Brianna smiles gently. “Angel’s great. She shines. If she keeps on like she is, she’ll achieve whatever she wants.”
“You mean it?”
She feels a wave of tenderness for this father who is looking to Brianna for assurance. “Sure, I mean it. Some of these girls I worry for, but not Angel.”
“I just bought Angel and the baby a new car seat. A Graco.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Is he trying to impress her?
“Rear-facing?”
“Of course. It was the third most expensive one in the whole Babies ‘R’ Us.”
“What really matters is that it’s rear-facing and secured. I’m sure it’s great. Reputable outlets only sell AAP-approved models.”
“Yeah, I know, that’s why I went there.” He nods, grinning. “I’m Amadeo.”
“So, Angel gave you the tour?” Brianna gestures nervously. “Right here is our conference room. Where we hold mock interviews. All the girls do it, you know, for jobs.”
It’s a bleak room with a brown laminate folding table, the kind used in Brianna’s childhood cafeteria. The building is new, but the funding ran out by the time they got to this room. Mismatched chairs are arranged haphazardly; three more folding chairs lean against the wall. Affirming stickers have been pasted to the table and peeled off with varying degrees of success. From where she stands, Brianna sees a nearly intact cartoon thumbs-up in an orange star: My Feelings Are Okay!
At the window, Amadeo surveys the shopping center that shares the parking lot. A Dollarland and a nail salon, a Jack in the Box and a liquor store. “Nice,” said Amadeo, gesturing at the flashing neon sign: LIQU–R.
“I know,” says Brianna, joining him. “But it’s on the bus route. We had to be on the bus route.”
“You must see some rough stuff.”
“Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t believe the family situations some of these girls have to contend with. The worst things you can imagine. I had one student when I did my internship in Albuquerque? Twelve years old, brand-new mom. Guess how old the grandma is. Twenty-four. A year younger than me! Can you imagine?”
Amadeo whistles low. “Shit.”
“It pisses me off. It really—” she falters. “It makes me so mad. These girls deserve better.” She laughs, embarrassed. Why is she saying these things to this man? After all, he’s young to have a teenage daughter. She wonders how old he is. “I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but if I did Angel would be one of them. I bet you’re proud of her. She’s smart.” This is all true, but she recognizes that she is saying it to please him.
Amadeo smiles. “She’s amazing. Best kid I could ask for.”
“I like your name,” Brianna says thoughtfully. “Amadeo. Like Modigliani. Amadeo Modigliani was an Italian artist. He did a bunch of portraits. Women mostly.”
“I know that. I’ve googled my own name. How do you know I’m not an art lover? Hell, an art collector.”
Brianna’s face heats with deep shame. “Oh.” What an idiot, assuming that he didn’t know Modigliani. It’s the worst kind of patronizing, exactly the kind of misstep they’d been warned about in her training and she thought she’d never make.
“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay.”
“I apologize,” she says.
Amadeo nudges her with his elbow. “That Eric Maxwell. Are you two, like . . .”
Brianna regards him quizzically, then flushes. “No! No.”
“Sorry. That was—Angel just thinks you’re the best. Like, I feel like I know you from everything she says. She said you made the dean’s list. She’s always telling us about your good advice. She said you’re her personal hero.”