A Flower for Angela Read online

  "Mr. de la Cruz." The high-pitched voice of a child caught his attention. A tiny hand reached up for his and tugged. "Wanna hear my story?"

  "Sure, mijita." He followed the tiny girl with the swinging pigtails into a corner of the room. She pulled him down onto a pile of pillows. Good. Now he could watch Angela while seeming to focus on the child.

  The girl appeared to be no more than five years old, yet she read well, and with confidence. Ricardo listened with growing interest.

  Must be "the brain" of the class, he thought. But to his surprise, other students joined them on the pillows and read with the same skill. Even the boy he'd earlier pegged the "class terror" read well.

  Before he realized it, an hour had passed. Ricardo glanced up with a vague sense of guilt and his gaze met Angela's. She knew. He'd become involved with the students and had forgotten the purpose of his visit.

  He swore silently. She'd tricked him by sending her top students to distract him. A quick survey of the classroom revealed total chaos. Two children were under their desks. Four were sitting at a table talking. Several others were walking around the classroom while another scribbled on the chalkboard. He groaned.

  To top it off, Angela wasn't teaching. Come to think of it, she hadn't spoken to the class once since directing them earlier. She'd spent the whole morning sitting at the table in the corner, talking with one or two children at a time.

  Ricardo vowed to keep one eye on Miss Angela Stuart no matter how fascinating the children were.

  The next hour flew as rapidly as the first. It proved to be more difficult to maintain his surveillance of Angela than he'd thought. The students constantly demanded his attention. Exhausted, he heard more stories, spelled words and helped with mathematics.

  Finally, she announced lunchtime. Relieved, he helped the children line up. Where had the morning gone? He'd only meant to spend an hour in Angela's class, but he found himself unwilling to leave.

  "Did you enjoy your morning, Mr. de la Cruz?" She approached him after seeing the students out the door.

  Ricardo frowned. "We need to talk."

  "Yes, I'd like to know your reaction."

  He saw the wariness creep into her eyes when she noticed his expression. "Can I take you to lunch?"

  "I have playground duty today.” She glanced at her watch. "I won't be free until after the children go home."

  Probably seeing her later was for the best. She'd want his reaction, and he needed to organize his thoughts. "I'll be back when your class lets out."

  "Fine, Mr. de la Cruz."

  "Ricardo,” he corrected, inviting her to use his given name. He reached up, unable to resist brushing back the wayward strand of hair that had escaped the bun at the nape of her neck. Her fragrance teased his senses. Slowly, he lowered his hand and backed away. "Hasta luego." He smiled and left.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME since she'd begun teaching, Angela watched the clock. The afternoon dragged. Ricardo de la Cruz stated they needed to talk. What had he meant? As her tension increased, she grew annoyed. He could've told her something before he left—like whether he was impressed with the class or hated it. Why did he leave her to spend the afternoon worrying?

  Furthermore, she scolded herself, why was she worrying? She should be confident enough in her abilities to accept whatever opinion he held.

  But confidence eluded her ever since Yuma. Was it going to happen again? Would she lose her teaching position? Heat flushed her cheeks as Angela remembered the humiliation and pain. She couldn't go through that again—and wouldn't. No. She loved her present job and she’d fight to keep it.

  Calmed by her resolution, Angela turned her attention back to her class, but the noise and activity couldn't keep her mind off Ricardo de la Cruz.

  She'd been watching him at board meetings for several months now and had to admire his ability to act swiftly and efficiently. He wasn't afraid to explore new ways of tackling a problem. If she could persuade him to support her methods, he'd be a strong ally in the district.

  It seemed like it took ages, but the afternoon did come to a close. Angela bent down to hug her students as they said goodbye. Their affection gave her a momentary respite from her uneasiness.

  "It's obvious they love their teacher," his deep voice came from outside the doorway.

  Angela straightened. She’d been so busy dismissing her students that she hadn't seen him standing there. She felt at a disadvantage, as if he'd witnessed a private part of her.

  "They always want to hug me goodbye.”

  "I remember wanting to do that when I was in first grade, but I was too terrified."

  "I can't imagine you being terrified of anything.” She stepped back into the classroom, gesturing him to follow.

  "It wasn't the teacher I was afraid of,” he entered the room as he spoke, "but the other boys. I thought they'd beat me up."

  Angela laughed, guessing full well that he was lying. Picturing Ricardo de la Cruz as afraid, even as a young boy, proved difficult. Furthermore, she doubted he'd ever cared what others thought of him, but she recognized his attempt to ease her anxiety and appreciated it.

  Angela brought a chair over to her desk and offered it to him, and then she sat down. She hadn't been this nervous since her first year of teaching in the Arizona border town of Yuma. She recalled meeting Steve Daniels, the principal there, and how awed she'd been by him at first. But then they'd become friends—more than friends. Thinking of the disaster of their relationship made her resolve never again to get involved with anyone who could have a detrimental effect on her teaching career.

  "So tell me, Mr. de la Cruz,” she smiled, determined not to let him detect her turmoil, "what did you think of my classroom and the whole language program?"

  "Ricardo, remember?” He smiled back, although Angela could sense his hesitancy. "It's obvious you care for your students and that they care for you. You have a way with them that makes them proud of themselves."

  He paused and Angela could almost hear the "But…" She took a deep breath. Here it comes, she thought, and she braced herself for defense.

  "Your methods are unorthodox.”

  "Of course,” she blurted. "That's been our main objective."

  "But how can you teach with all of that disorder?”

  "There was no disorder, Mr. de la Cruz." She watched him sigh at her purposeful use of his formal name. "Every student knew exactly what work had to be done and when it had to be completed."

  "How is it possible for them to work with such noise and confusion?"

  "There was little confusion, and the noise was productive." Angela stood and began to pace, gearing up for her lecture. "Did you listen to the conversations going on around you?"

  "No,” he admitted while he rose and followed her across the small open space between tables.

  "Listen to them next time. You'll find their conversations enlightening." She was on a roll now. "They're usually discussing their classwork, thinking out loud or seeking help."

  "First graders," he scoffed and ran his finger along his jaw. There was disbelief in his expression. "I find that an overoptimistic view of their capabilities.”

  "Which is the attitude traditional education has maintained," Angela persisted, standing with hands on her hips. "We have this strange idea that a child can't learn one concept until he's mastered others. Recent studies are proving that's not true."

  "You mean a child can read and write before he or she knows the alphabet?" His look spoke volumes. He thought he had her now, but she knew differently.

  "Right." She pointed to the students’ work on the walls. "It happens quite often. Actually, it's been proven that most children can recognize words before they go to school."

  "I have preschool nieces and nephews who are considered bright and they don't read." His eyes locked with hers in a battle of wills.

  "Ask them to pick out their favorite cereal or where they want to eat lunch." Angela refused to let his gaze unnerve her. "It's been found th
at preschool children can read labels, signs and logos."

  "They're just recognizing pictures."

  "Part of the time that's true, but researchers have isolated the writing from the pictures and the preschoolers still recognize the words,” she pointed out. "But consider this: the child is learning to associate symbols with something that has meaning to them. They do this in the same way they associate verbal symbols with situations. If their mother says the word Pepsi, they think soda pop. When the word Pepsi occurs in writing in the same context, they learn to read the word."

  "Assuming you're right, it still doesn't justify such chaos in the classroom."

  "I presume you think a classroom should be all neat rows of desks and absolute silence prevailing among the children?" She tapped her foot.

  He wasn't going to leave without understand-ing the concept of whole language. She had to convince him that speaking and listening, reading and writing, were interrelated; and that acquiring and developing these skills occurred best in a non-competitive environment where learning activities were set up to encourage children to practice using all four of these aspects of language.

  "The quality classrooms I've observed since becoming a board member have been exactly that." He spoke with a measure of determination and walked toward her. "Also, the teacher stands in front of the classroom, teaching her students."

  "Most classrooms are still like that.”

  It was this very aspect of the program that upset parents and observers the most. Her classroom didn't operate in the way they were used to, so they often had difficulty understand-ing what was happening. They were too busy focusing on what they thought was disruptive behavior to see that the children were actually performing at a level far higher than what was previously believed capable of first-grade students.

  Part of the reason they didn't see it was because the students were so relaxed and happy. They shared knowledge through interaction, thus giving themselves a larger base of information and reference.

  She had to explain how critical the issue was. "Have you read the report by the President's task force on education? We are a nation at risk, Mr. de la Cruz."

  Angela paused for effect.

  "Our traditional schools are not producing students who can think for themselves, or who can comprehend what they read. We have high dropout rates." He couldn't argue with these facts. "And it's largely because we have silent classrooms where the students aren't allowed to think. All day long, they are directed to fill in blanks on meaningless sheets of paper in the form of workbooks and photocopies."

  "You're talking about skills, skills necessary to learn the basics."

  "But skills taught in that manner have no meaning to the students. They rarely relate them to the real world,” she sighed with dismay. It was obvious he agreed with the "back-to-the-basics" panacea for the ills of the educational system. It was still a popular movement among conservative school boards in the state. The problem was, those methods were the cause of some of the troubles, not the cure, as the research she'd been involved in was proving. You couldn't teach reading through a hierarchy of skills, as if it were an assembly line project.

  Well, she'd just have to prove to him that the whole language process she followed was educationally sound. Ricardo de la Cruz was intelligent and—judging from her observation of his actions on the board and on television—open to new ideas. He had a reputation for investigating all sides of an issue. It would be up to her to show him her side. Straightening her shoulders, she continued, "Mr. de la Cruz, I have a proposition I'd like to make."

  The challenge in her tone caught his attention. The faint lines radiating from his eyes creased as his gaze narrowed on her.

  "You come and observe my class for a whole week, and then you can tell me what effective education is."

  "I can tell you now, Miss Stuart, I doubt you'll convince me that competent teaching involves children crawling around on the floor while you sit visiting with your students."

  "You have no idea what those students on the floor were doing, or, obviously, what I accomplished,” she protested, feeling an odd mixture of indignation and disappointment. Surely the Ricardo de la Cruz she admired couldn't be this determined to deny her a chance. "As a reporter you should know that first impressions seldom reveal the underlying facts. Investigate the evidence, Mr. de la Cruz, and you'll see what I'm talking about."

  Amusement danced in his eyes and Angela took a step back. She'd challenged him on a matter of principle—and he was laughing?

  "All right, Miss Stuart, I concede your point. I'll come visit. Perhaps in that time I'll be able to listen to your regular students, not just the selected top."

  So that's what he thought. Angela couldn't mask her smile.

  "You didn't meet the top today, Mr. de la Cruz. They were at another school where they attend the gifted students program twice a week."

  The look of surprise on his face made the day's ordeal worthwhile.

  He rocked back on his heels, assessing her carefully. "I have to clear my calendar and check with the station. It should only take a couple of days before I can come back."

  "Fine." Angela extended her hand to shake on the agreement. "Why don't you begin next Monday?"

  "Monday it is." He took her hand.

  She had won the first round.

  "Nice to finally meet you, Mr. de la Cruz." She meant that, even though he'd been stubborn about her issue.

  "Ricardo, remember.” He winked, totally disarming her.

  "Ricardo." She murmured, liking the way the Spanish name rolled across her tongue. She started to withdraw her hand, but he held on. Surprised, she glanced up and their gazes met. Alarmed, she stepped back.

  He released his grasp and turned toward the door. "Until Monday.” With a confident wave, he strode out of the room.

  CHAPTER 2

  RELIEVED, ANGELA SIGHED. She'd wanted to meet Ricardo de la Cruz for months, but never dreamed it would be under these circum-stances. Still, she'd held her own. He loved dealing with issues and now Angela had provided him with one.

  Her mind churning with ideas, she set about making preparations for the next day's instruct-ion. Without a doubt, she'd make her point clear. Ricardo de la Cruz would recognize the value of her teaching techniques—or he wasn't the man she believed him to be.

  Wrapped up in her plans, Angela didn't hear the door open. She jumped when Maria spoke, "So how did it go?"

  "Don't sneak up on me like that!” Angela chided her friend.

  "Was it that bad, or is this your usual end-of-the-day touchiness?"

  "You know I'm always grumpy after I’m done teaching." Feeling drained, Angela hung up the last drawing on the wall and stepped back with a sigh of relief. She saw Maria's energetic smile and groaned. "How do you always stay so chipper? Don't you ever get tired?"

  "I'm finally waking up about now. You know I'm a night person." Maria settled on the corner of the table. "So tell me, how did it go?"

  Angela scrunched her face into a frown.

  "Not good, huh? Did your class blow it?"

  "They were great, as always,” Angela defended her students. "It was him." She threw up her hands in disgust. "He came in with his mind made up and missed all the important things."

  "I find that hard to believe. He's a thorough investigator."

  "So I thought." Angela began sorting papers. "But you know how slow people are to change their views on education. Look how long it took us to get some of the teachers to understand our methods. I'd just hoped that de la Cruz would be different."

  "Maybe he was too busy watching you instead of observing what was going on.”

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I've seen the way he looks at you during the board meetings. Don't tell me he's not interested in more than your teaching." Maria crossed her arms and smiled.

  "Ridiculous,” Angela scoffed.

  "I don't think so."

  "I hope you're wrong, Maria. You have to
be wrong."

  "What's the matter with male interest? It couldn't hurt your cause."

  "No way! I'm never getting involved with anyone even remotely connected with work again." Angela began vigorously erasing the chalkboard.

  "You mean because of what happened in Yuma?"

  Angela nodded.

  "That was six years ago, and it was a different situation."

  Angela didn't want to be reminded of the past. She needed all of her energy for the present. "You're right. It was a long time ago, but I'm still not repeating past mistakes."

  "Okay, okay!" Maria threw up her hands and laughed. "Let's hear about what happened. Just the straight facts—no emotional stuff."

  Angela set the eraser down. Maria could be counted on to see the bright side of any situation. Thinking it might help, she related the events of the day while she measured out new paint for the easels.

  "You're kidding!" Maria whistled when she’d finished. "He's going to be here a whole week?"

  "If I survive a whole week.”

  "If you get tired of him, he can come to my room. I'd love to take care of that hunk."

  "Don't tease,” Angela warned. "I just might send him over and then what would you do?"

  "I'd manage to keep him busy. I don't have any hangups about involvement with school personnel.”

  "Don't you have work to do?"

  "Yes, but this is more fun."

  "Will this day never end?" Angela rolled her eyes and sighed. "These journals the children wrote need to be answered." She gestured to the pile of notebooks on the table, hoping Maria would take the hint and leave her in peace.

  "Okay, okay, I'll go." Maria paused in the doorway. "Do you want a ride home?"

  "No, thanks. It's out of your way."

  "I don't mind."

  “Really, I'd rather take the bus." Angela appreciated her friend's offer, but solitude appealed.

  "You just want to finish the book you're reading."

  "Right." Angela waved her friend away. Maria often teased her about taking the bus when she had a car she could drive to school. But Angela enjoyed the half-hour it took to arrive at her east side apartment.