A Flower for Angela Read online

  She glanced up at the clock. An hour to go and she still had so much to do. At least tomorrow was Friday. The weekend was almost here and she'd be at her folks’ on Sunday. That would cheer her up.

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Ricardo sat in front of the school waiting for Angela. She was late. School had let out an hour ago. He drummed his fingers on the leather casing of the steering wheel. Wouldn't the Cholos, the gang he'd grown up with, laugh at him if they saw him now—hanging around a school. Ricardo de la Cruz—junior high dropout.

  Ricardo shook his head at the memories. His parents had been disappointed when he decided to quit school, especially his father. But at thirteen, he thought he knew it all. What was the sense in going to school when his olive skin and heavy accent barred him from achieving the American Dream? But he'd been wrong. Dead wrong. His attitude had really just been a copout to avoid the work and effort it took to “make it.”

  The engine of the black Ferrari roared when Ricardo pressed the pedal. He loved his car, and, true, at times acted like a teenager with it. But he'd never had a decent car as a kid. Finally, when he was in his twenties and making money, he'd put all of his earnings into the older-model sports car, figuring he deserved his fun. He gunned the sleek machine again. Was it because he was showing off or because his muscles had tensed at the sight of Angela as she came through the school gate? Both, he admitted.

  She walked toward him and smiled when she spotted him.

  "Quite a car. It suits you." Her voice sounded like velvet. Just as he remembered.

  "I'm not sure I want to know how you mean that." He watched her slender fingers skim over the shiny finish of the passenger door and suddenly imagined them tracing across his skin. "You don't mean my vintage age, I hope."

  "Bold. Daring." A hint of teasing twinkled in her eyes. "Showy, too."

  "You're not implying that I'm a showoff, are you?"

  She grinned.

  Ricardo felt an urge to pull her down into his lap. Instead, he opened his door.

  "I didn't expect to see you until Monday," she commented, her expression serious now.

  "After we talked yesterday, I went to the station." He stepped out of the sports car. "It took some maneuvering, but we're set for Monday."

  "Great."

  "Yes and no." He walked around the front of the car. "They released me for Monday but not for the whole week." He lifted his hand against her expression of protest. "We compromised. I can come every Monday for a month—providing the station doesn't have any emergencies to cover."

  "That's fair."

  "How about going for a drink and discussing the details?" He took the heavy bag from her hand, never expecting her to refuse.

  "I can't." She tugged on the handle but Ricardo didn't let go. "I have to visit a student at home."

  "It's Friday," he stared in surprise then gestured at the empty parking lot, "and past time to go home."

  There was no way he'd let her get away. He'd been waiting for half an hour. She looked around and appeared annoyed that the hour had grown so late. Her grip on the bag loosened and Ricardo quickly set it in the backseat of his car.

  "Hop in.” He could see it was time someone reminded her that there was a time for work and a time for play. "Surely you won't be working anymore today."

  "I'll go,” she conceded. "But first I need to drop these off at Mariana's house. She's a student of mine and lives just around the corner."

  "Stubborn," he accused her.

  "She's been sick and I promised I'd bring her some homework."

  He settled her on the cream leather seat and closed the door. She looked terrific sitting in his car, her blonde hair contrasting with the shiny black exterior.

  It only took minutes to drive to Mariana's. The house was dilapidated, but that wasn't where Angela headed when he stopped at the curb. A shed in even worse shape than the house stood to one side of the dirt backyard.

  Several bare-chested men lounged under a tree with cans of beer in one hand and cigarettes dangling from the fingers of their other hand. They stopped talking and every pair of eyes watched Angela's approach.

  Alarmed, Ricardo slid out of the car and hurried to catch up with her, but he soon discovered his concern was unnecessary. Every man stood at attention and greeted her with respect when she passed by them by. They assessed Ricardo until he felt compelled to place a familiar hand at her elbow. Then he smiled and nodded a curt hello as he guided her inside the shack.

  Ricardo watched with growing interest as Angela made herself at home in the crowded but clean interior. She casually sat on the edge of the bed that nearly filled the single room and patted the hand of the frail girl tucked under the covers.

  "¡Hola! Hi. Are you feeling better?" she asked in her accented Spanish

  Ricardo leaned against the doorjamb and silently waited. "Homework," she'd said. He laughed to himself. A pack of papers did appear from her bag, but so did a Barbie doll, a storybook and a bag of oranges she claimed were off her tree. He noticed the obvious affection Mariana and her family had for Angela.

  What a shame her teaching methods couldn't be commended! She truly cared about her students and had won their respect. Teachers who showed genuine enthusiasm for students from the inner-city barrios were rare. Her warmth and concern certainly contrasted with the teachers he had had as a boy. Many had been cold and strict, rigid and irritated with his curiosity and outspokenness.

  Even the school buildings were worlds apart. His school had been an ancient brick structure covered with graffiti and sporting broken windows. Schools like the one where Angela taught were brand new with landscaped gardens. Constructed in the Southwestern desert style, the low buildings of Angela’s school campus wrapped around an inner courtyard. Yet they hadn't always been like that. Only five years ago, they'd been condemned by the fire marshal. Getting the community to vote for the construction of new schools had been one of the accomplishments that he was most proud of.

  The whimpers of a baby interrupted his thoughts. He hadn't noticed the infant sleeping on the other side of Mariana.

  "¡Mira!" Angela exclaimed, and leaning over, picked up the little boy. His tiny arms and legs stretched out with delight at being held. Angela pressed him close against her breast.

  "Isn't he precious?" she cooed and the mother beamed with pride.

  The baby's black curly hair stood out against the yellow dress Angela wore. He pressed his little face and hands into her curves. The sight touched a tender chord within Ricardo. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with such feelings.

  The woman was doing it to him again. In spite of all the professional reservations he had about her, personally, she intrigued him.

  Fifteen minutes later they returned to the car. "I could use that drink you offered now."

  "You've got it,” he assured her. "Do you make a lot of home visits?"

  "When I need to."

  "Most teachers don't bother."

  "Most teachers don't have the time.”

  "But you find time," he pointed out.

  "I don't have a husband and children at home waiting for their supper, either.” Was there a wistful tone in her voice?

  Ricardo changed the subject. "Aren't you frightened, coming into this neighborhood by yourself?"

  She glanced over at him and then laughed. The sound of it wafted through him like a pleasant melody.

  "I'm safer in this neighborhood than in my own.”

  "How's that?"

  "Everyone knows me, and, besides, most of these people are from Mexico. Teachers are held in high esteem there."

  "Is that why you teach in the barrio?" He sensed that her reasons for being here went deeper than the higher salary the inner-city district offered.

  "Partly." She cast him an accusing stare. "Teachers don't always get much respect in this country, especially after news specials like the one your station did."

  Dangerous ground. Recalling the special that aired last month, he grimaced. In the program's ana
lysis of Arizona's education system, teachers hadn't fared well. "They only showed the facts."

  "As the reporters saw them.”

  "Let's be fair. I'm spending several days in your class." He shrugged and downshifted for the red light. He wasn't going to apologize, so he attempted to change the subject again, "You said `partly'. What are your other reasons for teaching here?"

  Her brow furrowed in concentration, and he wondered why she hesitated. Finally, she spoke. "It's complicated and involved."

  "I'm interested.”

  "The main reason I'm at this particular district is because of Dr. Wheeler. She and the others wanted to prove their theory that present day educators are using the wrong methods and—"

  "Why use the Valley of the Sun District to prove that theory?"

  "Five years ago, our school had the lowest test scores in the state. You should know that."

  He was surprised at how bitter he still felt about those scores. He glanced at her. "And now?"

  "They're up quite a bit."

  Why hadn't he heard that before? He'd do some more checking—soon.

  He knew she was waiting for a reaction. "I'm impressed." He paused for a moment. "It doesn't seem to bother you to work with these kids." The statement was loaded and he knew she knew it.

  "Should it bother me?"

  Ricardo shrugged. "Being in the barrio upsets some." Several unpleasant experiences of his youth flashed through his mind.

  "If we're speaking about prejudice,” her glance reflected earnest conviction, "then you must know that the only way to fight it is to build the students’ confidence and self worth."

  He couldn't fault her there. Her students had exhibited a pride in themselves.

  "You're confident and self-assured. How did you develop such strength of character?"

  Her question took him by surprise. His father's love and understanding had instilled an unwavering sense of self-esteem in him—a pride that healed the wounds of youthful hurt and anger. Ricardo wasn't ready to talk about his past. He didn't want her penetrating his reserve and besides, it was too painful to recall the memories of his deceased father. "It's a long story. One you wouldn't want to hear."

  "Sorry." She didn't press him but began to rub her aching temples. "It's nice of you to give me a ride. I'm exhausted."

  "I know just the place for you." He turned off of Central Avenue and into the parking lot of a popular restaurant. It was time to ease up and relax.

  CHAPTER 3

  ANGELA SCOWLED at herself in the ladies' room mirror, then blotted her lipstick and ran a comb through her hair. What was she doing here—at a restaurant—with a man who had the power to threaten her job? This craziness was against all her rules.

  They’d already ordered dinner so she couldn’t do anything about it now. Stop worrying. Nothing will happen. After all, having dinner doesn’t mean anything. Does it?

  Walking back to the table, Angela carefully observed Ricardo. His eyes were alert, taking in every detail around him. His hair, windblown from the convertible, looked as if someone had run lazy fingers through it. He'd removed his jacket. His blue shirt stretched across his shoulders, outlining a well-muscled build.

  "How do you do it?" he asked after he got up and seated her across from him.

  "What's that?"

  "I've seen you at school looking cool and efficient. Then, at that student’s home, you seemed maternal and sweet with a baby in your arms." He gestured at their surroundings. "And now you sit across from me, so sophisticated, fitting right in with this place. All of these different faces of you in the space of one hour. It boggles the mind."

  Flattered, she lifted her glass of wine "Here's to the many facets of life.”

  "Here's to you.” Ricardo clinked his glass to hers.

  Pleased by the compliments, she smiled before sipping the chilled wine. Its smooth taste blended with the scents of exotic foods and spices in the room. The muted glow of the candlelight and the quiet dinner music soothed her.

  Until he spoke.

  "Angela, when I come in next Monday," his tone was serious now, "I want to bring my cameraman and videotape your class."

  Her grip on the wineglass tightened. "Why?"

  "For one thing, we can observe your techniques afterward, and you can explain to me the theory behind your methods."

  "You need your television crew to do that?"

  "It wouldn't be for the station. My cameraman owes me a favor. I put in a lot of extra research hours for a photo-journal piece that won Ken an award, so he owes me some time. We can come over on our days off and tape."

  "And will this be used for another television special?" She could picture it now. Broadcast headlines. "I don't think so."

  "Look, you've got a lot going for you. You relate to your students. That's more than most teachers do."

  "How generous." Angela bit her tongue to keep from telling him where he could stuff his compliments.

  "Stop taking this so negatively," he advised, reaching across the table to cover her fingers with his.

  Angela snatched her hand away.

  His eyes narrowed."I only want to help you."

  "And you think, by videotaping my classroom, you can give me advice on how to teach?"

  "We can work on it together."

  "So you’re an expert on education?" she asked him with a touch of sarcasm.

  "No, but when we look…"

  "Mr. de la Cruz," she sat up straight and stared him in the eye, "I have spent the past five years developing the whole-language approach that I'm practicing now."

  "All the studying in the world doesn't show up in practice. I've seen—”

  "I said developing, Mr. de la Cruz. I’ve been working with professors from Arizona State University who are experts in the field—Ph.D.s with national recognition for their theories on whole language and holistic teaching. Whole language means learning all aspects of language at one time—learning to talk and write and read about a subject that's relevant and interesting to the children at a specific time. We try to show how reading and writing are tools they can use to learn about the world—and also that they're tools for expressing their feelings about what’s important to them.

  "That's just it. Theories don't always work in the real world."

  "Which is exactly my part in the university’s research," Angela continued, undaunted by his biased response. "I'm putting whole language theories about how children learn—especially about how they become literate—into practice. And they're working."

  "I didn't see learning. I saw a noisy, chaotic classroom. There were students scribbling on paper, they were talking all the time, and they rarely sat down."

  His earnest concern stilled some of the defensiveness rising within her. He really cared, and instead of antagonizing him, she should use that to her advantage.

  "You mentioned you have nieces and nephews," she said forcing herself to sound calm.

  He nodded, obviously puzzled by her change of subject.

  "Remember when they learned to talk? Did their parents sit them down and force them to be quiet while they drilled them on the different sounds? Did they flash cards in their faces to teach them the words?"

  "Don't be ridiculous, we're talking about—"

  "The way children learn." She ignored the annoyance that crept over his features.

  "Did someone make them practice the sound m, m, m, so they'd be able to say Mama?" Angela leaned forward, excited about the point she was making. "Of course not. We talk to a baby as if he or she already understands. The baby relates what he hears to the world around him.

  "Children need that same interaction to learn to read. They need to attach the written word to what's going on in their world. That's why you need a classroom that allows risk-taking and the freedom to explore."

  "That makes sense," he conceded. "But I don't understand how it works. Can’t you see how the videos will be a tool to help explain the process?"

  "No. We've worked
too long and hard to have our efforts made into a sham."

  "Now, just a minute! I have no intention of turning this into a ‘sham.’ Did you consider that the tapes might just prove me wrong?"

  Anger glinted in his dark eyes and Angela matched it with her own. She vowed to show this arrogant know-it-all.

  "Your wine, sir," the waiter interrupted. Frustrated, she watched the waiter pour more wine and leave.

  Ricardo reached across the table to place a rough finger against her mouth. In spite of her ire, she tingled with pleasure at his touch.

  "Enough. I want us to enjoy our meal together."

  Before Angela could protest, he lightly caressed her lips.

  All thoughts of their discussion vanished and Angela suddenly couldn't see the other diners. The room receded until there were only the two of them.

  Ricardo lowered his head, shaking it as he did so. "I shouldn't have done—" he started to apologize but Angela mutely covered his finger with her own.

  She wanted to tell him not to regret such a moment, but words failed her. Seconds passed before she tried to take her hand away.

  Ricardo had captured her wrist and started to bring her fingers to his lips when the aroma of chicken and herbs brought them back to reality. Angela looked over Ricardo's shoulder to see the waiter holding two steaming plates.

  Ricardo followed her gaze and straightened, releasing her hand. A reckless grin lit his features.

  "I’m glad you convinced me to order dinner.” She eyed the plate of chicken-and-cashew embedded in a hollowed-out pineapple.

  "I'm glad you're hungry," he told her after thanking the waiter. "My last meal was breakfast."

  "Don't tell me you work through lunches, too," she teased.

  "When necessary. But enough about work. What are some of your interests outside of school?" Ricardo deftly changed the subject.

  "I like to read." The chicken tasted sweet and tangy.

  "What? No television?"

  "Only the news," she admitted, but didn't dare mention she watched Channel Four just to see him. Often, she had no idea what anyone else had reported.