The File on Angelyn Stark (11 page)

I try to think. “Can we have lunch with you?”

“What?” Jeni is staring.

Mr. Rossi makes way for us. “I’m going out today, Angelyn.”

I stop by him. “Where will you be?”

He smiles. A slight smile.

“I’m having nostalgia for lunch.”

“We’ll have that too,” I say, and leave fast.

“What’s
nostalgia-for-lunch
?” Jeni asks in the hall.

I’m afraid to look back. “Someplace that isn’t here.”

At lunchtime we wait by his car.

“Angelyn!” Jeni can’t stay still. “He didn’t ask us. Let’s go.”

“He wanted to ask,” I say.

Mr. Rossi doesn’t look surprised to see us. Or mad.

“Ladies.” He pops the locks.

“This is
crazy
,” Jeni says behind her hand.

“So’s my fucking life,” I say.

He takes us to a frosty in the next town, across from the state park. Off-season, we’re the only customers. We stand outside in a row at the order window. The counterwoman sways to oldies rock.

“I don’t have any money,” I say.

Jeni says, “I’m not hungry.”

“I’m buying,” Mr. Rossi says. “You girls find a place to sit.”

Jeni checks the space. “That won’t be hard.”

The dining area is four picnic tables on a concrete pad under a rusted aluminum awning. I step up to a tabletop, and Jeni takes the one opposite.

The sky is streaked with clouds. A warm breeze blows. Storm weather. Rain begins to spatter against the awning, a sound like bacon frying.

“What are we doing here?” Jeni asks.

I look at Mr. Rossi ordering. “Having lunch.”

“With him.”

“I ate with him yesterday after you bugged out on me.”

“I did not
bug out
, Angelyn. My mom and Nathan’s dad had a fight, and—”

“Whatever,” I say. “I don’t care. Mr. Rossi is cool. That’s all.”

She’s quiet. “You weren’t at the steps this morning.”

I see myself stumbling from Steve. Hurt. I could tell her about it.

“So? I never said I’d be there every day.”

Mr. Rossi comes over with a cardboard container of drinks. Hot chocolates for us and coffee for him. I thank him, taking mine, and warm my hands around it.

Jeni sets hers on the bench.

Mr. Rossi swings up beside me. Close.

“Hey,” I say. Surprised. But where else would he sit?

He waves to the window. “She’s got fries cooking for everyone.”

My mouth waters. “I am so hungry.”

“Hungry, tired, not dressed right.” Mr. Rossi ticks them off.

I draw away. “Not dressed right?”

He points to my feet in flip-flops.

“I had to leave the house fast.”

“Is anyone looking out for you, Angelyn?”

“I’m doing okay.”

“I can see that.” His voice is teasing. Light.

I cross arms over my cheap T. Feeling
less-than
.

Jeni catches my eye. “Cool?” she mouths.

The radio is playing something psychedelic.

“I used to come here in high school,” Mr. Rossi says. “With the prettiest girl of the day.”

I look up. “Your wife, you mean?”

“No, Angelyn.” Like he’s laughing. “I met
her
after high school.”

“Oh.”

“This was the place to be,” Mr. Rossi says. “That same woman was serving. These same tunes were playing.”

Jeni says, “Only they weren’t oldies then.”

She smiles at me. I smile back.

“Ha. Ha,” Mr. Rossi says. Separate sounds. “No, Strawberry Alarm Clock was before my time. Even then.”

“Strawberry
who
?” Jeni says, and now we’re laughing.

Mr. Rossi sinks head in hands. “You girls are
harsh.
”

“Hey, my mom likes eighties metal,” I say.

Mentioning her brings it all back. I get quiet.

Rain pounds. I can smell the fries and practically taste the salt.

A new song starts. Something about rock and roll never dying.

Mr. Rossi sits up. “Aw, yeah!” He drums his thighs.

Jeni rolls her eyes.

“This is from
Grease
,” he says. “You must have seen it.”

I have seen it, but I don’t say anything. Neither does Jeni.

“The song is from the movie,” Mr. Rossi says. “Not the musical.”

“Oh,” Jeni says like she cares.

“We did the musical in high school. I was Danny Zuko.”

“Like John Travolta in the movie?” I ask.

He turns to me. “Yeah! I was this jock too. Nobody knew I could sing.”

He’s nicked himself shaving. Along the jaw. “You sing, Mr. Rossi?”

“In the right mood. I haven’t been there in a long time.”

“Sing if you want.” I’m careful not to look at Jeni. “We won’t mind.”

Mr. Rossi chuckles. “You may be sorry that you said that.”

The song is fast and jumpy. He mumble-sings a beat behind.

“Everybody rock,” he says, then sings. The words repeat and Mr. Rossi catches them, syncing his voice with the group’s at the chorus.

He bounces with the music, popping shoulders, swinging his arms. His hip hits mine and then his elbow. Ducking sideways, I tip my drink, spilling most of it. My feet skid as I try to right myself. A hold on nothing, I start a fall.

In one easy move Mr. Rossi grasps my waist and upper arm, setting me upright—“ ’kay?”—and letting me go.

“Sorry,” he says. “Now, you sing too!”

I stare at him. “I don’t know the words.”

“ ‘Rock and roll’! Just keep saying it.”

The song is saying it. Over and over.

I shake my head.

“Count of three,” Mr. Rossi says. “Now, one, two—”

I sit forward, elbows on knees.

“Why don’t you leave her alone?” Jeni says.

Mr. Rossi says, “Huh?”

“It’s all right,” I say.

“Angelyn?”

I frown where no one can see.

“Wait,” he says. “Are you shook up from that? I thought we were having fun.”

I clear my throat. “
You
were. But I can’t sing.”

“That was dumb of me. To push you.” Like he’s asking a question.

I sit up. “There’s nothing wrong.”

His smile wobbles. “Sure?”

“Sure,” I say.

Mr. Rossi fake-wipes his forehead. “Whew.”

I lean back, hands flat on the table. “Yeah, we are good.”

He looks at me. My boobs. His eyes go there. I wait for it and there’s no mistaking.

Mr. Rossi’s eyes travel to mine. We see each other.

“Sing more,” I say.

His face is flushed. “The song is over.”

“Too bad,” I say.

“I think the fries are done.” Jeni’s voice is high. Unnatural.

“I’ll check.” He launches from the bench.

“What’s going on?” Jeni says. Hushed now.

I swipe the cup to the ground. “Nothing.”

“Angelyn—I feel like something bad is happening.”

“It isn’t.”

She checks Mr. Rossi at the order window. “Let’s tell him we want to go.”

“I don’t want to go. Where are we supposed to go?”

“Why am
I
here?” Jeni asks. “So things will look less weird?”

“Tomorrow have lunch with Nathan,” I say.

“If that’s how it is, I will. I’ll still tell you—I don’t like this.”

“Stop talking to me like a teacher.”

“Someone has to!” She points to Mr. Rossi. “
He
isn’t.”

“I know,” I say, “and that’s
great
because I hate teachers.”

Mr. Rossi turns. “Angelyn! Quiet back there.”

Like a fistful of ice to the face.

I crash out of the table. He calls after me. I stop at the edge of the patio.

Mr. Rossi comes up behind. “Hey.”

I take a breath. “Why’d you have to yell? I had your back.”

“What?”

I look around. “She was going off on you. I had your back.”

Mr. Rossi is frowning. “I think you picked up the wrong idea about me.”

I shrug. “Okay.”

“The singing and all—that was me being goofy. I’m in a funny mood.”

“Hey, me too.”

“I don’t understand this. I knocked into you—I said I was sorry. You spilled your drink. Of course, I’ll get you another one.”

“It’s not any of that,” I say sharply.

“Look,” Mr. Rossi says. “Just now—”

“It’s all right. It’s all right. I said things are good. I meant it.”

I don’t want to hear him lie.

I face the street. The little gray house across.

“Mr. Rossi, don’t ever
not-like
me.”

“
Not-like
you? Angelyn, I like you. As a student. A kid.”

“I know you like me. I know it for sure. Just don’t stop.”

“Why would I stop?” he asks.

“Because everyone does. Only not you. Okay?”

He doesn’t answer. Does not answer.

The counterwoman calls, “Order up!”

The rain hits the awning like rocks.

After school I take the bus home. It’s near dark when I step out. The houses along the way are shut tight, lights off or faint behind blinds.

Passing Mrs. Daly’s old place, I let myself look. It’s run-down, a rental, the fence gone, a driveway in its place. The yard paved to hold a makeshift garage. I remember being in that yard on a blanket in the grass, doing homework while Mrs. Daly tended roses and her dog Brandy slept nearby. The bushes are there still, vines brown and twisted on the side of the house.

Our place is cold. Mom and Danny’s breakfast dishes are stacked in the sink.

I look through the kitchen for a note. A number where she’s at. Money for food. A sign they’re coming back. I don’t find anything. I check the rest of the house. Nothing. No messages on the phone.

Back in the kitchen I do a snap-fingered dance. “Party time!”

Not enough friends for a game of two square.

I find random food—a peach, cheddar popcorn—and eat it at the sink.

The front room is Danny’s world. The big TV and the couch
facing it. He’s hardly left a dent in the cushions with his long, lean body. The couch smells of him: beer-sweat and tobacco. I take an edge and watch a
Simpsons
from there. All the while I feel that Danny’s behind me. I know he isn’t, but I hold that same inch of couch. Until the show is over.

The house echoes with quiet.

I am not grounded. No one’s cared to ground me.

I call Steve.

“Um” is what he says when I ask him over.

I pace with the phone. “Forget the stuff this morning. I have.”

His cell crackles. “Angelyn, you can’t knock me around like that.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah.”

“Why should I come?” Steve asks.

“Because I’m here.”

No answer. I wait and wait.

“Steve?”

“Twenty minutes,” he says.

In his quilted jacket and big boots, Steve shrinks the room.

“You live in a dump,” he says. Turning, staring.

I fold my arms. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s cold here.” His nose wrinkles. “It
stinks.
”

“Okay, Steve. I’m poor. Is that all right?”

He faces me. “Is this why you never asked me over?”

“Yeah, and—well, you saw them. The people I live with.”

He nods. “Your mom and him are gone, you said.”

“For the weekend.”

“What’d you have in mind, Angelyn?”

“I don’t know. We could go out. See a movie. Maybe get some food.”

He’s shaking his head. “I didn’t come here to be your ride.”

“Steve—”

“Not that kind of ride.”

Despite it all, I smile. “You’re disgusting.”

He cracks a grin. “And you love it.”

“So,” I say. “You want to
do it
and leave?”

“No, I don’t want to ‘do it and leave.’ Not if we’ve got the weekend. I will stay. But why can’t we have dessert first?”

“Dessert?” I’m groaning.

“Yeah. There’s something in it for you, Ange. I’ll show you what.”

I rub my arms. “We’d go out after?”

Steve steps to me. “Whatever you want.”

Inches apart, we stare. He takes my wrists and pulls me toward the couch.

I slip free. “We don’t want that grungy thing.”

“Where, then?”

“Your truck? We could park.”

He slaps his thigh. “Here we’ve got a house and no parents—”

“Danny is not my parent.”

“No
adults
,” Steve says. “For tonight and all the way to Sunday. Right?”

I lean against the doorframe. “Right.”

“You said you didn’t want to be alone.” He points to himself. “I’m here.”

“Only not on the couch,” I say.

I let him lead me to another room. Mom and Danny’s room. Steve sits me on their bed. I think that I can do it—that it won’t matter. I stretch with him across the comforter.

His fingers tap my zipper. He’s pushing. Pressing. And I’m pulling off my shirt like I want
it
—whatever
it
is—as badly as he does.

“You are going to love this,” Steve says.

I pull him to me. He fumbles with my bra clasp.

“I will,” I say, and while I do, he rears off to strip himself.

Arms above my head. The bra sliding from my finger to the floor.

“Angelyn,” he says. Choked. And falls on me.

Bare chests pressed, we roll on the cool and shiny polyester.

“Let’s get under the covers,” Steve says.