She hopes she’s wrong. She hopes Creative Windshield Solutions takes off, and that he makes as much as he says he will. Angel has the uneasy sense that in not truly believing in her father’s venture, she’s dooming it. So she’s all the more determined to help him out. That way, if it doesn’t work, then the failure will belong to them both, and he won’t have to feel, once again, that he’s foundered.
After she burps Connor, she still isn’t ready to leave him. He stands on her lap with his wobbly legs, high-stepping his round socked feet on her thighs. He belches again happily, oblivious to the trickle of milk at his mouth, and his damp little hands grasp her cheeks, tangle in her hair.
“Hey,” Lizette says, thumping around the screen, Mercedes held casually in her arm. “Ditching Vocabulary Building?” She cocks her hip and boosts Mercedes higher.
“No,” says Angel quickly. “I just needed to feed him.”
Lizette drags another rocking chair behind the screen and flops into it, legs splayed. Mercedes rests her head sweetly against Lizette’s chest and gazes at Angel through clear eyes.
“You missed bucolic, temperate, and patronize. Speaking of patronize, personally I’m sick of Brianna. Bitch needs to get laid.”
Despite herself, Angel is shocked. She tries for a sardonic tone. “Right, because we both know that solves everything.”
Lizette gives a half-smile. “I’m sick of this whole damn program.”
“I know—me, too,” Angel says, though she isn’t sick of it at all. “You wouldn’t leave, though, right? You wouldn’t, like, drop out for reals? We need our GEDs if we’re going to make something of ourselves. Plus, Brianna can be pretty great, don’t you think?” She can be; she is. Since the Open House, Brianna has, in fact, been remarkably warm toward Angel, and Angel is grateful to have been forgiven for her inappropriate boundary-crossing.
Lizette pushes her thick hair back and laughs at Angel, then kicks off against the floor with her sneaker so her chair rocks dramatically. Mercedes raises her head in alarm, then gives her mother a wet grin. Lizette doesn’t smile back. “I forgot she was your best friend. Maybe you want to be the one to do her.”
“Don’t talk like that in front of the babies.” Angel stands, reluctant to go. “I guess I better go learn some new words.” She angles Connor so he faces Lizette, then makes him wave. “Say bye to Mercedes. Say bye to your little girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend.” Lizette snorts. “How do you know he’s not gay?”
Angel turns Connor again and peers into his face. He grabs hold of a hank of her hair and gives it a friendly shake. “He’s not gay. That’s gross. Anyways, he doesn’t even have an opinion on peas versus carrots yet.”
“Fish versus carrots, more like. You’re the one who said they were dating.”
“I said Mercedes was his girlfriend. That could mean anything. Like, we’re girlfriends.” Angel flushes. “You know, like, girlfriend!” She goes for a hammy delivery of this last word, but can’t commit, and instead it comes out merely squeaky.
Lizette looks at Angel steadily for a moment from under those thick lashes. “If you say so.” Mercedes has begun to protest the delay and now tries to burrow openmouthed through Lizette’s Raiders sweatshirt. “So um, if you don’t mind, I gotta feed her.” Lizette jerks her chin toward the door.
Each afternoon when his daughter gets home from Smart Starts!, she asks, “Any windshield calls?” But each day Amadeo has to shake his head. He double-checks his number on the flyer, checks that his phone is fully charged. Really there was no need to pay the forty dollars extra for expedited shipping.
“It takes time,” Angel assures him. “You think Target was always the world’s best superstore?” Then, with tact, she changes the subject.