Brianna dips her head in pleasure. “She said that?”
“Hey, let me give you my business card.” Amadeo pulls out his wallet, rifles through it. “If you ever need a repair, let me know. I’d give you a deal. My number’s right there.”
Has he given her his number? Or is he really just trying to drum up business? Brianna turns the card in her hand.
“Listen. We should hang out sometime. Get to know each other.”
Her breath is still in her throat, and before she can even muster her courage, she blurts, “I’d like that.”
“Okay! Okay.” He looks at his watch. “We need to get Connor to bed. It’s late.” Brianna is grateful to him for taking the initiative in putting a stop to this awkwardness. He pats her on the shoulder, then strides into the hall.
Angel finds Brianna in the conference room looking out the window onto the dark parking lot. Her affection for Brianna is so intense it’s an ache. Angel would like to hug her teacher, to lean her head against Brianna’s shoulder. Soon, thinks Angel. She pictures the two of them out for dinner, laughing like sisters or friends.
Earlier, in the baby room, Angel cried. She and Connor had been alone, the festive sounds from the classroom deadened. She doesn’t know where all that emotion came from, because she’d been having a good evening.
She shouldn’t let her mother destabilize her like that. But her mother’s comment really hurt—and not just because her mother smoked when she was pregnant, but because she treated it like some kind of joke. And worse is how her mother makes Angel out to be so critical and unpleasant: like, if only Angel hadn’t been so humorless they might chuckle together about Marissa’s ineptitude. Angel knows that back then her mother was young and alone and dealing with a tough situation, but knowing this doesn’t make it easier to forgive her—mostly because her mother is so willing to forgive herself. It was a different time, I was alone, your dad never helped at all, I was young. She always has an excuse. And she’s not young now, but she’s still screwing up, still refusing to take care of Angel.
Marissa’s own mother, Angel’s Gramma Lola, contributed enormously to Angel’s upbringing, both financially and in child care, until the dementia set in, and if this somehow slipped Marissa’s mind, then she’s an idiot.
Now Angel squares her shoulders. She will not be like her mother. She will not blame everything on Connor. She’ll give him what he needs, even if those are things she never got herself. And she’ll start by getting him a good godmother. She looks down at him, asleep against her chest, then at Brianna’s back. There’s something private and delicate and almost sad in her teacher’s posture, the way her fingers rest on the sill. Angel expects Brianna to see her reflection, to turn with a smile, but apparently she is looking beyond reflections. Angel takes a deep breath. “There you are!” she calls. “I was looking all over for you!”
“Yes?” Brianna pushes herself off the windowsill, and Angel wonders if she startled her. “What can I do for you, Angel?”
Angel falters. “It’s okay. I can ask you later. I just had a question.” She is more nervous than she expected, because Brianna is more distant than Angel’s ever seen her. She tries another approach and turns Connor. “I realized I never told you his full name. Brianna, this is Connor Justin Padilla. The First.” She laughs lamely. “You can hold him if you want.”
Brianna gives Connor’s socked foot a little shake, but her eyes skate over him toward the door. “That’s a nice name. A nice, real name. It’s good to meet a baby who isn’t named after a rapper or a car.”
Angel laughs uneasily. A knot of something in her chest is as hard and pointed as a nectarine pit. “You mean like Mercedes? Lizette’s loved that name since second grade. Plus, it was a name before it was a car.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.” Brianna smiles brightly, just a flash, and then is remote again. “I was kidding. Mercedes is a lovely baby.”