not stink.”

  He erases some more. “Beer. Did you drink your lunch?”

  I’ve showered. Brushed my teeth.

  “No,” I say, picking at my jeans.

  Mr. Rossi turns. “I saw the cooler. I know you didn’t bring it.”

  “If this is about Steve—” I stop.

  “You’re here and Coslow isn’t.” He sits on his desk. “Why is that?”

  “You told me to come.” I work to keep my voice steady.

  “You volunteered. He let you do that.”

  “However it went.”

  “Give yourself away and you’ll have nothing left.”

  Now I’m squirming. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Is that what you say to Coslow? During those lunches?”

  I stare at him. “What?”

  Mr. Rossi curls his lip. “Rolling around in the back of some kid’s truck—”

  Face burning, I stand. “I’ll be there at detention.”

  “Whoa,” he says. “Angelyn, don’t take me wrong. Sit. Please.”

  I bite my lip. And sit.

  “You’re not in trouble. You don’t have detention. I only want to talk.”

  “About Steve? I won’t.”

  Mr. Rossi moves from his desk to one by me. I stare ahead.

  “You’re on a path it’s hard to turn back from,” he says.

  “You don’t know me to say that.”

  “I could be wrong. I hope I’m wrong.”

  I fold my arms. “You are.”

  “I saw what I saw. But I think you’re better than that.”

  “What makes me better?” I ask.

  “You’re smart. There’s more to you than people know. Am I right?”

  “I make C’s,” I say. “When I’m lucky.”

  “You could do better,” Mr. Rossi says. “Couldn’t you?”

  I look at him. “In elementary I made A’s. Check if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you. What was different in your life then?”

  “Oh.” No one’s ever asked. “There was a neighbor lady who helped me with my homework. Mrs. Daly. She used to be a teacher. I’d stop by her place after school.”

  Mr. Rossi nods. “And? What, she moved?”

  I swallow past a sour taste. “Yeah. And I guess I just grew up.”

  “It’s good you had someone like that. Do you now?”

  “No,” I say.

  He taps the desk. “I could help, if you’ll let me.”

  The late-afternoon sun is streaming in, baking the room. I watch the dust dance in the light.

  “Why would you want to?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve been like Coslow.”

  “Mr. Rossi—”

  “And I’ve been like you. Giving myself up.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Got ten minutes? I’ll tell you about Africa.”

  “I guess I do. But why Africa?”

  He smiles. “That’s the unit we’re studying in class.”

  “Oh.” I grin. “I knew that.”

  Mr. Rossi tells me to turn my desk to his. He talks about Africa and AIDS, about the starving people and the economy. He says that his mother was there with the Peace Corps in the 1970s, and he tells me about a trip he made with her when he was only seventeen—It was beautiful, Angelyn. I listen to him like I never do in class. I almost forget why I’m here. Almost.

  Mr. Rossi asks if I’ve understood everything.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “Thanks. I want to travel sometime. And see things.”

  He motions me up. “Then you will.”

  We put the desks in line.

  “I want to do those things, Mr. Rossi. But I don’t know how I can. I’m not going to college or anything. Mo
m’s never been out of state. Neither have I.”

  “When I was student-teaching in the Bay Area,” he says, “I had a student join the Coast Guard. They sent her everywhere. All over the world. She loved it.”

  “Coast Guard?” First time I’ve heard those words together.

  “I can tell you more another time,” he says, back behind his desk.

  I gather my stuff. “You’d do that?”

  “Sure I would. Now, you will get that homework done.”

  “I will, Mr. Rossi.”

  “Okay. I’ll be expecting it.”

  I stop at the door. “The thing with Steve, and the beer—”

  He waits.

  “It’s not what we do every day.”

  “That’s good to know,” Mr. Rossi says. “Oh, and, Angelyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell Genius not to bring that stuff anywhere near school.”

  “It won’t be a problem.” I leave smiling.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I lied to Mr. Rossi. I don’t have to meet my mother. Not right away.

  After I leave him, I head toward town instead of the bus yard, where Mom works as a dispatcher. Town is three blocks uphill, and I reach the top hungry. Down Main Street I stop at a food cart by the park for a hot dog and Coke. Paying, I see two skate kids watching me while they toe their boards. The bigger boy says something about “boobs,” and the smaller one palms his chest. When they see me watching them, they giggle together like a pair of first-grade girls.

  They need to be squelched.

  “That isn’t cool,” I say, down to the bench where the boys are kicking it.

  The bigger one fades, but the smaller kid is grinning. “What isn’t?” he asks.

  “Saying stuff about some girl.” I look at each of them. “Some older girl.”

  “Sorry,” the big boy says, eyes down.

  “You should be.”

  “What are you going to do with that hot dog?” the little one asks.

  Not believing it, I stare. A dirty grin splits his face. The kid is maybe eleven.

  “You’re too young to know,” I tell him.

  “You’re beautiful. Both of us think so.”

  “Yeah?” The boys nod. “Go and play with your boards.”

  The little one starts a spin with his toes. “You going to watch us?”

  “I might. If my hot dog gets boring.”

  The park is small and shaped like a bike wheel, spokes out from a cobblestone center, old oaks and pine trees keeping it shaded. I settle on a bench on the spoke opposite the boys and get to eating.

  You’re smart, Mr. Rossi said. Mrs. Daly used to say it. That makes two.

  The shadows grow long. The skate kids leave. I watch the traffic, keeping an eye out for Mom’s truck.

  I see Jeni before she sees me, hurrying toward the park from deeper downtown. Keep going, I think, but when she stops, I say hey.

  Jeni nods from the sidewalk. “Hi.” Lukewarm.

  Coming in, she takes the bench the boys left.

  “You know what time it is?” I call.

  Jeni checks her watch. “Quarter to five.”

  I rub my arms. It’s getting cold. I check the traffic. Still no Mom.

  “Waiting for someone?” I ask.

  She huddles in her jacket. “I think maybe I missed them.”

  I toss the hot dog wrapper and soda cup in the nearest can and cross to her.

  “Tell me about Mrs. Daly.”

  Jeni is stiff as I sit. “She’s in a wheelchair. I don’t know why.”

  “That sucks. Mrs. Daly always liked to garden.”

  “I think Eleanor’s okay for how she is. Just old.”

  “Not Eleanor,” I say. “Mrs. Daly.” At Jeni’s expression: “That’s how I knew her.”

  Jeni nods. “Mrs. Daly. Okay.”

  “She was a grandma to me. The only one I knew.”

  “I miss mine,” Jeni says. “It’s too far to visit her from here.”

  “You’re from the Bay Area?”

  “Oh, you heard that? In the bathroom. I wasn’t sure.”

  “What are you doing downtown anyway?” I ask.

  “Exploring,” Jeni says. “This place is like a toy town.”

  I look for Mom’s truck. “The same crap happens here as anywhere.”

  “I guess it does. School today was as bad as at my last one.”

  “Hey, I didn’t know Mr. Rossi would give you detention. Or that you’d be in class with us. He has this thing about kids being late.”

  “You knew I’d be in some class. Late somewhere.”

  “We’re not in the bathroom now. Or at school. Forget that stuff.”

  Jeni dips her head. “He got you anyway. On the street, with the beer.”

  “Yeah. He got me. So, call it even?”

  “If you want.”

  We’re quiet.

  “Come see Mrs. Daly,” Jeni says. “I volunteer there on weekends. It’s Blue Creek Care Home.”

  “No. Her grandson wrecked what we had. Years ago. He’s a freak.”

  “Her grandson—Nathan?”

  “Yeah.” I draw it out. “Nathan Daly. You know him?”

  “Nathan’s my ride,” Jeni says.

  “He’s coming here?”

  She looks confused. “I think Nathan is sweet.”

  I’m standing, scooping my backpack. “Got to go.”

  “Wait, Angelyn. What did Nathan do?”

  I check the street. Finally, Mom’s truck.

  “Ask him,” I say. Then: “Don’t. Nathan lies.”

  I take off running. And hear him calling: “Angelyn!”

  Mom’s got me spotted. In stopped traffic, she’s waving like she’s on the Titanic. I sprint the rest of the way, settling beside her in a sweaty lump.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  We’re stuck.

  Mom clears her throat. “That is not who I think it is. It can’t be.”

  “It’s not my fault,” I say, and see Nathan stopped on the sidewalk, his mouth turned down like some sad clown’s.

  “Angelyn, it’s never your fault.”

  “Mom, don’t blame me! He just showed up.”

  Her mouth is tight. “You are not to see that boy. Not to talk to him.”

  “I know. Like I’d want to. I hate Nathan worse than anyone.”

  “Do you hear me?” she says, punching out each word.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Traffic moves. I sit back.

  Mom sniffs. “Is that beer I smell?”

  My heart beats faster. “Not on me.”

  She cracks a window.

  My stepdad is in the front room, spread along the couch watching baseball. Danny works on-call construction, but no one’s called in a while. He doesn’t look up as I cut through on the way to my room. Mom follows, and I hear him say, “Hey, Beautiful.”

  “I ate in town,” I call back.

  “You’re eating with us,” Mom says behind me.

  Dinner is premade lasagna. I pick while Danny shovels. Mom talks about her job—directing traffic for the whole school, the way she tells it.

  “Angelyn screwed up again,” she says at the end of one story.

  I drop my fork. “Mom, I told you how it was.”

  She pokes Danny’s shoulder. “Hon, you’d be so mad if you knew.”

  “What was it this time?” he asks.

  “Mom,” I say, as loud as I dare.

  “That boy—the one who used to live next door—Nathan—”

  “Mom!” I shout it.

  Danny’s eyes flick past. “Sherry, you handle it. She’s yours.”

  “Angelyn, you’re grounded,” Mom says.

  She sounds so happy it makes me sick.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Angelyn, Twelve

  From behind the couch, Danny flips the bill of my ball cap down.

  “Got you, Angie,” he whispers. Mom is still asleep.

  “Nuh-uh.” I push it up, grinni
ng as he vaults over to join me.

  Danny pats the cushions. “Where’s the remote?”

  I snuggle into my corner. “Sunday mornings I say what’s on.”

  “But—” He flaps his hand at the TV. “This stuff will rot your brain.”

  MTV. A hip-hop video. The volume, low. “It’s my favorite,” I say.

  Danny folds his arms, but pretty soon he’s rapping along, wiggling his hips, dancing on the couch. So stupid I have to laugh.

  “You coming to my game?” I ask. “I pitch better when you do.”

  “You bet I am,” he says. “Change the channel, ’kay?”

  “With this?” I lift the remote from where I’ve got it hid.

  “Oh, girl. Give it here.”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  This is our game. Our Sunday-morning game. Mom doesn’t know.

  Danny makes puppy eyes. “Please?”

  “Well …” I hold out the remote.

  He reaches. I pull it away.

  “Angelyn.”

  I blink.

  “Hand it over.” Like he ain’t kidding.

  This time I send it closer to Danny, unfolding my arm by inches.

  He rubs his fingers like, “Gimme, gimme.”

  I pull it away again.

  He looks at me like he can’t believe it.

  I lift my shoulders and drop them. Big sigh.

  Danny sinks against the couch like he just doesn’t care.

  I hold the remote like it’s my life.

  With a low roar he springs at me. I yelp—soft—sliding under so his arms close on nothing, dropping to the floor to escape. My bare feet slap linoleum to the kitchen. Danny shuffles behind in a zombie walk. Down the hall I tiptoe past Mom’s room, hand over mouth, swallowing laughs. Danny’s circled back and he’s in the front room before me.

  “I’ll pass to you,” I say, setting my arm like a quarterback’s.

  Danny fades to the TV, hands up like a wide receiver.

  I stretch like the toss will be massive. And stay that way.

  “Fake!” I say, breathing out the letters.

  He comes at me like a train, slinging an arm around my waist, heaving me to the couch, tumbling after so it’s both of us lengthways. I breathe upholstery as Danny grabs for the remote, laughing in the fabric as I hold it to my stomach.

  “Angelyn?” someone says. Close.

  Danny stops. I shift around. “Oh. Nathan.”