“Ah, shit, yeah. Poor Val.”
“What jerks we were. How’s Val doing? Is she pretty shook up? She was always real protective of your mom.”
“Yeah,” Amadeo says, and, eyes filling, he excuses himself.
As she’s leaving, Marissa hesitates at the door. “Anytime you want to come home, Ange, you know you can. We could set up the crib in the laundry room, turn the whole thing into a nursery. When you were a baby you loved the sound of the washing machine. It put you right to sleep.”
“Thanks,” Angel says, exhausted. “We’re fine.”
FOR WEEKS NOW, Angel has been sending Lizette a text a day. Hey, she says. What’s up? Or Call me! Or I got expelled, too. Even, I miss you. But Lizette never replies.
Therefore when Ryan asks if he can come over after school, Angel says sure. He is reliable in his texts, so over the past weeks, she’s told him about getting kicked out, and about her grandmother dying. On the subject of Smart Starts!, he was gratifyingly outraged. “Dang, that’s so wrong!” On the subject of her grandmother, his mournful sympathy comforted her. Once the conversation continued until Angel told him she had to go to bed. Always, he sends the last text, and the first the next day. Angel’s role in these conversations is harsh, mocking, reluctant, but she enjoys them in a grim sort of way, enjoys his devotion, and figures she deserves it, given how her life is going.
Angel watches from the window as he jog-skips to the door, his backpack bumping up and down with him, but once he’s out of her sight line, a long moment passes before he knocks. Angel can’t see him, but imagines him adjusting his nards in his pants in that disgusting way boys do.
Connor is out of sorts, rubbing his face clumsily. He was up in the night, screaming and arching his back in discomfort from the new tooth perforating his top gum.
Her father is god knows where with the truck, probably draining the last of Yolanda’s savings account at the liquor store. Angel pushes that thought from her mind.
“Hey,” Ryan says as she opens the door. He bends over for a hug, but she has Connor in front of her like a shield, and he ends up patting her on the arm. “I’m really sorry about your grandma.”
“Thanks.”
He keeps looking at her steadily, and Angel winces under his attention. “I didn’t know her that well, but she was nice to me.”
“I know.”
“Hiya, little dude,” Ryan coos, and Connor’s face scrunches into a lopsided, drooly grin. Ryan leans his face close to Connor’s, which means his face is also close to Angel’s, and she can see a yellow-tipped zit on his cheek. She shifts Connor away.
Ryan moves, too, though, and keeps talking gibberish an inch from the baby’s face, and Connor’s delight rises into squeals. “Little doodarooni, little doodaroonikiss.”
“Careful. You’ll make him puke. He just had yams.” She gestures to the orange-streaked surface of Connor’s high chair.
Connor’s laugh turns to whimpers. He thrusts his arms down, as if trying to push everything away, and his fist gets tangled in a fold in his pants, triggering another wail. She jiggles him. “Hush now.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Ryan asks in alarm.
“He’s getting another tooth. It’s normal.” She holds the writhing baby close, not wanting to let him go. “I guess I should put him down. I hoped he’d stay up for your visit.”
In his adult voice, Ryan says, “Oh dang. I miss this guy.”
“Say night-night,” Angel instructs Connor, who screams in response.
“Okay,” says Ryan, disappointed. “Night-night, little feller.”