A Flower for Angela (9 page)

"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.

"Angela," he murmured.

All arguments in defense of her teaching vanished. Awareness that she was even a teacher disappeared.

For several minutes, Ricardo hadn't heard a word she had spoken. Oh, he’d been listening and he had filed away her comments for future consideration. But at this moment, all he could think about was fire.

She reminded him of a white-hot blaze. In a flash, she would flare up in defense of her students or her teaching. But when he whispered her name just now, her eyes smoldered. Underneath her professional demeanor and her angry protectiveness, there burned a passion that he wanted to know intimately.

Now was not the moment. Here was not the place. Not in her classroom. But watching her move and speak with such fervor had disturbed him. He'd wanted to stop her restless motion by pulling her into his arms. That he’d been able to resist that urge at all had amazed even him. But when she had placed her slender fingers on his arms, all adherence to the rules of propriety and timing was lost. He wanted—no,
needed—
to touch her.

"You drive me crazy," he whispered.

Wrapping his fingers around her hands, he pulled her body closer to his. Her weak struggles were easy to overpower. She gave in and stopped inches from him. Not daring to move, he stood still, breathing in the fragrance of her perfume.

"We can't do this." Her voice reached him, breathless and quavering.

"I know. Just stand here—close—for a moment," he promised, giving her hands a gentle squeeze. He wondered if she could hear the way his heart pounded.

"The students…” Her voice trailed away.

"Maybe Carlos will whisk us away in his magic spaceship." He heaved a wistful sigh before he let her go.

"It would be our luck that he'd whisk the whole class away with us."

"Ugh. What a cruel turn of mind you have."

She smiled. The tinge of pink that flushed her skin revealed that she was as disconcerted as he was. He reached out a finger to touch her cheek, wanting to feel her heat, but she turned aside and walked toward the door.

"It's time to pick up the students. I'll be back," she assured him.

Stunned by the powerful effect she had on him, Ricardo didn’t move for a moment after she left. He imagined lazy afternoons beside the pool in her courtyard—the sun would warm their bodies while the look in her eyes would inflame his senses.

He began to pace about the classroom. Traces of Angela were evident everywhere. Why couldn't he stop thinking about her? Why did he desire her so strongly?

Other women had never affected him to such an extent. They had attracted him, often. But they had never distracted him from his work. Whereas thoughts of Angela drifted into his mind even while he was immersed in a story.

That hadn't happened with Yvonne. In the years he had lived with her, she hadn’t invaded his thoughts as Angela had these past few weeks. Yvonne had been a reporter and they had decided it would be unrealistic for them to marry. The decision proved wise after Yvonne received an offer to anchor a newscast back east. In all honesty, he had to admit that he hadn't really missed Yvonne—and especially not now.

Angela had somehow managed to capture his heart and mind. One smile from her wreaked more havoc on him than any woman ever had, Yvonne included.

The door opened and his heart pounded with anticipation. He turned, expecting to see Angela, only to be greeted by Lupe Cartagena and Cathy Jones. His gut reaction to the two women was dislike. He hadn't cared for the questions they'd asked when they'd stopped by the news station just before his trip to Copperville. Their interest in his impression of the whole language program had seemed phony to him. He hoped they didn't want to talk now.

"Angela's not here," he told them. "She went to the music room to get her students."

"We know." Lupe, the taller woman, stepped forward. "We came to talk to you."

He groaned inwardly.

"Angela hasn't told us what you think about her program."

He was sure she hadn't. He doubted anyone would go around advertising that his or her teaching methods were suspect. The women were fishing for information, but he wasn't going to get caught on their hook.

Lupe glanced over at the door and then in a confidential tone asked, "Is Angela being investigated?"

His eyes narrowed as he studied the woman. There was something calculating about her. Or was he suddenly feeling protective of Angela?

He stated the obvious. "We're here simply to observe the whole language methods and tape them."

"Are you going to air them?" Cathy asked.

"I'm not working for the station on this. I told you that before."

"We thought since the video equipment—"

"Which is privately owned," he pointed out. All he needed was for the program director to get on his back for using their equipment during off hours.

"Are you doing this for the board?" Lupe asked.

He supposed it would seem that way since he'd been on the board last year. "Look. I'm a concerned citizen, interested in the continuing educational programs, that's all."

"We'd be happy to show you our classrooms." Lupe's voice had gone sugary now.

So that was their game. They wanted all his attention for themselves. If they only knew why he was observing Angela so closely, they wouldn't be in such a hurry to invite him in.

"Be sure to come and see us," Cathy added as they headed toward the door.

Ricardo gave a noncommittal nod, relieved when they left. He wondered how close they were to Angela. His working relationships with his colleagues were tight. But traveling all over the Southwest with them had helped cement the bonds of friendship. Perhaps the working conditions in a school were different.

Yet he'd noticed the closeness between Angela and Maria. He didn't get that feeling with Lupe and Cathy.

Before he could contemplate the matter further, his thoughts were interrupted by the return of his cameraman.

"Daydreaming?" Ken paused from adjusting his camera to peer at Ricardo.

"Planning a follow-up story on the Copperville strike for tomorrow's broadcast,” he lied, shrugging his shoulders in a futile attempt at nonchalance.

"She's gotten to you, huh?" Ken gibed with certainty.

"What're you talking about?" Ricardo stiffened, knowing it was useless to hide anything from Ken. They'd worked together for too many years.

"They didn't have teachers who looked like that when I was in school," Ken observed. "And I've seen the way you watch her."

"Lay off." Ricardo scowled at him. The fact that Ken's ribbing was getting to him only proved how close to the mark he was.

"Be careful. You're walking a fine ethical line."

Ricardo didn't respond. He knew Ken meant the warning as a friend. They watched out for each other. It had always been that way, ever since he and Ken had exposed the Simpson Textile Company in East Los Angeles for his first investigative report. It hadn't been hard for Ken to figure out that Ricardo’s involvement went beyond just getting a story.

Ken had probed until Ricardo finally admitted his vendetta to avenge his father's death. They'd ended up with an objective report—thanks to Ken's constant monitoring of his motivations.

He could trust Ken. He wouldn't bring up issues that could damage his reputation—or Angela's. Nor would Ken pass judgment.

"We're not on the job here," Ricardo reminded him. "This is off the record as far as the station goes. I'm simply a concerned citizen interested in the schools."

Ken grinned. "Like I said, school was never like this."

Deciding that getting back to business was a prudent course to follow, Ricardo explained, "Angela told me during lunch that a group of her students are going to dramatize a story. I want you to film the entire production."

"Sure thing." Ken positioned his equipment around the area designated as a stage by Angela. "Is it something special?"

"I'm not sure." He helped Ken adjust the lights. "She said that the students act out a story and then she writes it in sequence on a chart. The kids observe the process and are supposed to learn from watching her do it."

"Sounds fun for the kids," Ken commented.

"But does it do any good?" Ricardo muttered under his breath.

Ken raised his eyebrows. Ricardo squirmed under his scrutiny, knowing he deserved the criticism.

"Here they come," Ken announced.

Ricardo looked up in time to see thirty bodies stampeding toward him. With a quick step, he moved out of the way. Didn't these youngsters ever slow down?

He watched Angela direct a small group of nonreaders. The other students sat in various locations around the room and began reading to themselves. He noticed, though, that several of them watched the proceedings instead of reading their books.

It took ten minutes for the group with Angela to decide what characters they wanted in their play and what the play would be about. The children made their decisions with very little input from Angela. But, by now he was aware that one of the essential elements she taught them was self-direction. The only involvement they asked of her was to take part in the skit.

"Come on, Miss Stuart," they begged, in their lilting Spanish. "You're biggest—you be the dragon."