She rested her forehead against the steering wheel. There had been stressful days before, but today had topped any of her previous experiences.
Ricardo de la Cruz. Images of him challenged and tormented her aching head. Four sessions left to go!
Resolving not to let a premature attitude of defeat creep in, Angela exited her car. A soak in the whirlpool tub in the courtyard would help clear her mind. The promise of relaxation added a slight spring to her step. The flowers surrounding the square scented the late evening air. Angela took a deep breath, letting the peace and quiet restore her spirits.
"Must have been a late meeting." Ricardo's voice emerged from the vicinity of her front door.
A rush of anticipation came and went as she watched him walk toward her. What did he want now?
"Maria and I went out to dinner afterwards,” she explained. "Are you waiting to see me?"
"I want to talk."
She paused, eyeing him with suspicion. "I've scheduled our conference for the last session."
"There are some things I'd like you to explain."
"About today?"
He nodded.
Angela summoned her last ounce of energy. After all, it was important that Ricardo understand the whole language program and what she was doing in the classroom. "Come on in, then. I'll try to answer your questions."
His steps brought him close to her—too close. It would be so easy to lean against him and breathe in the musky scent of his skin.
Angela backed away. Ricardo moved to the side to let her pass and then followed her into her apartment.
"This won't take long," he promised, shutting the door behind him.
"Since you insist on talking to me, Mr. de la Cruz, you may as well have a seat." The ice in her voice chilled the room. She refused to offer him a drink, although she could have used one herself to stop the trembling.
He sat down on the sofa, sprawling his long legs in front of him. His apparently relaxed pose didn’t fool Angela for a minute. She sat in the curved section opposite, and wished that the black table between them was larger.
Ricardo skipped the formalities and got straight to the point. "I want to know why you're acting like I have the kiss of death."
"An appropriate choice of words." Angela managed to control a shudder that would have revealed her apprehension.
"Why?"
She refused to acknowledge the hurt in his voice. "I think your intention to discredit me warrants such an attitude."
"I'm not out to get you. I want to help you, Angela."
"I don't need help. I need understanding and an open mind. I saw you watching my kids. You only saw them running around and talking and—"
"They were,” he growled.
"But did you hear what they said?"
"Of course. Two of your boys were giving each other rather impressive critiques of their respective stories."
"They've been taught to give input and help each other revise," she elaborated, relieved that he recognized what the students were doing.
"It sounded good, Angela, but I looked at the kid's paper. All he had on it were scribbles."
"He's writing his way, which means he can still participate in thinking it through even though he can't write it down alphabetically yet. At his stage of handwriting development, the function is more important than the form."
"You mean that was his work?" His dark eyes widened.
"He'll figure out the plot first with his friends and then with me. I edit and type his story, he illustrates it and, voila, he's published a book."
"That's crazy!" Ricardo exploded, the outburst lifting him off the sofa to tower over her. "How can you edit and type his story when you can't even read it?"
Angela was undaunted by his outburst. "It's simple. He reads the story to me and I write the standard words below his invented words. When I type the story for his book, I correct the grammar."
"Doesn't that upset his ego?"
"No. He realizes he’s not using standard spelling. He also appreciates being able to publish a book when he’s composed it."
"He can't read or write, and you tell me he's published a book?"
"We have our own class publishing company and we make a big deal about our books ending as finished copy."
"Angela, we aren't playing games here. Those kids have to learn how to read."
"They already do, Mr. de la Cruz, better than the average first grader, actually."
"I don't see how when—"
"You will," she interrupted with a touch of impatience. "That's what we plan to explain. But our explanations won’t mean anything to you if your mind is already set."
That threw him. He was renowned in his work for being fair and astute. "Angela, I'm trying to understand, but it's all very strange."
"Trust me. After we explain the theory, it'll all become clear."
He slumped down on the velvet cushions and, bracing his chin on steepled fingertips, he brooded.
"I don't want the rest of our filming time to be like today.” Sincerity traced a furrow across his brow. "You're upsetting my cameraman as well as your class."
"You're right." She leaned back, defeated. "The students sense my hostility."
"There's no need to be antagonistic toward me." Soft promise edged his tone. "I don't want to hurt you."
The strange part about it was, she believed him. Perhaps Cathy and Lupe had misunderstood his intentions. After all, he did plan to spend several days in her classroom. That had to arouse their suspicions. Then, too, if she was honest, she'd admit there was a possibility that the two of them had deliberately lied to upset her. Even though they enjoyed giving her a rough time, it was hard to believe they'd go this far—not with an influential man like Ricardo. Then again…
"Do you have any more questions about what you saw today?" she relented.
"Quite a few." He smiled then. "But I'll wait until the conference you've scheduled. You're tired."
The warmth of his smile washed over her and she relaxed. "I don't mind if—"
"Later." He stood to leave, reached over to take her hand and pulled her up with him. "If I assure you I haven't closed my mind or formed any set opinions about your program, will you promise me we won't have any more icy glares?"
"I promise." For the first time that day, Angela gave him a wholehearted smile and his tension visibly eased. It surprised her that she had the power to upset him.
"Till next week." He traced his finger along the curve of her cheek.
Her eyes closed in response to his touch. When she opened them he was gone.
CHAPTER 5
THE NEXT TWO SESSIONS proceeded without hostile tension. Ricardo and Ken relaxed, and the students reacted to the camera with less caution. Once again, Angela enjoyed her students.
At one point during the third session, her glance came to rest upon Ricardo. Attentive and alert, he was listening to Carlos. They sat on the carpet, two dark heads, the small one bent over to read, the larger, more powerful head cocked to hear the child's story. Angela smiled to herself. If Carlos was reading his latest space fantasy, Ricardo would have a surprise in store for him.
"Maestra," the high-pitched voice brought her attention back to the child at her side.
"Read me your story, Leticia."
Angela listened with half an ear as the little raven-haired six year old read. A loud guffaw interrupted Leticia's words and they both looked up to see Ricardo, head thrown back, rocking with laughter.
"That's the funniest story I've heard in a long time," Ricardo told Carlos, giving him a pat on the back.
"Carlos always writes funny stories," confirmed one of his friends.
Several students had edged over to the pair still seated on the floor. Curious and ever in search of attention themselves, they wanted to be in on the action. For the same reason, Angela stood and joined them.
"You've heard this story?" Ricardo asked one of the bystanders.
The other students, not
ing his surprise, began to barrage him with their own plots.
"You have terrific imaginations!" He complimented the group, looking over at Angela.
She savored his delight. In that instant she realized an essential truth about Ricardo de la Cruz. Under that tough exterior and self-assured attitude hid a sensitive man.
Later, after dropping off the class for their music lessons with the specialist, she tried to appeal to that aspect of his nature.
"You like children, don't you?" she asked him as they returned to her classroom.
"Yes," he answered, but his wariness was apparent when he looked at her.
"They sense your interest. You get along well with them."
"That's because they know where I stand. They know I'm not going to let them get away with anything. Kids respect that, you know."
His words filtered into her thoughts. Was there a touch of reproach in his tone? "What do they respect?" she asked to see how he would answer.
"Structure, boundaries, limits." He pounded the side of one hand into the palm of his other."Children need to know the parameters of acceptable behavior and then those parameters need to be enforced. They don't respect you otherwise."
"I agree.”
"Do you?" He stopped and put his roughened hands on his hips. The green grass and the crimson bougainvillea that lined the breezeway faded into the background. The force of the man's physical presence captured her total attention. His next words, however, broke the spell.
"If you believe that, why do you let the children misbehave?" She could see he was struggling to understand.
"Who was misbehaving? Everyone was working today—even Fernie."
Fernie had been on his best behavior to impress the “big telebision mans” as he called Ricardo, Ken and the rest of the crew. Smiling to herself, she imagined the restraint Fernie must have used to control his hyper-energy. Couldn't Ricardo see that and appreciate the effort?
"They were all running amok again," Ricardo protested, and Angela could hear his frustration.
Movement across the courtyard caught her attention. Lupe and Cathy had been watching the exchange between her and Ricardo. Great. Now the two would really have something to gossip about. She hoped they were far enough away that they couldn’t hear what was being said. All she needed was to have Ricardo's criticism bandied about the school. And those two women would see to it that it was.
Annoyed with Ricardo and the whole situation, she swung around and continued toward her classroom. Ricardo seemed taken aback, but that was too bad. They needed to finish this discussion in private.
As he followed her, she lowered her voice to ensure Cathy and Lupe wouldn't overhear her. "It doesn't look like it to you, because of your preconceived notions, but I run a very strict class."
Her linen slacks swished together with her quick steps. Ricardo lengthened his stride to keep up with her.
"The rules are simple, but enforced. Every child has had it drilled into them that they are at school to learn and in class they work. If they want to play, I tell them to stay home. If they insist on playing at school, I send them home."
"That's a punishment?" He paced beside her and held open the door.
"To a six-year-old it's devastating." She entered the room and motioned Ricardo to follow, aware that his eyes had raked her from head to toe. Her voice broke. "They love school."
Ricardo's cameraman had retreated to the teachers’ lounge for a break, for which Angela was thankful. She didn’t want Ken to pick up on Ricardo's prejudices, nor did she think his awareness of their dissension would help her cause. The respect and loyalty he felt towards Ricardo was obvious.
"But how can you tell if they’re working or playing?" Ricardo asked before he hooked a leg over a nearby desk and sat down.
The casual action distracted her for a second. How natural he looked, even among the miniature furnishings of the classroom! She could spend all day looking at him.
"There's a distinct difference between the voice tone of children playing and children working. Their laughter is different, too, and so are their movements." She smiled as she settled on the top of a desk across from him. He was trying to understand her argument—it was all she could realistically expect of him at this point.
"Experience with kids gives you an insight." She shrugged, trying not to notice how the muscles in his legs strained against the taut fabric of his slacks. She raised earnest eyes to his face. "Just as I imagine experience has taught you to tell when a person you're interviewing is hiding something or outright lying."
"I see your point," he conceded after long moments of contemplation.
Angela watched him, alert to every nuance of movement and tone.
His brow furrowed and he rubbed his jaw. His mind must race like a computer—accepting and rejecting data. She held her breath, wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers over those chiseled features.
"Okay, assuming they're all working and not playing—” He looked at her, his ebony eyes filled with questions and some other, indefinable element. He hadn't accepted her premise yet, but the unusual component in his glance distracted her from the task of convincing him. She had to force herself to focus on his words. "How can they be learning when they work with each other instead of you? It's like the blind leading the blind."
Shifting her gaze from the intensity of his, she searched her mind for a reasonable answer. "Children learn from each other. They know far more than we give them credit for.”
He cast her an indignant scowl, which she ignored. She walked to Carlos's desk. When she realized Ricardo’s gaze was drawn to her body, she trembled slightly. She shook the wide-lined papers out to distract his attention from her and direct it back to the issue. The movement also helped to calm her nerves.
"Look at Carlos's story as an example." She perched next to him to show him the child's work. Awareness of him charged through her. Her fingers shook as she pointed to the words. "Would you believe that a six-year-old has mastery of such rich language? Look how he sets mood and emotion with these adjectives. You heard the reaction of the class."
"Yes, but—"
"First-grade preprimers don't use words like this. They use one-syllable, flat vocabulary that says nothing—and do you want to know why?"
Caught up in the conviction of her beliefs, she missed the gleam of amusement in his eyes.
"Why?" he asked as his breath fanned her cheek.
Losing her train of thought, she peered at him and saw the humor lurking around the curves of his mouth.
"Because." She stood, miffed that he found her speech entertaining and disturbed because he could fluster her with a sensuous look. Determined to convince him, she continued. "Because those in charge of curriculum think six-year-olds don't know any complex words yet. So they stifle and bore the children with subhuman language."
"But if they can't read—"
"That's the whole point.” She threw her hands in the air for emphasis. "They aren't going to want to read when there's nothing meaningful in the content of the books."
"I admit your students want to read, but can they?"
"It's hard to believe, but most of these first-graders do know how to read and write. What's more, they do so at a level way above their grade."
With a sweep of her hand, she grabbed several books published in class from the bookcase. "Look at these. They were written by the children, using their language, telling stories that mean something to them." She paused for effect and took a deep breath. "They can read these."
He thumbed through the pages while avoiding her eyes. "Of course, they can read these. They've memorized them."
"But don't you see?" She tapped a coral nail on the large print. "Through familiar language they figure out the written system. It's like learning how to talk. You listen to language around you and from what you hear, you generalize and expand your vocabulary. It's the same premise whole language is based upon."
"That doesn't make sense."
He set down the books and grabbed Carlos's papers. Angela couldn’t take her eyes off his blunt tipped fingers. "Look at this kid's writing. Who's going to teach him to spell, use proper punctuation and grammar? You need to teach him that."
"I do." She focused on his words in disbelief. Did he actually think she sat doing nothing all day? "When they’re ready they bring me their work and we conference and edit. That's what I do at the table."
"But it's only one child at a time, when you should be working with all of them."
"It’s hard to get to all of them when I have such a large class—I admit that." She began to pace, forgetting about the disturbing quality of the man as her defenses rose.
A strand of hair fell across her face and with an unconscious gesture she brushed it back. When she turned to face Ricardo, she caught the admiration in his glance. A thrill raced through her, but she suppressed her reaction. She had to persuade him that the children did in fact learn more through this "holistic” approach.
"When I do get to that one child, he learns what I teach him because it's relevant to what he needs at that moment, for his work." She began to pace again, this time conscious of his gaze following her every step. "When a teacher stands in front of the class and lectures, maybe the child learns, and maybe he doesn't. He might not even be listening. There’s no way of knowing."
"But at least you know you taught it." He stood and blocked her path.
"Did I, though?" She stared up at the face looming above hers, willing him to understand and ordering her senses to ignore his nearness. "If they don't need to learn it, they won't. So I've wasted my time and theirs."
"But most of them probably will learn it."
"I can't gamble with their minds. My way tells me they did learn what they need to know." In protest, she placed the palms of her hands on his arms. "They want the information. They use it and internalize it. Don't you see how essential that is?"
Tanned fingers reached up to cover hers and press her hands closer. The rising temperature of his skin penetrated the smooth fabric of his plaid sports shirt.
A Flower for Angela Page 6
