The File on Angelyn Stark

by Catherine Atkins

  She’s smaller than I remember. Only three years, but so much older.

  “We were neighbors,” I say.

  Mrs. Daly’s smile is polite. Nothing more.

  I crouch by the chair. “Angelyn Stark.”

  We look at each other. I recognize her eyes, clear hazel-gray.

  “The little girl next door,” Mrs. Daly says. Then: “Angelyn!”

  I sit on my heels. “Yes. Not so little now.”

  “Pretty girl. I’ve changed, haven’t I?”

  I nod. “Why are you in that chair, Mrs. Daly?”

  She considers herself. “Well, I don’t know. Do you?”

  “No,” I say. Smiling.

  Mrs. Daly lifts her hands. Drops them. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay. Have you been asking for me?”

  She frowns. “Have I? I am glad to see you.”

  “Nathan said you had to see me.”

  Her face lights. “Nathan? Is he here?”

  “It’s not lunch yet,” Jeni says. “Let’s go outside.”

  I stare at her. “Yeah. Let’s go out.”

  I push Mrs. Daly along the rose path.

  “I have heard her talk about you,” Jeni says. “That wasn’t a lie.”

  “Not quite how Nathan said, though, was it?” I keep my voice low.

  She scuffs some leaves. “Maybe he wanted—”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure what Nathan wanted.”

  Mrs. Daly touches a yellow rose. She lifts her face to the sun.

  “I’m not sorry I’m here,” I say.

  In back, flower boxes border a postage-stamp lawn. I set Mrs. Daly next to one and sit on it beside her. Jeni hovers.

  The cat comes around, meowing.

  “She’s hungry,” Mrs. Daly says.

  “I’ll get her food,” Jeni says.

  The cat rubs its cheek along Mrs. Daly’s footpads.

  “Mora lives here,” she says, looking down at the cat. “Like me.”

  “I have a dog,” I say. “Sort of.”

  “I am glad you came,” Mrs. Daly says. “Nathan visits. My son hardly does.”

  “You and Nathan left our block to live with him.”

  “Yes,” she says. “We lived with Roger.” I pick at my jeans. “You left because of me.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t remember. Maybe it’s good you don’t remember.”

  “You were a child,” Mrs. Daly says.

  “Nathan told you something about me. I said he lied, but it was true.”

  “I’ve never known Nathan to lie,” she says.

  “I lied.” Mora the cat skitters off. “My stepdad lied, and I backed him up.”

  First time I’ve said it out loud. Out right.

  “Mrs. Daly, I lied to the cops. I lied to this lady they made me see. Danny and Mom weren’t even there, and I kept on lying.”

  “You look sad,” she says.

  “So much is wrong,” I say. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

  “Some things aren’t fixable,” Mrs. Daly says.

  I stiffen at that. “Do you even know what I’m talking about?”

  “Yes, Angelyn. I know.” Her eyes are sharp. I believe her.

  “It was you who called the cops. We were supposed to hate you.”

  “Hate,” Mrs. Daly says. “I hope not.”

  “But we did hate you. Danny slashed your tires. Mom made crank calls. She wanted to scare you away. I even helped.”

  “Are you all right now?”

  “Am I all right? I threw rocks at your house. At your dog, Mrs. Daly.”

  I hide my face.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “So sorry.”

  “You take things hard,” Mrs. Daly says.

  “I was bad. Really bad. Even you say it—some things can’t be fixed.”

  She touches my shoulder. Feather-light and gone.

  “I meant to say, these things are not fixable by you. Not you, Angelyn.”

  “Who’ll fix them? My mom, you mean?” I laugh—I can’t help it.

  “She was hard on you,” Mrs. Daly says after a time.

  I look up. “You didn’t like Mom, did you?”

  She fusses with her wrap. “I didn’t care for her, no.”

  “The cops kept asking if anything happened between Danny and me. The lady asked too, over and over. Mrs. Daly, my mother never asked.”

  “I would have asked, if it were me.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “I could have done more.” Her voice shakes.

  “No,” I say, turning. “You were great. You were—”

  “I cared for you, Angelyn. Does it help to know I cared?”

  I hold on her. “Yes. It does help.”

  “Tell me about you,” Mrs. Daly says. “Tell me about school.”

  I talk. Jeni comes over. Cross-legged on the lawn, she listens.

  Time passes like nothing.

  A door opens at the back of the building. A woman’s voice:

  “Jeni! Time for lunch setup.”

  “Five minutes, Mom,” she calls.

  Jeni’s mom crosses to us. She’s taller than Jeni, thin like her.

  “I’ll bet you’re Angelyn,” she says. “I’m Kim.”

  Off-balance, I say hi. “How did you know me?”

  She nods to Jeni. “This one talks about you.”

  Jeni flushes. “Not that much.”

  Her mom rubs Mrs. Daly’s shoulder. “Eleanor talks about you too.”

  “She does?” Something settles in me.

  “Mom, we’ll bring Mrs. Daly around front,” Jeni says.

  We take the path slowly.

  “Does Nathan come to see her a lot?” I ask.

  “Every lunch,” Jeni says. “Even on school days.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t want to see him.”

  “Did you guys—fight, or something?”

  I look at her. “What did he say?”

  “Just that he dropped you somewhere last night. Someplace he didn’t know. He was pretty pissed, for Nathan.”

  I focus on Mrs. Daly’s white curls. “Maybe now he’ll leave me alone.” Adding: “I’m glad she has him.”

  Jeni says, “I’ve been thinking about what happened at the frosty.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.” Sharp with her.

  “I’m going to say it. There’s something wrong with that teacher. You should stay away from him.”

  “Don’t talk about him. I mean it.”

  We turn the corner to the rose path. I stop.

  “Give us a minute, all right?”

  Jeni walks on. I kneel by Mrs. Daly.

  “I liked seeing you so much,” I say.

  She puts out her hand. I take it. Hold her fingers carefully.

  “I loved seeing you,” Mrs. Daly says.

  “I’ll come back,” I say. Eyes down.

  “Will you, Angelyn?”

  “I will,” I say. I’ll try, I think.

  Jeni waits at the lobby door. Mrs. Daly smiles up at me.

  “You’re a wonderful girl,” she says.

  My eyes fill. “I will come back.”

  I’m light across the parking lot. Wanting to tell.

  Mr. Rossi has the seat back. His head back.

  “It was great,” I say, climbing in. “Mrs. Daly is so cool. Still cool.”

  He’s blinking, sitting up. “Good. Great.”

  “Mr. Rossi, I couldn’t have done it without you. I wouldn’t have!”

  “All right, Angelyn. Now, you are going to have to guide me the rest of the way to your house.”

  I sit there. That’s it?

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He rubs his eyes. “Yeah, no problem.”

  “No, really,” I say. “Thank you, Mr. Rossi.” And stretch to hug him.

  “Whoa!” he says, but there I am, against him.

  Arms at his sides, he sighs. “Angelyn.”

  I breathe with him,
our clean soap smell the same.

  Hands at my elbows. “Enough, now.”

  I tuck my head under his chin. “I’m thanking you.”

  “You’re like a cat,” Mr. Rossi says. “A child.”

  I draw back. Face to face. I kiss him, a real kiss.

  His lips are warm. Dry. Pulling from mine.

  Mr. Rossi turns his head. I slide off.

  “I’m not a cat,” I say. “Not a child. Not to you.”

  “How far is your house?” He speaks coldly.

  “About three miles. Why?”

  “Is it walkable?” Mr. Rossi asks.

  “Why would we walk it?” I ask. Shivering inside.

  “I’m letting you off here,” he says.

  “Why? Don’t be mad. What did I do?”

  “You can’t be that way with me, Angelyn. You can’t do those things.”

  “I know. Okay.” I’d say anything.

  “Who is that?” Mr. Rossi asks.

  I look.

  Jeni stands at the nursing home gate. Alone. Watching.

  “That’s the girl from the frosty,” he says. “Your friend from class.”

  “She’s not my friend.”

  “Put on your seat belt,” Mr. Rossi says.

  Someone’s egged my house. Slime trails on the door. Shells on the steps.

  Mr. Rossi and I look from his car.

  “Everything has to be right for me to see my son,” he says.

  “I know,” I say.

  “That girl could tell anyone. Anything.”

  “Jeni doesn’t talk to anyone but me.”

  “This weekend was a disaster,” he says.

  I chew a knuckle. “Don’t let her ruin it, Mr. Rossi.”

  “Don’t let her ruin it?” he says, looking at me.

  My stomach twists. “Okay, Jeni shouldn’t have seen, but—”

  “Angelyn, get out of the car, please.”

  I face the house. The mess I’ll have to clean.

  “I don’t want to get out.”

  A pause. “Do you know who egged it?” Mr. Rossi asks.

  STEVE. “I think so. Yeah.”

  He waits again. “Are you going to be okay here?”

  I shut my eyes. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

  “What?”

  “It’s not crazy.” I talk fast. “Mom and him won’t be back until tomorrow. Jeni—I’ll talk to her on Monday. I already told her, Back off.”

  “You can’t stay with me,” Mr. Rossi says. “I’m not running through the same arguments I used last night.”

  “You remember them?” I say. Then: “Sorry. But you can’t get into any more trouble if I stay another night.”

  His mouth twitches. “Sure I could.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know.”

  “But—tonight would be so much better. It would have to be.”

  Mr. Rossi looks up. “How’s that?”

  “You’re not drunk. I’m not sad, stressed, or sweated-out.”

  “Not following,” he says roughly.

  “We could help each other,” I say.

  “Help each other do what?”

  “Well.” Shy with him, suddenly. “The thing is, I don’t like sex. Sometimes touching feels good, but it never feels right. With you, I’m thinking—everything could work. Because you see more to me than anyone I’ve been with.”

  “Anyone you’ve been with?” Mr. Rossi swears softly. “Angelyn, who do you think I am?”

  “Someone who—likes me.” I’m sputtering. “Why are you making me say it? Why are you pretending?”

  “Pretending. What am I pretending?”

  “You’ve liked me all along. I know it. I saw you! I saw you look at me—” I touch my chest. “Here.”

  “At the frosty. Okay.” Mr. Rossi nods. “Yes, I looked. Didn’t mean to, didn’t want to. I kicked myself after. Your shirt was tight, and you’re—”

  “What?” I ask, lasering in.

  “Very pretty. You’re very pretty, Angelyn.”

  “Thanks.” Eyeing him.

  “But there’s a difference—a world’s difference—between looking and doing anything about it. Or wanting to. Come on! I would never want you like that.”

  “Why?” I ask. Hurt. Not believing it.

  “Because you’re a child.” Mr. Rossi is calmer. “You are a child, to me.”

  I feel myself losing. I put my hand between us on the gearshift.

  “I’ll prove to you I’m not.”

  He stares at the hand. “I’m not who you’re looking for.”

  “You are,” I say. “You are exactly. I would never tell. No one would know.”

  “I’d know,” he says. “You’d know. That would be enough.”

  “Yes,” I say. “That would be enough.”

  Mr. Rossi curls his hand over mine. I breathe in sharply.

  Lifting it, he sets it on my lap.

  “What you’re saying is wrong. Dead wrong. Don’t you know that?”

  “Who says?” I ask. Flattened.

  “Everyone says it, Angelyn. Everybody does.”

  “They’re not here.” I remember something. “I’m the prettiest girl of the day. Today.”

  “What?” Mr. Rossi looks over.

  “You said that at the frosty. ‘The prettiest girl of the day.’ ”

  “I didn’t mean you. I didn’t. I was miles away.”

  “Oh.” I try to smile. “I’m at least as cute as Dolly. Take me home, Mr. Rossi. Take me anyway.”

  He holds the wheel. “Get out of the car.”

  “I don’t understand. My boyfriend said, Leave, because I wouldn’t do it all, and you—Mr. Rossi, I’d do anything for you!”

  “Out, now.”

  “But I like you.” I’m fumbling for the door handle. “I like you too.”

  “Sweetheart, get out.”

  I look at him sharply. And crawl out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  With garden gloves I grab eggshells by the handful. I hose the door, the steps, and scrub them down. I clean inside—the dishes, the beds, the sweeping, the dusting. Anything to move.

  Not good enough for him.

  I’ve got the TV on blasting stuff about stuff. Anytime I stop, it’s like I’ve run ten miles.

  Not good.

  Dark comes. I pull a smoke from a pack Mom’s hid and have it outside. On the porch steps I stare across to a house that looks like ours. It’s empty—up for rent for months. At Mrs. Daly’s old place next door, someone’s cooking meat. Another rental, where no one stays for long.

  A truck blasts by. It comes around again, slower.

  “Hey, honey,” the driver calls. He’s older, mustached, features in shadow.

  He would.

  “No,” I say, and straighten. “No,” I say, and go inside.

  Room to room, I lock what can be locked. Back in front, I stare at the heavy mustard drape that hides the outside.

  I can feel him there. See his truck parked.

  Rushing to the window, I pull the drape aside—

  and JUMP at my own reflection.

  My hair’s a wild cloud. My eyes, panic-wide. My mouth, an open wound.

  The street is empty.

  He would’ve. If he could.

  I turn from the window.

  Danny would have—if he’d had the chance.

  My hands shake. I don’t know what to do.

  Homework, I think, and it’s like an oasis.

  Then I remember.

  My homework’s with her.

  Sunday they’re back late, scrabbling at the lock, stumbling laughing into the house. I’m in bed, covers to my chin, dressed underneath.

  Mom calls and my eyes snap shut.

  She comes in my room. “You best behaved yourself.”

  I imitate a corpse.

  “She’s here, at least,” Mom says.

  When they’re quiet an hour, I slip outside.

  I check the truck
. Twice, like I could miss it.

  The backpack isn’t there.

  In their doorway I shout: “WHERE IS IT?”

  Mom sits up. “Angelyn?” Her nightie is rumpled, and I see too much.

  I fix on a point above her. “Where’s the backpack?”

  “Wait,” she says a couple of times. Then: “What?”

  “You drove off with it. My homework!”

  Danny lifts his head. “What’s this now?”

  Looking at him, I lose what I want to say next.

  Rubbing on himself, Nathan said. Making faces.

  His chest is saggy. Not solid like before. Chest hair’s turned to gray.

  I tell him: “You’re disgusting.”

  I whisper it.

  Mom looks between us. “Save it for the morning.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t care about him. I need my stuff NOW.”

  She shrugs a sleeve in place. “You are way out of line.”

  “I want to do my homework. Is that out of line?”

  Mom laughs. “Your homework?”

  I step in. “This is serious. This is real.”

  She fires me with hard eyes. “You better stop.”

  Danny says, “Get out of our room.”

  “Shut up,” I say. And scream it. “Asshole! Shut up shut up shut up.”

  Mom’s flipping covers. “Run to your bed.”

  Danny is sinking. Flat on the mattress, hands up like I’ve got a gun.

  Like I do.

  Mom drives me to school. Shut tight, I face the side.

  She turns by the auditorium. “You want to be left here, right?”

  I make a sound that could be “Yes.”

  She pulls over. “I didn’t take your backpack on purpose.”

  I look at her.

  “We didn’t know we had it. Not until the first coffee stop.”

  “Where is it?” My voice is rusty.

  “Still in Sacramento,” Mom says.

  “You left the backpack.”

  “No. I forgot it. At the motel. We’ll get it back.”

  “When? I’m already missing assignments.”

  “I go for training again this weekend. We’ll get it then.”

  “The weekend! Mom, I need the books now.”

  “I can’t just pick up and go in a workweek. You know that.”

  “What am I supposed to do without my stuff?”

  “Borrow. Explain to your teachers. I’ll write you a note. Whatever!”

  I nod to myself. “Okay, then.”

  “Angelyn, I know your schoolwork is important. I’m sorry.”

  Sorry? Mom never is.

  I stand in the breezeway, cold.