Not by anyone who isn’t a telemarketer, but Amadeo still bristles. After all, he is an adult, a father and a grandfather. Why shouldn’t a teenage delinquent show him respect? Except that he knows it isn’t respect Lizette is showing. “Nice to meet you girls,” he says, coming at each of them with a firm handshake.
“Connor looks like you,” Lizette says. “Same head shape.”
“Well,” Amadeo says, with a jocular nod, “we are related.”
The little girl gabbles and grabs at Lizette’s hair. Lizette turns an annoyed grimace on the kid and unhooks the sticky-looking fist.
Amadeo backs away and joins his mother, who is inspecting a poster of the periodic table. He’s aware that he’s disappointing Lizette, that she’d like to keep up the limp repartee. He feels sorry for her, poor sad kid, spending her days in a girls’ school, saddled with a baby. Of course she wants to flirt with one of the few men she runs into, even if he is completely unsuitable. Her attention is gratifying, he won’t deny that.
When he looks up, Marissa is hovering at the classroom door, tugging at her wrap dress, almost an hour late.
He wasn’t sure if Angel even invited her mother tonight, but didn’t want to ask. Whatever’s going on between Angel and Marissa, it doesn’t make sense, because Angel has always been so forgiving and eager to please.
“Marissa’s here.” Amadeo nudges his mother and she looks at him blankly, then waves. Marissa’s shoulders drop in relief and she makes her way over to them.
“Hey.” Marissa watches Angel, who is swinging Connor gently in the carrier and laughing with the other girls. His daughter looks so at ease, so in control, that Amadeo marvels that he and Marissa managed to create her.
Amadeo’s aware of a contest between him and Marissa, possibly one-sided, to be the lesser fuckup. For years Marissa was ahead. Amadeo understands that his successes are somehow worth more points than hers—that his recent minor achievements （the little sneakers, his punctuality this evening, Angel’s decision to move in with him in the first place） are, at this late date, rivaling Marissa’s sixteen thankless years of basically competent single-parenting.
“I got Angel a new car seat,” he says, gesturing to the carrier in Angel’s hands. “It’s a two-in-one.” He almost says that he didn’t even ask his mom for the money, either, but actually sacrificed, sold his electric guitar on Craigslist to pay for it, but is aware of how lame that would sound.
Marissa nods. There’s an apologetic, furtive slump to her shoulders. Nonetheless, she looks great—hair up in a complicated-looking twist, her color high, and that dress, which is snug in the right places. He wonders, with a proprietary twinge, if she has a date after this.
“I’m also starting up a business. To support them more.”
“Oh,” says Marissa.
He looks to his mother for backup, but Yolanda is failing to take charge. Lips parted, she stares into space. It’s not possible, is it, that Amadeo is the most socially adjusted adult representative of the family?
Just as Amadeo is getting restless, a man rises and clears his throat. He introduces himself as Eric Maxwell, the Family Foundations president. He’s short and exceedingly handsome. His athletic build is tucked neatly into his khakis. He’s left his mandarin collar unbuttoned. “On the first anniversary of our beautiful new building, I’d like to thank everyone who has made this possible, including the Gerald Family Foundation and United Way.” He turns to the teacher. “And mostly, mostly, I’d like to thank Brianna Gruver, who has brought her considerable knowledge and talent to the Smart Starts! program.”
Brianna Gruver stands before a bookshelf in her loose dress, blushing and waving away the attention. Brianna’s only authority with these girls must come from the fact that they are so young that any adult seems old. Also, judging from the ages of the adult women standing around, many of the students’ own mothers had them when they were teenagers, so these girls’ perceptions of age have naturally undergone a kind of inflation.