A Flower for Angela (7 page)

Ricardo's grip tightened around the wrapped stems. The flowers had seemed like a good idea on the way over here. A gesture of friendship. Now he felt foolish. He forced himself to ease his hold. If he didn't relax, the bouquet would be as mangled as the flower little Juan had brought Angela the first day Ricardo had visited her classroom.

The door opened again and Ricardo sighed with relief. His whole attention focused on Angela—the way the light shone on her white-gold hair, the way the folds of the mauve jersey of her dress clung to her body, the way her perfume wafted into the room. Everything and everyone else receded into nothingness.

"Sorry I'm late." She didn't smile but fumbled in her purse for keys. "The traffic this morning is unreal. My bus was late and I missed my connection. I had to wait for the next one."

Ricardo nodded, trying to shake off the feeling that she was using the traffic as an excuse. In fact, he had the distinct impression that she wished to avoid him altogether, especially since she kept averting her eyes from his.

"Ken's in the lounge with his crew. I'll go get him so we can set up our equipment."

"Fine. I'll go on ahead and open the door."

She started to move away but Ricardo blocked her exit. He spoke in low tones, holding out the bouquet of spring flowers. "Will these make you smile?"

She glanced up but there was no warmth in her eyes. Only wariness. "Thank you." She took the bouquet gingerly, avoiding physical contact.

Ricardo waited for a few minutes after she hurried down the hallway toward her room. He needed time to pull himself together. He tried to ignore his feelings. How could such a small rejection hurt? Maybe it wasn't even a rejection. She was probably just nervous about filming today. Trying to hold that thought in mind, he went in search of Ken.

After an hour in the classroom, Ricardo realized Angela had had reason to be nervous. He was a wreck himself. He directed his cameraman to close in on the two students sitting on the floor in one corner of the room. The strain he'd been under, added to the physical danger he’d been in while in Copperville, were nothing compared to the stress caused by being in this classroom full of innocent six-year-olds.

But the students didn’t make him tense; their teacher did. Angela—he wanted to strangle her slender neck. Two weeks. He had been gone two whole weeks. Surely she could have pulled the class together enough to give some semblance of order for his visit today? How the hell was he going to make this chaotic mess look good? With reluctance he bent down to place the microphone where it would pick up the voices of the students.

"No, Juan," little Jose spoke quietly but firmly. "Voltron
is
fighting the Robeast."

Great
! Just what Angela needed—kids fighting—and she sat over there at her table, oblivious to it all.

"But you can't just have fighting in your story," Juan insisted, jabbing a finger at a paper full of scribbles. "Remember what teacher says—you have to have a problem."

"I will have a problem," Jose assured his friend. "Voltron is going to get trapped."

"
Con
permiso
,” Ricardo couldn’t help interrupting. "Why do you need a problem in your story?"

"It won't be interesting without one." The boy didn't bat an eye. The fact that an adult, and a stranger at that, had questioned him didn't faze him in the least. He spoke with the authority of experience. "If you don't have action and conflict, there's no story."

"You sound like my boss," Ricardo commented with ironic surprise. He listened in disbelief as the boys worked more on plotting. They knew the elements needed to make a story work. Angela had explained that reading quality literature to the students would teach elements of story. He hadn't believed it at the time, but he could see the evidence before him. It would help Angela's case—at least somewhat.

Ricardo looked around the room. More students sat in small groups, talking. In another corner, three children sat coloring pictures with bright felt-tip pens. His crewmembers were taping the other conversations. Unfortunately, they would show students visiting and playing instead of working.

Frowning, Ricardo regarded Angela. Every now and then she glanced up to survey the class, but never did she correct her students’ behavior. What could he do to get through to her?

A loud clatter drew his attention to Ken. A chair had toppled where a microphone cord had caught it. Lisa, the girl who had been at Angela's apartment that day, righted the piece of furniture.

"It's okay," she assured Ken. "Teacher says when we make mistakes we learn."

Ken flushed a bright red under his freckles and Ricardo laughed, enjoying his discomfiture. He'd watched Ken remain cool and collected in the slums of Los Angeles and during the riots in Copperville. The fact that a mere six-year-old could unnerve his most enterprising cameraman renewed Ricardo’s flagging sense of humor.

He glanced at Angela, expecting to share the irony. His expression sobered when he encountered her ice blue gaze. What had gotten into her since he last saw her?

At first, he’d excused her cool attitude as nervousness because of the camera. But with every passing minute, he grew more and more certain that she was directing those freezing glares at him on purpose. What had happened to change her attitude? When he had left her that day at the pool, she’d been warm and receptive, and now this.

Angela had been in his thoughts constantly over the past two weeks. Still, he reminded himself, he needed to remain objective in his relationship with her—at least until the end of this month.

He observed Angela as she worked with a student. The bouquet of flowers sat in the middle of the table. At least she'd put them in a vase. He frowned. There was no reason for her to treat him like her enemy. When class was over for the day, he promised himself, he'd get to the bottom of it.

Ricardo moved on to another group of students. Three were standing by a table that contained cartons of labeled plants.

"My plant's bigger."

Ricardo picked up the voice of a blonde-haired girl named Ana.

"No it's not," the second child insisted in Spanish.

The third child ran over to Angela's desk and began rummaging through its contents. Ricardo's immediate reaction was to reprimand her, but he paused and turned to see Angela watching him. Stepping back, he waited for her to finally scold one of her students.

To his amazement, she nodded to the girl and refocused her attention on the student beside her. Ricardo couldn't control his need to interfere another minute. He strode over to Angela. With satisfaction, he noticed that her muscles tensed with his approach.

"Do you always let your students have the run of the classroom?" he whispered with a touch of sarcasm.

She looked up, startled at his question. "It's their classroom, Mr. de la Cruz."

Mr.
de la Cruz
, he mimicked to himself. Such a show of cold formality. He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake the haughtiness out of them.

"They're going through your desk.” Never had he seen a student allowed near the sacrosanct drawers of a teacher's desk—let alone inside of them.

"Go back and observe, Mr. de la Cruz." She smiled but no warmth reached her eyes. "You might learn something about what they're doing."

Her reminder of his duty annoyed Ricardo. He returned to the girls, barely restraining his flash of temper.

"¡Aquí esta!
Here it is." The girl at Angela's desk held up a ruler in triumph.

Ricardo eased closer as the students began to measure the plants. The act in itself did not merit particular attention, but what followed had him intrigued.

"Mine is twenty-two centimeters and yours is only nineteen," the blonde girl informed the second child with an “I-told-you-so” attitude.

"What soil is yours in?" the other girl asked, not at all daunted by the first girl’s triumph.

"Potting soil," Ana answered.

"It must be better than sand. Mine's in sand and Ana's is in clay,” the dark-haired girl observed.

"Let's get our notebooks." Ana jumped up with excitement.

The girls ran to their desks and took out three-ring binders and pencils. Ricardo sighed in dismay when the girls crawled under the table to write on the lined paper. Dismay turned to amazement when he noted the data the girls wrote down in their notebooks. Not only did they record the size of the plants but they included their ideas as to why each plant had its own respective height.

Were these youngsters applying the principles of critical thinking at their age? He didn't think it possible, yet the report Angela had given him claimed that children in American schools were seriously lacking in critical thinking skills. Was she right? Was this lack the fault of the system? Angela claimed the "holistic" approach produced incredible results, but this was too much. These girls must be from the "gifted" program.

So the day continued, chaotic and incoherent. On the positive side, the students were happy and content—but who wouldn't be with the freedom they had? On the negative side, who could tell? As far as he could see, too much time was wasted in running around the room. The students should be sitting at their desks working in their math books or reading.

Such confusion muddled his objectivity—or was it Angela's distant manner? Looking back on the day, all he could think about was her expressionless features. His only consolation—there hadn’t been any smiles for her students, either.

Perhaps the taping had unnerved her more than he'd expected it would. Well, he’d soon find out what the problem was. Until he cleared up this dissension between them, he wouldn't be able to make heads or tails of what he'd observed today.

Where do they get their energy?
he wondered, watching the last affectionate student hug her goodbye. She looked exhausted. He knew how she felt.

"I'm beat," he admitted.

"They have a million questions, don't they?"

Ricardo responded to her sudden smile with surprising eagerness, his attitude softening.

"They want to know everything—right now," he chuckled.

"At least you and Ken are giving them on-site knowledge of behind-the-scenes television." The hint of sarcasm cut through his lowered defenses.

Her reserved manner back in place, she strode over to her desk to stack the notebooks scattered across the top.

Ricardo followed. "We need to talk."

"I can't." She looked up, a flicker of regret in her eyes.

"Can't or won't?" he countered, annoyance flaring again.

"I have a meeting I must attend." She reached for her keys and walked to the door. "The door is locked, Mr. de la Cruz. Please close it when you and Ken are through."

Frustrated, Ricardo watched as she left the room. He went over to Ken who was packing his equipment in large black cases and helped his cameraman finish up, vowing to himself that, today, Miss Angela Stuart would not have the last word.

ANGELA PARKED HER
white Plymouth in the carport behind her apartment. Due to the late hour of the meeting, she had driven her car to work that morning instead of taking the bus. "What a day!" she exclaimed with heartfelt relief that it was finally over.

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.