“I don’t know,” I say. “Somewhere! I’ll catch a ride. Hitch.”
“Stop right there. You are not hitchhiking.”
I face the dark.
“Are you in some kind of trouble, Angelyn?”
“Every day of my life.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Mr. Rossi asks.
I lift a shoulder. “I needed a place to be. I thought it could be here.”
“So you show up on my doorstep like some refugee?”
I turn. “Oh, I’m too dirty for you? Still not dressed right?”
Mr. Rossi walks at me. “Simmer down.”
I walk backward. “I’ll wash, then. My clothes and me.”
He stops. “What are you talking about?”
I’m kicking off shoes. Tugging at my shirt.
“Don’t—do not—take off your clothes.”
“Why not?” My voice catches. “You don’t like them. You keep saying.”
“Angelyn!”
I run from him.
Gravel stings my feet. I dig in harder. The motion sensor spreads light, and I aim for the center of it. My feet slap grass and cool concrete, then—hard, cold water as I cannonball into the pool.
Sinking, I unwrap arms and legs. The water is clouded, the light above filtered through a crust. I paddle underneath, staring at the surface. The view doesn’t change. He doesn’t come. My eyes burn. Cheeks puff. My heart beats in my ears.
My toenails scrape bottom. It’s silty. Freezing. I lift them, writhing.
The pool goes dark.
I gasp and water pushes in. Cold sweeps me and I hang frozen.
The light comes back. I see Dolly’s shadow. Her bark reaches me.
I push off from the bottom and arrow to the top.
Spitting water, I grip the pool ledge. Dolly races around.
Leaves and twigs carpet the water, moving with me like we’re part of some cold soup. I cycle my legs for heat, my jeans tightening like bandages.
Something lights on my arm. A giant moth, walking dazed. I swallow a scream and shake it off. The moth leaves lopsided, Dolly snapping after it. Under my hand the gutter is lined with bugs that weren’t so lucky.
“Nice pool,” I shout, lifting out of it.
“Can you swim?” Mr. Rossi from a distance. Slurred words.
I squelch toward the house, stopping once to peel a leaf off my foot.
He’s on the porch, sprawled across a brown wicker couch.
“Yes,” I say, climbing the steps. “I can swim.”
“No one uses the pool.”
“I used it.” I’m trembling. “Now I’m taking a shower. In your house.”
Mr. Rossi flaps a hand like, really, he couldn’t care.
I run the shower scalding and take my time. After, naked in the steamy small room, I toe my wrecked clothes to a corner and reach for hers. The yellow tank, still there. Yoga pants from a basket of exercise clothes. A green jacket from a hook behind the door. It’s fleece and warms my shoulders like a hug. I towel-dry my hair. Put on socks.
Mr. Rossi is how I left him. At his feet, Dolly thumps her tail.
I stand in front.
He looks up. “Feel better?”
“Yes,” I say. I do.
“I couldn’t go after you, Angelyn.”
“Because you’re drunk,” I say.
“Yes,” Mr. Rossi says. “I can’t drive you home either.”
“Guess I’ll have to stay.”
“Your parents will be worried.”
“My ‘parents’ are gone for the weekend. The whole weekend.”
“Who else can you call?”
“Mr. Rossi, can’t you see there’s no one?”
He struggles to sit up. “I’ll call a cab.”
“Why can’t I just be here? I’m not hurting anyone.”
Our eyes meet.
“You know why,” he says.
“I’ll sleep outside. In the garage, even.”
Mr. Rossi says, “No,” in a way to end all arguments.
I move from him along the whitewashed boards. “You’re like all of them.”
“All of who?”
“Them! People. Friends. Things get tough and you don’t want to know me.”
“I’m not like that,” he says.
I walk back. “Let me stay one night.”
“You know I can’t.”
“You’re scared to let me stay. Scared I’m this big slut.”
Mr. Rossi looks at me. “I don’t know anything about that.”
I’m trying not to cry. “What is so wrong with me?”
“You think you’re the only one who’s having a bad night, Angelyn?”
I push my hair back. Pain on his face. I sink against the rail.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.
Mr. Rossi brings out chips and soda for us, dog food for Dolly.
“You do like her,” I say as he sets her bowl on the porch.
Tail wagging, Dolly attacks it. Mr. Rossi scratches between her shoulders.
“Hey, I need all the friends I can get.”
We sit on the couch, the bag of chips between us.
“Thanks,” I say, taking some. “I know I’m a problem.”
Mr. Rossi is smiling. I ask what’s funny.
“I was picturing the police—the principal—my wife—driving in and finding you here in those clothes and me like this.”
My chest is tight. “The police?”
“I almost called them while I was inside,” Mr. Rossi says.
“What?” I say, sick. “Why? I’ll leave now if it’s like that.”
“I didn’t call. I don’t have the energy to explain anything to anyone.”
“Mr. Rossi, there’s nothing to explain. I told you—you don’t have to worry about me.”
“You came by on the worst night of my life, Angelyn. One of them.”
I watch him. “Worse than mine? I doubt it.”
“Try this. Today is my son’s birthday. He’s four. I called where they’re at, and my wife wouldn’t bring him to the phone. I heard party sounds in the background.”
I sit back. “That is bad. I bet he misses you.”
“She says I won’t see Camden again.”
“Your wife says—what?”
Mr. Rossi covers his eyes. “I think you heard me.”
“Can she do that?”
“Who knows? She thinks she can.”
“Mr. Rossi, what did you do?”
He looks at me.
“I mean—” Faltering. “Why is she so pissed?”
“What I did is not up for discussion.”
“Okay.”
We’re quiet.
Mr. Rossi pushes the chip bag to me. “Want more?”
“Maybe later.”
He sets the bag in an empty plant stand and leans back, legs outstretched.
“What’s your story tonight, Angelyn?”
The whole mess spreads before me. Mom. Danny. Steve. Nathan.
“Can I say it’s not up for discussion?”
Mr. Rossi laughs. “Yeah. Heck, yeah!”
But I tell him a little.
“This guy—the one who brought me here—” Mr. Rossi frowns.
“He didn’t know where he was at. Anyway, this guy can’t do enough for me. Nathan is all about helping. So, tonight, first chance he gets, he’s—Mr. Hands. I knew it was that. I just knew it. When I called him on it, he brought out his grandma. Yeah, Nathan. Smooth. At least with Steve, you know right off what he wants.”
Mr. Rossi is quiet a long time. “Nathan’s grandma. Someone you know?”
“She was my neighbor. She’s in a nursing home now. He wants me to see her.”
“Is this the neighbor who helped you after school?”
I smile, happy—amazed—that he remembered. “That’s her. Mrs. Daly.”
“You loved her,” Mr. Rossi says.
“Yes.”
“I’m with Nathan. See her
.”
“But, Mr. Rossi, he doesn’t mean it. He’s using her to get to me.”
“Look, maybe this kid wants to get with you and wants you to see his grandma. One thing doesn’t have to block the other. Things are generally more complicated than that.”
Mr. Rossi’s serious expression stretches to a yawn.
“I’ll fall asleep out here if I’m not careful.”
“Don’t go in,” I say. “Tell me about Blue Creek High when you were there.”
“Oh. Well,” Mr. Rossi says. “It hasn’t changed all that much. Ten years, more or less. Miss Bass was an English teacher then. One of my teachers.”
“She was? Were the groups the same—the cowboys, the jocks, and all?”
“We hardly noticed the cowboys,” he says. “They had their corner, and we had—the rest of the school, I guess. I was a jock. A rich kid, you’d say. I had the grades too. My friends were like me, and we all stayed together.”
“It’s like that now,” I say. “The cowboys don’t have much to do with the prep kids. Some of the people Steve knows have money. They’ve got the tallest trucks, the biggest cabs, the best sound systems. Everything’s new. Steve’s folks have money too, but they dime it out to him. That’s what he says. Nobody cares much about school.”
Mr. Rossi’s head is turned to me. “How do you fit into that world, Angelyn?”
“It’s Steve’s call if I’m in it or not. I’m out now.”
“But do you want to be in it?”
I face him. “They’d say I’m with Steve or I’m nowhere.”
“They’re wrong,” Mr. Rossi says. “All of that fades, and fast. It’s high school. Ten years ago, I thought I’d be someplace way different than I’m at now.”
“Where did you think you’d be?”
“Playing baseball! Angelyn, you’d see me on TV.”
I think of Danny. “So, why aren’t you playing baseball?”
“I was good,” Mr. Rossi says. “Good enough to get a scholarship to play for Stanford, no less. I played infield. Freshman year was great. Sophomore year, I tore a ligament in my knee. I had surgery and rehab. Two games back, I tore it again. I was never as good after that. I wasn’t good enough.”
“Did they kick you out of Stanford, Mr. Rossi?”
He smiles at me. “No. Just off the team. I stayed and got my teaching credential. My mom told me she was just as proud.”
“I’d be proud of you,” I say.
Mr. Rossi looks off. Standing, he crosses to the column by the steps.
“I used to sit out here with her.”
I try to see him little. “You did?”
“All the time. We’d watch the stars and talk about anything.”
“My mom and I don’t talk. We fight.”
“Mine understood me. Wanted the best for me. Thought I was the best.”
I curl into the couch. “Must be nice.”
“That part of my life is over, Angelyn. I can’t ever get it back.”
“Why?” I whisper, fixed on him.
“She died when I was twenty-three.”
“Oh no.”
“A plane crash. My stepfather’s plane. He died too.”
“I’m sorry. Sorry.”
His eyes glint.
“Was it a good time for you,” he asks, “when you knew Mrs. Daly?”
“Yes,” I say. “It was.”
“Go back there, Angelyn. I wish I could. See that lady while you can.”
“I’ll go if you’ll take me.” I say the words as I think them.
Mr. Rossi goes into the house.
I watch after. And wait. He doesn’t come back.
I feel like—nothing. No. Sad. So sad.
I try to guess the time. Could be eleven. Could be two a.m. His property is a carpet of unbroken dark. Sound of crickets everywhere.
Dolly’s left too.
I tug a throw pillow from behind and set it at my head. Pretzeled against the cold, I zip the jacket and work my hands into the sleeves.
I know that I won’t sleep.
The screen door creaks. Mr. Rossi steps out with a blanket.
I unbend. “Oh.”
He shakes the blanket out and hands it to me.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat. “Stay, Mr. Rossi.”
He wobbles. “Can’t.”
“It will be all right,” I say.
Mr. Rossi sort of falls onto the couch.
I lift the blanket. “We can share.”
He pats it to my side. “This is for you.”
I snuggle in. “You’re the best.”
“Ha. No,” Mr. Rossi says.
“To me you are.”
He rests his head against the wall. “You’re very young.”
“I know about guys.”
“I’m a teacher. Not a guy.”
I hide a smile. “You can be both.”
“Mmm.”
“Mr. Rossi?”
His eyes are shut.
“I saw how you looked at me at the frosty.”
He’s quiet.
“You don’t have to pretend. I’m okay with it.”
His breaths become sighs, then snorts.
I study him. “Are you really—really sleeping?”
Mr. Rossi twitches, frowns.
“Are you cold? Aren’t you cold?”
By inches I pull the blanket free. I gather a length and flip it over him.
He drags in a breath and coughs it out.
When Mr. Rossi is quiet, I edge to him until our shoulders touch.
Under the blanket our warmth combines.
Fists curled, knees tucked, I lean against him.
Mr. Rossi lifts an arm. I freeze.
He wraps it around, pulling me in.
Spread across his chest, I can hear his heart beat.
I slip arms around his waist. Smiling.
Sleepy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I wake alone, stretched along the couch. It’s daylight; cool, clear morning.
“Mr. Rossi?” I’m hoarse-voiced. Teeth fuzzy.
Dolly barks from the lawn.
The screen door creaks. “Angelyn, come in.”
We stand in the hall. The floor is cold even in stocking feet.
“Your clothes are in the bathroom. I ran them through the washer and dryer. Your shoes are there too. I picked them off the lawn.”
“You didn’t sleep like I did.”
His eyes flick over me. “I slept fine. It’s time to get moving.”
Moving where? I wonder. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten-thirty,” Mr. Rossi says.
“You have someplace to be?”
“Got to get going,” he says. Looking somewhere else.
I ask if I can take another shower.
“You do that,” Mr. Rossi says. “I’ll make us some breakfast.”
We eat on the porch at a table with a frosted glass top. Bacon, toast, orange juice. Coffee for him.
“This is good,” I say. “Like we’re at a restaurant or something.”
He chews dry toast. “Glad you like it.”
“You’ve been great.”
“Last night is sort of a blur,” Mr. Rossi says.
“We sat on the porch. Talked. We fell asleep.”
“Together,” he says.
“Like friends,” I say.
Mr. Rossi rubs his face.
“About your son—”
“I talked about that?” He’s wincing.
“You’ll see him again. I know it.”
“These are private matters,” Mr. Rossi says.
“I won’t tell anyone. I swear I won’t.”
He looks at me wild-eyed. “I was impaired last night!”
Impaired? I want to laugh. I would laugh if it weren’t for his expression.
“Mr. Rossi, you were fine. You really were.”
He pushes back from the table. “It’s time to take you home.”
“We’ll stop at
Mrs. Daly’s?”
“Mrs. who?”
I make my voice calm. “You remember.”
Mr. Rossi takes a moment. “Your neighbor lady tutor person.”
I nod. “She’s in a nursing home. It’s on the way. You said, See her.”
“All right,” he says.
We sit in the parking lot.
“I’m afraid to go in,” I say. “Will she even know me?”
“Nursing homes are tough,” Mr. Rossi says.
“Nathan visits. Jeni sees her. If they can—”
“You will handle whatever you find. You’re a brave kid.”
Instant smile. “I am?”
“You are,” he says. “Now, go. Tell her what you need to tell her.”
From outside, the home looks like a budget motel, a long rectangle of rooms behind sliding glass doors. On one side of the building, a rose-lined path. On the other, a picnic area with patio furniture, a barbecue pit, and flowering planters. A calico cat is curled asleep in a lounge chair.
Through the lobby door I watch the scene inside. A nurse at a counter pages through a thick binder. Across from her, a tiny old woman and a heavy old man sit in wheelchairs against a wall.
The woman could be Mrs. Daly. I step back.
“Angelyn!”
Jeni’s at the door in white pants and floral smock.
“Come in,” she says with a smile I’ve never seen.
The smell about knocks me out, human and chemical combined.
“God,” I say. The old people look over. The nurse too.
“You get used to it,” Jeni says. Quietly. Kindly.
“Where is Mrs. Daly?” I ask.
“She’s in Activities. Come on. I’ll take you.”
The room is big and sunny, walls of windows on three sides.
A dark-haired woman with a beach ball stands at the center of a circle of people in wheelchairs.
“Bill,” she says, tossing to a man with muscled arms and frozen face. He catches the ball and squeezes fit to burst.
The woman walks to him. “Nice job!” She works the ball free.
“Sad,” I say. “Which one is Mrs. Daly?”
“Not sad,” Jeni says. “Just life. She’s at the window.”
Hunched in a wheelchair, Mrs. Daly looks out on a view of the picnic area. Short white hair in curls, a wrap around her shoulders.
“Wow,” I say softly.
I follow Jeni there.
She leans in, a hand on Mrs. Daly’s arm. “A friend is here to see you.”
Mrs. Daly asks, “Who?” in a cracked little voice.
Jeni steps aside. “It’s me,” I say. “Angelyn.”
The File on Angelyn Stark Page 11
