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Authors: Catherine Atkins

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BOOK: The File on Angelyn Stark
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“Now stop that.” He sounds as pissed as he did at the reservoir.

The bell rings, a distant sound. I duck around him.

Steve follows. “Are you breaking up with me?”

I haven’t thought it, haven’t put it in words, but: “Yeah. I am.”

“Over
this
?” he says. “You are not.”

My boots and Steve’s clatter on the cobblestone path by the pool.

“You don’t want me anyway,” I say.

“I think you got that backward.”

“You get
rid
of me if I don’t do what you want. Like you got rid of that dog.”

“Once,”
Steve says. “Once. How many times do I got to say,
Sorry
?”

I walk faster. “Not ever again, because we are through.”

“I have been good for you. I took you on no matter what my friends said.”

I look to the sky. “You took me on
because
of what they said. Didn’t you?”

“Angelyn, I always respected you! Tell me once when I didn’t.”

“Our first time I was
drunk.

“Not that drunk,” Steve says.

I cut across to the lawn between the pool and the band room.

“You’ve got nowhere to go,” he says behind me. “All your friends are mine.”

“Not Jacey and Charity.”

Steve laughs. “Those two skanks? They’d go with me.”

I check him. “You’re wrong.”

“Want to test it?”

We stare at each other.

The second bell rings. “Great,” I say.

Steve waves me in. “We’re late anyway. Come on. We’ll work this out.”

I walk backward away. “Good luck finding someone—
juicy—
as me.”

“You’ll end up with that retard. Yeah. You and him, together forever.”

He’s never mentioned Nathan. “What are you talking about?”

“That blond kid who follows you around. Maybe you’ll fuck him.”

“Anyone but you.” My voice cracks. “
Anyone
. Dog dumper.”

“That’s it.” Steve digs in for a run, arms pumping.

I turn, heels slipping, hard into the arms of Mr. Rossi.

CHAPTER NINE

Hands on my arms, Mr. Rossi sets me back gently.

“What is this?” he asks. Behind him, a handful of kids rush along the fenced corridor between the creek and the foreign-language portables, bolting into whichever is theirs.

I don’t know what to say.

Mr. Rossi studies me. “Angelyn?”

My smell registers: BO for real. I plaster my arms to my sides.

Steve pulls up. “Hey, Coach. We’re just trying to get to class on time.”

Mr. Rossi says, “You’re both late, and I don’t have time to deal with it.”

“We’ll be on our way,” Steve says.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say.

“Ms. Stark, are you all right?” Mr. Rossi asks.

I give an automatic answer. “Sure.”

“Angelyn got a little hot,” Steve says. “Now we’re good.”

I sigh, nothing more.

“Coslow, are you a hasty dresser?”

Steve says, “Huh?” Mr. Rossi points down.

I see it with Steve—the buttons one-off along his fly. Hand to mouth, I laugh.

Steve covers himself. “Funny.”

I lose the smile. What Mr. Rossi must think.

“Can I get a late pass to PE?” I ask.

“I need one too,” Steve says. “For Welding.”

“I don’t like the two of you together,” Mr. Rossi says.

Steve looks at me. “Tell him we’re okay.”

“Shut up.” I manage not to scream it.

“Well, you stupid—” He bites down hard.

Mr. Rossi breaks the quiet. “Coslow, get to Welding.”

“Without a pass?” Steve asks.

“Yeah. Go. Lunch detention tomorrow,” he calls after.

Steve misses a step.

Mr. Rossi smiles at me. “I’ll write you that pass. Then I have to leave.”

All I can do is nod.

“Angelyn, Coslow didn’t hurt you?”

I bite my lip. “No.”

Through a propped door I hear my old Spanish teacher, Mrs. Tierney, taking roll with a twist.

“Estefani Adalia,” she calls. “Stephanie Noble, I mean
you.

“Mrs. Tierney called me ‘Angelita’ when I was in there,” I say. “
AHN-hell-ita
. ‘Little Angel.’ Guys would laugh.”

“Guys are idiots,” Mr. Rossi says.

“I guess she wasn’t that swift either. Teachers don’t usually like me.”

He points me over to the picnic area. “Now, what is going on?”

In direct sunlight I squint at him. “I thought you had to go.”

“It’s my free period,” Mr. Rossi says. “I spend it how I want.”

I tell him about the dog. What it was like, stuck with her, waiting.

“Steve came back for me. Not her. He wants me to thank him for it.”

Mr. Rossi rubs his chin. “That stinks he put you through that.”

“She’ll die out there. I know she will. It’ll kill me thinking about it.”

“I could call someone. Animal Control. Coslow’s parents.”

“They told him to do it. And the Pound is no place for Dolly.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, kiddo.”

That word—
kiddo
. “Somebody used to call me that.”

Mr. Rossi asks, “Who?”

I shake my head. “Isn’t there
anything—
?”

“I could … I suppose …” He trails off.

“Help her?” I focus on him. “Would you, Mr. Rossi?”

He shifts in the grass. “I’d like to, sure. But how?”

“If you went out there, she’d come to you. I know she would.”

“And then what? I adopt the dog? It’s not so easy.”

“All she needs is a chance.”

“My life is not my own,” Mr. Rossi says. “I have a wife. A son.”

News to me. His family. “They might like a dog. Your son would.”

He sighs. “Can
you
take the dog? Would your parents—”

“My mom? I don’t think so. My stepdad? No.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

Gooseflesh rises as I tell him the truth: “I know what it’s like to be left.”

Something plays over Mr. Rossi’s face. I stare at him, wishing, willing,
hoping
.

He looks away. “I’m sorry.”

I breathe out. “You won’t help.”

“I wish I could. Honestly.”

“Mr. Rossi, you can. You have a car, right? You said you had the time.”

“Angelyn. No.”

“The truth is, you don’t want to. You don’t think she’s worth it.”

He looks at me again. “Hey.”

I turn. “I don’t need a pass.”

Mr. Rossi says, “Wait.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because. All right. Let’s go on out and get her.”

Next to him in the family car, I can’t quite believe where I’m at.

We don’t talk except for my directions to the place.

Dolly is sitting where Steve stopped the truck.

“She would have waited forever.” My heart hurts at the thought.

Mr. Rossi parks. “That’s the dog?”

I see her through his eyes, ragged, dirty, and not very petlike.

“She’s a great dog.” I pile out of the car.

Dolly stands. Her tail wags when I call, but she doesn’t come. I walk at her, and she dances back with a sad yap.

Crouching, I croon.

Dolly’s ears perk.

I click my tongue. She takes a few steps in.

I say her name, gently as I know how.

Dolly comes closer.

I curl my fingers. “Here, babe.”

With that she barks, running at me on stumpy legs that pick up speed. She jumps past my hand, knocking me to my butt. I hold Dolly close, laughing as she licks my chin, the asphalt hot against my jeans.

“Angelyn!”

I look around. Mr. Rossi is out of the car, grinning.

Inside I hold as much of Dolly on my lap as I can.

“Sorry about the mess,” I say, her muddy paws spilling over.

“I know about mess,” Mr. Rossi says. “I have a small kid.”

His car smells new. The carpet is crumbless.

“Thanks,” I say. “For everything.”

He touches Dolly’s head. Against me, her heart beats wildly.

“I think you’re right. She’ll make a good pet.”

“Why are you being so nice?” I ask.

Quiet rises. Mr. Rossi starts the car.

“What were you doing out here with Coslow? Or should I guess?”

I stare ahead. “I won’t be doing it anymore.”

“Good,” he says.

We drive past the high school, through town, and out of it. Onto a country lane through forested pastureland. The trees go on for miles.

“You’re a long way from everything,” I say.

Mr. Rossi grunts.

The woods thin and I see houses behind them. Big houses on large lots down curving driveways. Privacy hedges and high fences block some from view. Mr. Rossi turns in at a drive like that, under a white iron arch, a prancing horse at its center. We rumble down a gravel drive through tall oaks and towering oleander. I look around and I can’t see the road.

“Mr. Rossi, are you bringing me here to do something to me?”

“What?” He slows the car. “No, Angelyn. No.”

I fiddle with Dolly’s ears. “I was wondering.”

“I’m not like that,” he says.

Around a bend I see the house. Two stories, sparkling white with a wraparound porch. An inground pool and vegetable garden on the left. On the right, a stand-alone garage and a tire swing hanging from a thick-limbed oak.

“This is your place? It looks like something on TV.”

“Just an updated farmhouse,” Mr. Rossi says.

“You’re rich.” Hyperaware of my beat-down clothes, my sweaty body.

“My family was, maybe. Not me.”

I look at him. “You grew up here?”

“Yeah. Local boy makes good.”

I don’t know if I’m supposed to smile at that. Mr. Rossi isn’t smiling.

“So, you know what it’s like to be a kid here,” I say.

“Sure.” He glances over. “It wasn’t all that long ago.”

“Isn’t it weird, teaching where you went?”

“It’s a job,” Mr. Rossi says, “but I never thought I’d end up back here.”

He parks a good way from the house, opposite the tire swing.

“Is your wife around?” I ask.

“What do you mean by that?” Mr. Rossi speaks sharply.

I pick my words. “I thought you had to check with her. About Dolly.”

“No, that’s all right. Wait in the car.”

When he’s gone, Dolly rises off my lap, whimpering.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “He’ll be back.”

She digs her blunt nails in my thighs, staring up.

“Oh! Bathroom.” I open the door fast.

Dolly dives to the ground. She noses in the grass and squats.

I have to go too.

Mr. Rossi comes out of the house hands full, a couple of soup bowls in one, a dusty-looking collar and leash in the other.

“Hey. I thought you were going to stay in the car.”

I shift my weight. “Dolly had to go.”

“Okay.” He comes down the steps. “I got some stuff to get her started.”

“Mr. Rossi, I do too. Have to go, I mean.”

He stares at me. “I’m not letting you in the house.”

That hurts. “Why not? If no one’s home.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“But—” I wave my hand.

“All right.” Not happy. “Use the one downstairs, off the hall.”

Embarrassed, I edge past. “Thanks.”

Inside the house it’s cool and dim, blinds down in the living room. I find the bathroom easily, gleaming clean in shades of peach and black, claw-foot tub standing out from the wall. Like something from TV—again.

A woman’s silky yellow tank hangs from the shower rod. When I’m done, I check the size. Medium. My size. From a pile on a wicker holder, I take a couple of towels. I wash the grit from my face and clean under my arms, rinsing the towels afterward. I pick burrs and twigs off my T, eyeing the clean and beautiful shirt on the hanger.

“Angelyn!” Mr. Rossi calls down the hall. “What are you doing in there?”

“Almost done,” I say through caught breath. “Can I borrow a shirt?”

“Of course you can’t,” he says, louder than he needs to. “Come on!”

I leave the wet towels curled in the sink for him to explain.

He’s on the porch. Dolly’s leashed to a clothesline off the garage, her whole body wagging as she inhales what’s in the bowl.

“Thanks for helping her,” I say.

Mr. Rossi locks the door.

“Did you used to have a dog?” I ask on our way down the steps.

He doesn’t answer.

As he starts the car: “I took a risk,” Mr. Rossi says.

“I know,” I say. “I meant it when I thanked you.”

“I hope I did the right thing.”

My mouth is dry. “You did.”

“If you told the wrong person. Said it the wrong way.”

“Mr. Rossi, I’m not saying anything to anyone.”

We bump along through shadows of tree and brush.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he says. “It all just came at me.”

Sorry?
I smile. “That’s okay. I’ll get a clean shirt from my gym locker.”

“I’ll write you that pass when we get back,” Mr. Rossi says.

“You’re not like a teacher.”

“Um, thanks?” he says.

“You rescued us. Dolly and me. I won’t forget that.”

“The way you cared about that dog, you got me to care.”

“She will be okay? At your house, with your family?”

“Yes.” He says it like he means it.

I sit back. “Good.”

“Hey, Angelyn. On the way in you asked if I brought you here to hurt you.”

I look over. “I didn’t say it like that.”

“No, I’m glad you asked.
I
didn’t have bad intentions, but somebody else might have. Be careful where you put your trust, all right?”

“Mr. Rossi, I’m not afraid of you.”

“It’s not about being afraid,” he says. “It’s about being aware.”

I’m staring.
Aware of what?
I want to ask, but I keep still.

CHAPTER TEN

Mom pulls up to the drive-through window. “I heard you late.”

I’m yawning. “Homework.”

She hands me my chocolate and takes her coffee.

“Are you falling behind?”

I inhale the sweet steam. “More like moving ahead.”

Near the high school I remember about Steve.

“Mom! Drop me by the auditorium, okay?”

She swings a left. “Not Ag?”

“No.” A twinge in my stomach.

“Well, I won’t bother to ask why.”

BOOK: The File on Angelyn Stark
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