The File on Angelyn Stark (9 page)

“I can’t be more than what I am.” I test the words.

Jeni asks, “Why not?”

I look at her. At him. At dinner. It’s always the same. Mom talks and Danny says nothing. She hardly looks at him, and he only looks at his food. What keeps them together—I wonder—
still
.

I hate how the kitchen shrinks when all of us are in it.

“Someone pass the juice?” I say.

The container is closest to Danny.

He keeps his eyes down. I can
feel
him wanting to reach.

“Lazy,” Mom says. “Get it yourself.”

With a swipe of my arm, I grab the bottle. Danny flinches.

“Sorry.” I watch his bowed head.

Mom talks more. Something about her boss. Something about the job.

I push my chair back. “Can I be excused?”

“So rude,” Mom says.

“What?” I say. “I’m done. I’ve got homework.”

“I tell you my news and you ask to leave?”

Her eyes have me pinned. Dark eyes, almost black. Like mine.

I look back, lost.

“Are you happy for me?” Mom asks.

“Yeah.” No clue. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. What for?”

I’m squirming. “I didn’t hear your news. Sorry.”

Danny glugs water.

“Angelyn, you didn’t
listen
. I hate liars.”

My throat clutches like her hand’s around it.

“I’ll listen now.”

Mom picks up a breadstick. Swabs it in sauce.

“Tell me, all right?”

“You’ll have to wait until the weekend,” she says, chewing around the words.

“The weekend?” It’s Thursday. “What’s happening then?”

“We are going shopping,” Mom says. “And out to lunch.”

It’s not my birthday. Not Christmas. “Shopping for what?”

“I want to buy you a treat.”

Now I’m staring. “Why? I mean, thanks—but why?”

“You’ll find out.” Mom breaks out smiling. “I don’t mind telling it twice.”

With shoulders and attitude, Mom clears a path through the packed aisles of Rowdy’s shoe department, grabbing boxes off shelves, passing them to me.

“Choose one,” she says when we have three.

In an empty corner I line the boxes on a bench.

“How’d you know my size?” I ask, stepping out of my past-it summer sandals.

“We both take nine.”

I lift the lid off the first box. Running shoes. Pretty nice ones.

They fit fine. Look good. I have a pair like them at home.

The second box holds brown clogs with fake-fur yellow trim.

I turn one over. “They look like bear paws.”

“Winter’s coming,” Mom says. “Try them out.”

I clump around, uglier with every step.

“Those are really cute,” she says.

“They kill my feet,” I say. A lie. I’d never wear them.

Mom points to the last box.

Ballet flats. I slip them on and slide along the floor. The fabric pinches the sides of my feet and feels like nothing underneath.

I take them off. “Can I look around?”

Her mouth turns down. “I don’t know what you think you want.”

I’m backstepping. “Five minutes.
Less
than five.”

Mom just looks at me. But she doesn’t say no.

Families from toddlers to grandmas are picking through shoes, hopping in, testing walks. I weave through, scanning displays.

Then I see them.
The shoes
. Stiletto-heeled Mary Janes, ribbon straps,
red
, standing out like jewels in a sea of black and brown.

I find my size. Cradling the box, I take it to Mom.

“You’re kidding,” she says when I lift the shoes out.

They fit like custom-made. Feel great walking. In the step-stool mirror I check front, side, and back. My legs are long, strong, endless.

I can’t stop smiling. “These are the ones I want.”

“What would you use them for, Angelyn?”

“Dances? You said it was a treat.”

“You want to look pretty for
all the boys
,” Mom says. “Right?”

My stomach dips. “No. Not really. I mean, I like the shoes for me.”

“Why?”

I stick a foot out, looking. “It’s not complicated. They’re pretty.
They
are.”

Mom checks the box. “Ninety dollars.”

“Ninety.” I sit on the bench. “I didn’t see that.”

“Ninety dollars.” Her voice is hard.

I pull the shoes off. “Okay, Mom.”

Taking one, she fingers a ribbon. “I used to want things like this. I never got them.”

“You didn’t?” I say, watching her.

“We were too poor.” Mom is somewhere else. “I’ve brought you a long way, Angelyn.”

I shrug. And sneak a look at the shoes before they go back in the box.

“Why
do
you want them?” Mom’s voice is intense.

Surprised, I raise my eyes. “They make me happy.” My face flushes, but it’s true.

She boxes the shoes and walks them past me.

We stand at the end of a very long line. Mom’s back is to me, her arm curved around the box.

“Thanks?” I say.

I see the price on the box end—$90.

“Really, Mom. I can’t believe it. I mean it—thanks.”

“All right,” she says.

We shuffle forward with the line.

“You can borrow them sometimes,” I say.

Mom turns. “What?”

I smile a little. “We are the same size.”

She looks me up and down. “I wouldn’t wear these outside the bedroom.”

My smile sticks. “Mom—that’s disgusting.”

“Yes, it is.”

She’s mad. The woman in front of her is turned and staring.

I reach for the box. “I’ll take the running shoes instead.”

Mom swings away. “No, ma’am. You made your choice.”

In a diner across the parking lot, Mom tells me her news. Her eyes shine. It’s like the store never happened.

“It’s a great opportunity,” she says. “They
asked
me to apply.”

I sip my Diet Coke, the bulky shoe box pressed to my thigh.

Mom pulls back. “You can’t say you didn’t hear me this time.”

“I’m just not that excited about you becoming a bus driver.”

“Angelyn, it’s twice the money. Overtime hours. Better insurance.”

“That’s why the shoes,” I say.

Mom’s face falls, like a little kid’s. Then it gets mean. “Most girls would be happy to shop with their mothers. Most girls would be glad for a new pair of shoes.”

The waitress steps up with our food. Burgers and fries. We eat in quiet.

“This is going to change our lives,” Mom says, wiping her lips. “You don’t see that now, Angelyn, but you will.”

I’m thinking. “You’ll be out of the house more. Right? With overtime and things.”

She looks at me quickly. “Yes. Why? You’ve got something planned?”

“No. I don’t. Is Danny all jazzed about this?”

Mom doesn’t answer right off. “Sure he is.
He’s
excited for me.”

“How is that going to be—” I lose my nerve.

“How is
what
going to be?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Wow, more money coming in. Danny won’t even have to
pretend
to work.”

“You’re missing the point,” Mom says. “And I don’t like your tone.”

The hostess leads a group to the booth across from ours. A tourist family by their look, right out of L.L. Bean. Blond dad, blond mom, two kids, a boy and toddler girl.

They’ve hardly sat before the girl turns up her arms to the man. He sweeps her into his lap, and she settles against his chest like it’s a pillow.

The girl waves, smiling—“Hi!”—at me.

I look away. And catch Mom’s eye. She was watching too.

“My real dad,” I say. “Did he— It’s hard to ask, but—”

“Your
real
dad. He is long gone.”

A deep voice. My name the way he said it:
Angie-lyn
.

“I don’t remember much. But—did he ever care?”

Mom lifts her chin. “Not how Danny cares.”

“Oh.”

“Junk jobs.
Part-time
junk jobs. That’s all I could get until Danny got me on at the high school.”

“And then they let him go,” I say.

“He was injured on the job!”

“
Whatever
happened.”

“Danny fell off a ladder. He settled with the district, and that’s how he got his work truck. You know all that.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“They wouldn’t have given him a settlement if he’d done something wrong.”

“Mom. Okay.”

“Danny helped me. He helped
us
when no one else wanted to know. I don’t forget that.”

What do you remember?
I want to ask.

Instead: “So, it’s all right with you that we’ll be spending more time together? Danny and me. While you’re driving the bus.”

And then I can’t look at her.

“Angelyn.” Mom is hushed. “What is your problem?”

I study my plate.

“My news. And you make it about you.”

“Sorry.” I hate saying it.

“Don’t be like this on our trip. I want to make it fun.”

I look up. “What trip?”

“I don’t have the job yet,” Mom says. “I’ve got training in Sacramento next weekend, and a couple of weekends after that. You’re coming with.”

“I am?”

“I’ll get a motel with a pool, so you can swim. And good TV. Maybe room service. The district is paying.”

“Why do I have to go?”

“Come on.” Mom fake-laughs. “Pretend you’re a normal kid.”

“I’ve got homework.” My voice is heavy. “Every weekend.”

“Bring your books! I’ll be out all day, both days, training.”

“Mom, I don’t want to go.”

“You’re going.” Steely.

She signals for the check.

“I know why,” I say quietly.

Mom zooms in on me. “You know what?”

“A trip with you is not
about fun
.”

“Thanks!”

“It’s about Danny,” I say. “And me. You don’t want to leave us alone.”

“Wrong,” she says.

“If you take the job, we’ll
be
alone. What happens then?”

Mom blinks through mascara.

“Trust us now or trust us later. You have to do it sometime.”

Her lashes catch. “You ruin everything.”

Mom slides from the booth, grabbing at her purse. Throws
money at the table and walks out fast. The diner doors swing after her.

I watch it all, numb.

The waitress is at the table. “Trouble?”

I point to the money.

She scoops it and leaves.

I take the shoes from the box. Pull them on.

As I stand, a little voice calls, “Pretty!” The L.L. Bean mom says,
“Hush.”

I think I thank the girl.

Mom is in the truck.

I climb in. “I’m surprised you waited.”

“You’re my responsibility, Angelyn.”

I stare at my beautiful feet. “Thanks for the shoes.”

“Where are the old ones?”

“Oh!” I look over. “In the diner. I could go back—”

“No.” She starts the truck.

We’re quiet all the way home.

Into the carport, Mom lets the motor idle.

“You’re going to Sacramento.”

“No,” I say. “You can’t force me into the truck.”

“You’re going!” she says. “And I won’t be nice about it.”

“What would happen if I stayed with him?”

Mom stares at me.

“Nothing. Right?”

“Right,” she says.

“I spent my suspension with you—two days copying and stapling. I couldn’t stay at home. Mom, why couldn’t I?”

“You’re my kid, not Danny’s. He wouldn’t watch you like I would.”

Fingers and thumbs, I rub my face.

“Why are you talking this way?” Mom’s words poke at me. “Why are you doing it now?”

“Why did you talk that way in the store?” I ask, and hold my breath.

“Angelyn—what? I bought the shoes you wanted. I spent that money on you.”

I drop my hands and study them. “Yeah, Mom.”

“Look at me.” I do. “I am getting this job. And you are not going to distract me.”

“Oh, sorry for
distracting
you,” I say in a hot rush.

“I won’t let you,” Mom says.

Jeni takes another note. Books are stacked between us. I look out on our class scattered through the library.

“Wish I’d known he’d bring us here,” I say. “We wouldn’t have had to come before school.”

“We need the time,” Jeni says. “All of it. We’re getting an A on this.”

“
You
are,” I say, eyeing my closed notebook. “I can’t concentrate.”

Jacey and Charity sit a few tables away, shoulder to shoulder, whispering.

“They’re talking about me,” I say.

“Maybe not,” Jeni says.

Charity turns. Makes a face. Says something to Jacey. They laugh.

I look at Jeni. “No, huh?”

“Well …” She bites her lip.
“Here.”
Pushing some copied pages my way.

I flick at them. “What are these?”

“It’s an article about Australia and immigration.”

“Sounds hot.”

“This one’s about
early
immigration,” Jeni says.

I laugh. “Oh,
early
immigration.”

“Angelyn, if you read it, you’ll like it. Seriously. Some of the first ones to come over were prisoners. England sent them. People they didn’t want.”

“Okay,” I say. Not convinced.

“It’s about second chances.” Jeni is intense.

I start to page through. “I will look.”

Sound rises and falls through the room. Mr. Rossi stands at the counter with the librarian and the career counselor.

“Why would somebody like him be a teacher, you think?”

Jeni looks up. “Mr. Rossi? Why not? He’s like any of them.”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

She points to the article. “Take notes.”

I flip and scan like I know what I’m doing.

Somebody’s cell goes off—loud.
BAA PAA PAA PAA
. Game-show ringtone.

People laugh and look around.

Mr. Rossi’s grabbing at a pants pocket. It’s his phone.

He takes it out. Drops it. “Shit!” he says, and everyone gets quiet.

Stooping, Mr. Rossi punches at the phone. “Wait,” he says into it.

He walks it outside.

“Weird,” Jeni says. Kids are buzzing.

Through the glassed panels, I see Mr. Rossi pacing, talking, listening.