The File on Angelyn Stark (20 page)

I grip my backpack. “Can you come back to me?”

“Sure. Katie James. Tell us about your project.”

Katie—one of three Katies in the room—stands.

“Our group has China. We’re doing the Cultural Revolution. Its history, background, impact, and aftermath.”

She goes on. How they’ve divided the tasks. The research they’ve done. The docu-short they’re producing for the class.

I hunch over the pack, pulling stuff out, piling it on my desk. On the bottom, my notebook, curved from the weight of everything else. Not Jeni’s notes.

A glance at Katie, I flip pages. Most are blank. On one, the heading:

   
AUSTRALIA

Under it, the notes I took:

   
English prisons; convicts; transport ships; work it off.

And:

   
Start over!!

I stare at the words. I remember writing them. I remember talking with Jeni.

Charity hisses something.

Katie finishes.

Mr. Rossi walks to our row. “Ms. Flint. What have you and Ms. Jordan been working on?”

Charity doesn’t answer.

“You girls had Italy. Where did your research take you?”

“We’re in Angelyn’s group now,” she says.

I look around. “What?”

Charity winks. “Remember how we talked about switching?”

Jacey checks us both.

“That girl left,” Charity says. “Everyone knows that we three work together.”

Mr. Rossi says, “I don’t know it. Angelyn?”

“I’m not with them,” I say.

Charity says, “Yes, you are! You’re back with Steve.”

I flinch. “Don’t talk about me.”

“What happens outside class does not concern me,” Mr. Rossi says.

“She wants Jeni’s notes,” I say.

“Do not!” Charity says.

I stare at her. “And I don’t have them. I don’t even have them.”

She sits back. “Angelyn, you lie.”

My gut swirls. “Come up and search me.”

“All right,” Mr. Rossi says. “Nobody’s switching groups.”

I face front, an arm around my notebook.

“Charity. Jacey. Do you have work to share?”

The only sound is the scratching of his pen.

Mr. Rossi looks up. “Angelyn, what do you have?”

I swallow. “Not much.”

“Something, though.”

“Yes,” I say.

He sits against his desk. “Let’s hear it.”

“Our country was Australia.” My voice is thin. Hoarse.

“Stand, please.”

I drag myself up.

“Australia’s made up of lots of different kinds of people. Sort of like the U.S.”

Chin on hand, Mr. Rossi listens.

“There were the people who were already there.”

“Indigenous peoples,” he says.

“And the ones who came later, from outside.”

“So smart,” Charity says.

He points at her. “Stop.” And waves me on.

“Some of the first who came—they were sent. Convicts. Australia was supposed to be their punishment.”

“Who sent them?” Mr. Rossi asks.

“England,” I say. “English courts. It didn’t take much to be in trouble then. People were really poor and stealing food and getting hanged for it. Kids, even. So, they started sending them to Australia instead.”

Mr. Rossi nods. “All right. What’s your angle?”

“My angle? What happened to them, I guess. The convicts.”

“You need more. How did this affect Australia as a nation?”

I glance at my notes. “That must have been Jeni’s part.”

“Come on, Angelyn. Think.”

“Whatever they did,” I say, “whyever they were sent, in Australia they could work it off. Make it good. Instead of sitting in some English prison or dying for it.”

Mr. Rossi circles a hand. “And?”

I remember something. “They couldn’t go back.”

“No?”

“They weren’t supposed to. Even after they’d worked off their
time. That was hard for some, because, you know, England was the mother country. Jeni showed me this article that said people were still ashamed—” I stumble on the word. “Years later.”

“Keep going,” Mr. Rossi says.

“Convicts and their kids and even grandkids,” I say. “
Ashamed
and looking back to England. This article said, don’t look back. Because what they built
there
is better than anything that could have come before.”

I let the chair take my weight. Done.

Mr. Rossi stands. “That was good.”

I study my hands. “Uh-huh.”

“No. It was. Tie what you said into the Australian identity and—yeah.”

I look at him. “Really?”

He smiles. “Really.”

Pride shoots through me. “Okay.” I try to sound cool.

Mr. Rossi looks off. “Eric. Tell us about Vietnam.”

Eric grabs up note cards. “Sure, give me a minute.”

“That wasn’t Angelyn’s work,” Charity says.

My body tenses.

Mr. Rossi is marking something on the clipboard.

“Hello?” Charity says. “Mr. Rossi?”

He frowns. “Yes, Ms. Flint?”

“Angelyn got those notes from that girl. The ideas. Everything.”

My hands curl. “Her name is Jeni.”

“Angelyn, don’t respond,” Mr. Rossi says. “Ms. Flint, you let me worry.”

“I don’t think it’s right,” Charity says. “Her getting an A.”

He sets the board down. “Today is about points. No one gets an A.”

“Then why does she get the
points
?”

I face her. “Bitch, I don’t have Jeni’s notes.”

“It isn’t
fair
,” Charity says past me.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Her eyes get wide. “You can’t say that!”

Mr. Rossi says my name with force.

“What?” My voice crackles.

“She’s right. You can’t talk that way in here.”

“
She’s
right? She isn’t right about anything.”

He points to the desk by the window. “Move.”

Charity says, “Ha!”

“After class I’ll speak to you both.”

“Me?”
she says as I stare at the mess on my desk.

“No,” I say.

Up the aisle, people are talking. All I can see is the door.

Mr. Rossi steps in front. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” I say, stopped between desks.

“I can excuse you for a few minutes, but—”

“I don’t belong here.”

His face softens. “Sure you do. Of course you do. More than some.”

“Oh—you’re being
nice
again.”

“Take a seat. We’ll talk after class.”

“You said we couldn’t talk.”

Mr. Rossi clears his throat. “Angelyn.”

I press ahead. “I’m going.”

He stands firm at the head of the aisle. I try to wind around. Mr. Rossi blocks me again.

“I don’t want you to leave like this,” he says.

“Let me by,” I say, not looking at him.

Mr. Rossi says no.

A moment, and I charge. Falling back, he grabs my arms. I wrench free.

“Freakin’ perv, let me go!”

I stop in the doorway, facing the hall.

Behind me, Mr. Rossi says, “Don’t go.” His voice is unsteady.

“Why not?” My voice shakes too.

“You did a good thing here. Don’t waste it.”

“I already screwed things up. I screwed them up with you.”

“Don’t make it worse,” Mr. Rossi says.

I turn. “You told on me.
You
told Miss Bass. Didn’t you?”

“Yes.” He glances back. “Now is not the time to discuss it.”

I see the class behind him. Caught up in every word.

“You don’t know me.” I say it anyway. “You
play
me. Hot and cold. You lift me up. Set me down. When do I know to believe you?”

Mr. Rossi is pale. “I meant every good thing.”

That stops me. “You did?” My voice is soft, like a kid’s. I frown after.

“Angelyn,” he says. “You’re crossing some lines here. They’re lines that you don’t need to cross.”

“I’m sorry.” I say it automatically. Then, again: “I’m sorry.”

“Come in,” Mr. Rossi says. “We’ll talk after class. I promise.”

“You promised before.” But I step back in. I can’t meet his eyes or anyone’s.

“Good.” He makes way for me. “Now, let’s finish the period.”

I start across the room for the desk by the window.

I hear them:

“Freakin’ perv! Tight.”

“Why’d she call him that?”

“She’s crazy.”

“What about him?”

“ ‘Hot ’n’ cold.’ Oww.”

“Angelyn always did like older guys.” Charity.

I stop. “Huh?”

Her expression:
Gotcha
. I check Jacey. Who’s scarlet.

My throat closes. “You—said something?”

Jacey says,
“No.”
Her head wags long after the word.

“We talk about you,” Charity says. “
All the time
. And I
know.
”

I’m stuck, facing the girls and the class. Some kids are grinning. Others whisper. Jacey’s head bends to her desk.

“You’re not so special,” Charity says.

Her face balloons to a target.
The
target. And it’s all of it. All of it.

I charge the aisle. Mr. Rossi shouts after me.

I make a fist and aim it.

Kicked out.

“Kicked out?”

Mom is pacing.

“What’ll I do with you now, Angelyn?”

From my inch of couch, I study the empty table that once held our TV.

“Is he coming back for more?” I ask.

She stops. “Danny would have carried that couch out on his back if he could.”

“I wish he had,” I say, standing.

Our eyes meet. Same height.

“Is Danny coming back?”

“Danny’s running scared,” Mom says.

His truck was gone when we pulled in. His clothes. Personal things. The TV.

“Meanwhile—” Mom says.

I look away. “What happened at school had to happen.”

“With
that
girl. In
that
teacher’s classroom.”

“Yeah.”

“You put me in Miss Bass’s office again, Angelyn. And she’s
looking at me like this is
my
fault. She told me to take tomorrow off to be with you.”

I shrug.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”

“I know I’m suspended.”

“Suspended
plus
,” Mom says. “Weren’t you even listening?”

“I guess I wasn’t.”

“The school is working up a behavior contract on you. We have to sign it to get you back in. Once they have that, you cross the line in any direction and you are gone—expelled from Blue Creek.”

“Gone,” I say. “From Mr. Rossi’s class?”

“That’s already happened.”

I move to the window. “Who made it happen? You or him?”

“You’re not hearing me,” Mom says.

I pull the curtain back. “You’re not hearing me.”

“Charity’s mother might press charges. Does that get through?”

I touch my forehead to the glass. The house across is empty still.

“Do you want to be in
jail
?” Mom’s voice sharpens.

A neighbor dog trots by, barely kept, its nose to the darkened pavement.

“I want to be somewhere else,” I say.

“You—what? Well, that’s just great. I sent him away for you! This is what I get back?”

I turn. “Do it
BECAUSE IT’S RIGHT.
”

Mom breathes in, a hand to her chest. “Go to your room and stay there.”

I scrape past. Nothing to say to her, forever.

My bed is shaking.

I slide up against the pillows.

A shape shifts at the end of the bed.

My heart knocks. “Mom, what do you want?”

She’s crying. “What did Danny get off you he couldn’t get from me?”

“Ask him.” Her words connect. “Don’t say that to me! You’re my mother.”

“What did you tell that boyfriend of yours? The way he looked at me.”

“I told him nothing.” It’s easier in the dark. “He’s seen the way you treat me. Maybe he thinks it stinks.”

“I’m better with you than my mother was with me.”

“How would I know that, Mom? You never talk about her. You never talk about anything that came before this town.”

“There’s nothing to say. My mother had no use for me. She kicked me out when I was seventeen. Seventeen, pregnant, and on my own.”

“With me,” I say.

“Yes, with you. But what could you do, a baby? I made my way in this world alone.”

I want to laugh. I laugh. “You always had a guy around. Different guys, before him. Different people, all the time. I remember.”

Mom blows her nose in something. “Everybody needs help sometimes.”

You never gave me any
. I think it and say it out loud.

“I kept him from you,” Mom says.

“What?”

“Danny never touched you after that. I saw to it.”

I flip the light on. Her face is blotchy. She’s red-eyed. Dressed still in T-shirt and jeans.

“You said I never asked you about him. Angelyn, we couldn’t afford the answer. Not then.”

The air tastes sour.

“Listen to me,” Mom says, though I haven’t interrupted. “I couldn’t pay the
rent
on this place. Not alone. With him I was able to buy it.”

“You knew,” I say. “You did know.”

Mom swipes at her eyes. “I
suspected
. I didn’t know.”

I take it in. “Mrs. Daly—the way you treated her. Nathan.”

“I kept my family together. That is what we needed.”

“Mom. The way you’ve treated me.”

She’s quiet. “I’ve always done the best I could.”

“Can you leave me alone now?” I ask. Quiet too.

“Don’t be hating me!” Mom says. “I always meant to knock him out of our lives. I would have too. You just couldn’t wait.”

“I guess I was having too much fun, the way things were.”

She stands. Paces. I draw in tight, arms around elbows.

“We’ll go to the police in the morning,” Mom says. “Bright and early.”

“Why bother?”

“I’m a mandated reporter. I will be, once I’m licensed and certified as a school bus driver. Do you know what that means? I have to report any abuse situation. I
have
to. It’s the law.”

I look up at her. “I’m your daughter, not some random kid on your bus.”

“The point is,” Mom says, “now I know how to do this. Now I
can
do it.”