“I hope you understand,” Brianna says again.
“Oh, yeah, course. I get it.” She didn’t know she was crossing boundaries inappropriately, didn’t understand that all of Brianna’s warmth has meant nothing—and it smarts that Ysenia had the same idea and got there first, all those months ago.
Brianna smiles. “Shall we go back to the Open House? I think people are starting to leave.”
“Okay.” Angel stares down at Connor’s fuzzy, scaly head nestled in the crook of her elbow. He is fast asleep, his pursed lips slick with drool. He has no idea that he’s been rejected. The abashment turns to indignation, because little Connor deserves only love and goodness. He will never, ever know about this, Angel vows.
Brianna is already at the door. She switches off the conference room lights. “You working on your book report?”
“Yeah,” Angel says stiffly. “It’s this World War II thing.”
“Terrific.”
Angel presses her lips against Connor’s scalp as she trails Brianna down the hall. It’s amazing to her that someone so little can create so much heat.
“THAT WAS AWESOME,” her dad says when Angel starts the car. “You got a really good thing going.” He’s energized and grinning.
“I guess. It was fine.”
He peers at her as she pulls onto the road. “You tired?”
“I guess.”
“Well, you had a long night, showing Connor off to all those people. He was cuter than all those other babies put together, did you notice?”
Angel thinks for a moment about this image: a baby that’s really eight babies mashed together, a colossal, multi-limbed monster of need, all its mouths wailing. She drives silently. Eventually her dad gets the hint. He leans against the window, a little smile on his face, as the headlights sweep past the dark trees along the road.
“Are you asleep?” she demands.
“No,” her dad says, surprised. “What is up, Angel?”
“Nothing.” It’s not fair. The night started off so well. It should have been perfect. The girls all seemed happy to see her, and Angel felt like a truly essential part of the school. Lizette, usually so undemonstrative, even called out “Hey, biatch!” and hugged her. The lights before her slant and blur. She wills her father not to turn to her.
She squeezes her eyes to clear her vision and inhales deeply, and all at once a flash of white darts across the road. Angel yanks her foot off the gas, swerves, stomps the brake, then lets up.
“Whoa,” cries her dad, grabbing at the dashboard as the truck lurches. “What the fuck?”
Angel yanks the truck to the shoulder, fear slamming through her. The wheels grind the gravel. She squints wildly into the dark on the left and right of the road, but sees only the black outlines of the trees against the depthless starry sky. At first she had the impression that a naked child had flashed in front of the car—she has a distinct image of a round face and big eyes—but she doesn’t know why she thought that, because whatever it was was bigger, longer, four-legged. A dog or a wolf.
“Did you see that? What was that?”
“What was what? What happened?”
“Didn’t you see? I almost hit something. A wolf or something.” The weak headlights illuminate only a swath of crumbly pink soil and the nearest trees, the night crisp against their ragged edges. No glowing eyes, no movement at all.
“There aren’t wolves out here,” he says uncertainly. “It was probably just a coyote. You didn’t hit nothing. We’re fine.”
“Why weren’t you looking? You’re supposed to be looking! That’s the whole point of you being the licensed adult driver.” Angel cranes around. In the back, Connor is still asleep, a plug of mucus clinging to one nostril. She wants to get out, to hold him to her. Angel drops her head to the wheel. Wracking sobs clutch at her. She’s shivering, freezing suddenly.