Angel turns flat eyes on him. “Did you hear what I said? I don’t want to hear one more word from your mouth.”
“Seriously, the best thing we had in common was you.”
Angel rolls down the window as if he’s made a stink in the car, and the wind blasts around them. She’s drowning him out.
He puts up his hands in surrender—Fine, I’ll shut up. The drive has never felt so long. They’ve left the dry, dusty valley and have climbed into thick, sheltering trees. It’s a beautiful afternoon, the chilly wind whipping up the scent of pi?on, the sunlight thick and mild as a benediction.
“Come on, Angel. Don’t be like this.”
They pull into the driveway. Angel shuts off the engine but doesn’t get out. Without looking at him, she says, “Gramma’s going to die soon. If you keep treating people so bad, who’re you going to have left?” She unsnaps her seat belt. Even after she’s gathered Connor, Amadeo doesn’t move, gazing unseeing at the house, his eyes scratchy, stunned.
Class started less than an hour ago. The students are bent over their workbooks. It’s so quiet that Brianna can hear the mechanical click as the minute hand advances. Each time she glances at Angel, a geyser of anxiety jets through her, but Angel does not look up from her work.
Last night Brianna didn’t sleep; rather, she slept, but woke after half an hour, and then twisted in her sheets, heart hammering, until morning. The one thing she has in her life is her job, this job she is good at, actually good at! And now she’s jeopardized it by behaving in the most unprofessional way possible.
This morning she dressed in her red wool suit—blazer, stiff white blouse, skirt—complete with heels and dangling earrings. Her intention was to stride into the classroom girded for battle, professionally put together, impervious. But now that she’s here, she keeps tugging on her skirt, buttoning and unbuttoning the blazer. She excuses herself to use the restroom, but can’t bear to see her own reflection. Her thin hair pulled into that mingy, marble-sized bun makes her head look oddly small, her temples and forehead scraped and exposed.
“You going somewhere, miss?” Ysenia asks when Brianna returns. “You got a business meeting?” Her tone is merely polite, devoid of the energy and good-natured nosiness with which the girls once approached her.
“A job interview?” asks Jen.
Brianna rolls her eyes, but her face heats. “I don’t remark upon your clothes, girls. I expect you to extend me the same courtesy. I should be able to dress however I want without commentary.”
“Okay,” Ysenia says agreeably. “Well, good luck.”
Brianna removes her blazer, then sits back down at her desk. After a moment, the sounds of pencil-scratching and page-turning resume. Brianna presses her palm against her breastbone, trying to relieve the pressure there. All night, beneath her heart’s hammering, was a constant low humming ache. Because, why? Is this heartbreak? Was she in love with Amadeo?
All at once Ysenia stands, walks over to Lizette’s empty desk. She drags it to the wall, the legs leaving tracks in the short pile of the institutional carpet. “It’s too sad to look at,” she explains.
“She’s not dead or nothing, Senia,” Christy reminds her, then adds, “but it’s still sad.”
“Sad as crap,” says Trinity.
At her desk, Angel blinks wildly. The girl is just a child, a vulnerable child, and all at once Brianna is furious, because why is Angel blaming Brianna for Lizette’s poor choices? Brianna’s mouth twitches as if she’s working to dissolve some bitter lozenge. “Angel,” she says. “Are you chewing gum?”
The girls regard Brianna, then swivel to Angel.
Now Angel meets her eye. Brianna’s shoulders hunch within the boxy confines of her power suit.