Angel also feels sorry for Ysenia, having to defend what is, objectively, a good idea. Because who’s to say Mr. Banana Republic would definitely be a dick? He might be decent. And they’re all speaking hypothetically anyway—any discussion of their futures is by definition hypothetical—so why not let Ysenia marry some hypothetical rich guy who happens not to be a dick?
If they’re going to be strictly realistic, then, yes, Mr. Banana Republic probably has other plans for his life than taking care of Ysenia and her not-very-attractive eight-month-old infant, and if by some miracle Ysenia does convince him to marry her, then, yes, it’s probably just a matter of months before he fucks her over. But if they’re going to be strictly realistic, then they might as well acknowledge that number seven on Angel’s list, A job, is unlikely to end up being the kind of job that will cover food, rent, health insurance, child care, utilities, and car payments, and also allow her to sock ten percent away into her savings account. At least not at first.
Angel tries to get up the courage to defend Ysenia—after all, Brianna has told them that It takes a village, and Don’t underestimate the power of community, and Remember, people are resources, too!—but the thought of contradicting Brianna makes her nervous.
Lizette takes a long drink from her water bottle before dropping it hard on the desk. The gesture isn’t aggressive, simply careless, but it’s loud. “You’re the one who said we had to get us a support system, miss,” says Lizette. “I don’t see what’s the matter with getting a rich support system.”
Yes, thinks Angel, vindicated. Her point exactly.
“There’s nothing the matter with it, Lizette. Please raise your hand.” Brianna moves over to the list of rules, which they arrived at collaboratively with quite a bit of directorial input from Brianna, and taps number three: Raise your hand during discussion so we all have a voice. Brianna turns to the class. “I hope you’ll all be fulfilled in your relationships, but today I want us to focus on the things that you, right now, can do to improve your lives and your babies’ lives. We’re going to set our goals and lay out a game plan for how to achieve them.” She smiles expectantly.
Ysenia slouches in her chair, her gold-digging aspirations deflated.
Angel watches Lizette, who gazes out the window, conveying with her posture, her expression, her every cell, that nothing will make her ever care about anything, ever. In the curve of her cheek, the full poutiness of her lips, she looks younger than seventeen. Angel wonders when Lizette was last hugged, when someone last made her dinner.
All this talk of marriage is depressing. Angel is a kid. She doesn’t want to get married, not yet, maybe not ever, not even to a Banana Republic model. She wants to be in her house, her own house, with her mother, wants to make hamburgers in the frying pan and eat them together out on their little concrete patio in the white plastic chairs that warp when you sit. They’d bring the whole jar of pickles, dig them out of the juice with their fingers, the way they used to before Mike moved in and informed them it was disgusting.
9. My mom. I need my mom.
The other girls rustle their backpacks, and Angel looks with disappointment at the clock. Apparently, they’ll have to come up with their game plans another day, because school’s over. These activities always seem to end just before Angel learns exactly how to reach her goals. All around her, the girls are jabbering and slamming their desks, rubbing pregnant bellies and going to fetch babies from the nursery. Angel doesn’t close her journal yet.
Sometimes she imagines grand successes for herself. She’ll take her free five credits at the community college, become a doctor and, from there, a consultant on talk shows. She’ll have beautiful clothes and a stylist. She’ll listen sympathetically to the guests, then offer compassionate and intelligent advice, using her own difficult youth as an example. The faces of the audience will soften in admiration and sympathy as she puts forth her story with matter-of-fact grace.
More often, though, she spins a romantic story around her failure: the tragedy of her wasted gifts and a youth cut short. It’ll be hard, raising a baby. Everyone says it, and Angel believes them. But raising a baby has to be easier than figuring out what her gifts are. She’s pretty good at algebra, for example, and likes solving logic puzzles, but are these enough to build a career? With a baby on the way, a lot, suddenly, is settled. It turns out Angel will not be graduating with her class or moving to Albuquerque or New York. Chances are, Angel will not, as her aunt and cousin have surmised, be attending college.