“Shut up.”
Lizette’s mood is scaring her. She seems to have drifted very far away. It hurts to look at her this close, she’s so beautiful: the shape of her lips, the roundness of her cheeks and chin, the dense black lashes around her green eyes, even the two or three tiny pimples on her forehead.
“Lizette?” With her fingers, Angel climbs Lizette’s scars like a ladder from forearm to inner elbow to bicep. There are two new marks, tender red gashes.
Why? she wants to ask, but she can’t force the word out of her, not with Lizette so distant. What happened since yesterday? Is Angel to blame? She thinks of the blade drawing across skin, the stinging snag of it, and her eyes water. She wants to press that sadness out of Lizette, feel the barrier of skin melt away.
In the crib the babies sprawl, limbs tangled. Connor’s damp curls adhere to his temples, Mercedes’s straight hair is a sweaty little pelt. Briefly Angel imagines a future for all of them, herself as the mother, Lizette as the tougher man-figure, all four of them in a pretty cottage somewhere green. Oregon, maybe. The babies would grow up together, and she sees them, brother and sister, hand in hand on the playground, looking out for one another. They would create a world without raping uncles or disappointing fathers, without the long parade of men mooching and drinking and yelling and sulking. It would be a safe world for those babies. Lizette would soften and heal, too, would come to love Angel. It might take time, but Angel doesn’t mind; Angel is young and can wait.
The egg butter congeals in the refrigerator, the finished poster board waits by the door. After tomorrow, there will be no excuse for Angel to spend every afternoon with Lizette.
“Hey, Lizette. Monday? After Smart Starts!? I thought maybe we could take the babies to the library. To story time.”
Lizette opens her eyes, and Angel wills her to train them on her, but she stares at the ceiling. “You wanna hear some lady read kids’ books to you?”
“I thought it’d be fun.”
“Angel, they don’t even talk. They don’t care about no story time.”
“Well.” Angel’s face heats. “What about dinner? You know, like a date.” She pictures them sharing a bowl of chips and salsa, maybe at Serafina’s. No one would know. They’d just be two girls out for a meal. They wouldn’t have to stick their tongues down each other’s throats. But they’d know, the two of them, and that prospect thrills her. “Lizette?”
She strokes Lizette’s arm, feels the goose bumps rise under her fingertips. Her heart pounds as she waits for the answer. Lizette swats her away. “I’ve created a monster. I never should’ve let you eat me out.”
Stung, Angel drops onto the pillow. Shame buzzes in her head; she feels swallowed by silence.
Lizette kicks the covers off. “Ugh.” She gets up and scratches her scalp roughly with both hands, then steps heavily to her bureau. “This is so fucking boring.” She wrenches a drawer open and digs around. Angel watches her, cheek against her hand, her throat tight in a way that means tears will come if she isn’t careful. Lizette’s back is evenly pale. She doesn’t wear a swimming suit, Angel remembers, won’t go swimming at all. Lizette yanks clothing from the drawer, drops it on the ground, searching. It must mean something, right, that Lizette has permitted Angel to see her naked? But perhaps Lizette doesn’t even care enough about Angel to be self-conscious in front of her.
“He better not’ve fucking stole it.” Lizette wrenches open another drawer. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
Angel sits up in alarm—is she looking for heroin? A gun? Mercedes whimpers at her mother’s voice but doesn’t wake.
“Oh, here it is.” Lizette brandishes a joint. “Want some?”
Angel looks at the sleeping babies. “We’d have to do it away from them.”