“Out,” Brianna tells Lizette. Her response is so swift and cutting that the breath freezes in Angel’s chest, a cold sealed cavity. “Get out now, Lizette. You may not speak to another person that way in my classroom.” Brianna jabs the air.
Lizette’s eyes flash wide in fear. Then her face smooths, and she flips her hair. “All right.” She gathers her purse and magazine. “See y’all,” she says to the students, lips pursed sardonically. Angel watches, dismayed. Lizette winks.
“Now, Lizette.” Brianna is still pointing at the door. She lowers her hand as if it’s an alien object and puts it in her pocket. “Wait for me in the hall.”
Christy starts giggling, her face turning red and unhappy. “Chris, stop it,” Trinity whispers.
“Any other issues for Community Meeting?” Brianna asks. “Well, then. Adjourned. You can spend the last twenty minutes until dismissal reading silently.” She follows Lizette to the hallway, and though Angel strains to hear, she can’t even pick up murmurs.
Later, on her way out, laden with Connor and her backpack and diaper bag, Brianna calls to her from the classroom door.
“Could I see you for a moment, please, Angel?”
“Sure.” She approaches Brianna’s desk with the uneasy feeling that she’s done something wrong.
“I noticed that Lizette volunteered you to be her partner for the foreign country project. Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah,” Angel says. “Course.”
“I just wanted to check. I remember being your age and getting saddled with partners who didn’t pull their weight. I know how frustrating that can be for a good student.” Brianna’s forehead creases as if she’s very troubled. “I’m glad Lizette has you as a friend. It’s good of you. And maybe you can help her. But listen”—Brianna tugs a strand of Angel’s hair gently, and Angel flushes and steps back, remembering about boundaries—“unhappy people, they can try to bring you down.”
“She won’t bring me down.” Angel wants Brianna to tug her hair again—the unexpected affection felt so good—but Brianna is scrutinizing her own nails.
“How are things at home?” Brianna asks. “Your dad doing okay?”
“My dad? Yeah, everyone’s good.”
“I’m glad. Everyone in good spirits?”
Angel nearly mentions Ryan Johnson. Maybe Brianna has advice. But Angel’s scalp prickles. She has the sense that this is an important moment, that her character is being tested. “Listen, I know you don’t like Lizette, but—”
“I don’t not like Lizette. That’s just not the case at all.”
“I mean, I know she can seem disrespectful, but she’s had a sad life. She’s an orphan.”
Brianna nods, that professional enamel hardening. “Be that as it may, Angel, everyone is subject to the classroom rules, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t hold her to the same high standards as everyone else.”
When Yolanda can’t sleep, she walks up and down the length of the house. The pain is a ball of clay behind her eyes. Sometimes, by pressing the heels of her hands into her skull, she can push the clay into a manageable shape, and it will stay more or less contained for up to a minute.
Now, after two in the morning, the house, with its cinderblock walls, feels tomb-like, so Yolanda eases the front door open and steps outside into the cool air. But the night is so immense, and the stars scattered sharp and high are so coldly beautiful, that Yolanda flees back inside.
This evening, as they were watching television, Yolanda surprised herself by beginning to cry. The commercial was sad, sure, involving a girl and her old dog and a kindly father, but Yolanda is not usually vulnerable to sentimentality.