Brianna presses on. “It’s what keeps the classroom a safe space. I would be remiss in my responsibilities if I allowed students to break rules without consequences. Consequences are what teach us—”
“I think my daughter knows about consequences. You can’t just kick a kid out for chewing gum.”
“I can. Angelica broke the classroom rules. Gum is a choking hazard. Gum destroys classroom equipment.”
“Angel spits her gum in the trash. And what kind of fucking equipment you got in there?”
“Smart Starts! is a privilege, not a right, and it is supported by a private foundation. We have a waiting list of girls who will be grateful for Angel’s spot and who are more than willing to abide by the rules.”
She must have rehearsed this. This Brianna sounds not at all like the awkward girl who was so ashamed of her virginity. He’s shivering as if he were cold. Maybe he is cold.
“I hope you’re satisfied,” Amadeo says. “Taking out your feelings about whatever happened with us on a kid. On two kids. You’re fucking mental.”
“This has nothing to do with my feelings, Mr. Padilla. This is about policy.”
“Would you quit with that bullshit? We’ve seen each other naked. I’m sorry it didn’t work out with us. What, you wanted to be Angel’s stepmother?” Again that imagined future presents itself: the green lawn, the big house with pillars and sunny rooms, Amadeo and Brianna and Angel and Connor, and, in Brianna’s arms, a new baby. He’s imagined it so clearly it has the quality of a memory. He realizes with a pang that he’d never included his mother in this picture.
“Why would you tell her? Do you always talk to your daughter about your sex life?”
“I didn’t tell her. She ran into us, remember? She asked me.”
“So? Then you lie.”
“I’m not going to lie to my kid. I’m trying to be an honest person that takes responsibility.”
“Dandy for you. You have nothing to lose. I jeopardized my whole job for this.”
“My daughter! I have my daughter to lose!”
“Thank you for calling, Mr. Padilla. I appreciate your concern, and I know that your concern is very valuable to your daughter. She’ll continue to need your support.”
“Please,” says Amadeo. “Angel loves school. She loves you. Her grandmother is dying right now. My mother.”
After a silence, Brianna says slowly, “Listen. At this point it’s out of my hands. But Angel could talk to the agency president.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Amadeo says. He throws the phone across the living room. It lands on the kitchen linoleum and skids into the baseboards. “Fucking bitch,” he says, and then worries that Brianna has heard him. He retrieves the phone and puts his ear to it. But the phone isn’t working. It won’t work again. Then he worries that he’s wakened his mother or daughter or the baby. He steps quietly into the hall, listens, but there’s no sound coming from either bedroom.
Now he wants to wake Angel, to let her know he tried, to let her know how truly awful Brianna is. As if Eric Maxwell would listen to a sixteen-year-old girl. He wants Angel to know that he sacrificed his cell phone to her cause. But he checks his impulse to prove to her what a good father he is, because a good father wouldn’t tell his daughter about any of this. A good father would protect her.
Amadeo whirls uselessly on one foot. Then he goes to the fridge and helps himself to another beer.
The first early snow comes, a dry flurry that doesn’t accumulate and stops by noon, and along with it the spicy smell of pi?on smoke rising from neighbors’ chimneys. It’s late November. In Espa?ola, Christmas decorations are up, but Angel rarely goes into town now.