A Flower for Angela (8 page)

He sat down on the sofa, sprawling his long legs in front of him. His apparently relaxed pose didn’t fool Angela for a minute. She sat in the curved section opposite, and wished that the black table between them was larger.

Ricardo skipped the formalities and got straight to the point. "I want to know why you're acting like I have the kiss of death."

"An appropriate choice of words." Angela managed to control a shudder that would have revealed her apprehension.

"Why?"

She refused to acknowledge the hurt in his voice. "I think your intention to discredit me warrants such an attitude."

"I'm not out to get you. I want to help you, Angela."

"I don't need help. I need understanding and an open mind. I saw you watching my kids. You only saw them running around and talking and—"

"They
were
,” he growled.

"But did you hear what they said?"

"Of course. Two of your boys were giving each other rather impressive critiques of their respective stories."

"They've been taught to give input and help each other revise," she elaborated, relieved that he recognized what the students were doing.

"It sounded good, Angela, but I looked at the kid's paper. All he had on it were scribbles."

"He's writing his way, which means he can still participate in thinking it through even though he can't write it down alphabetically yet. At his stage of handwriting development, the function is more important than the form."

"You mean that was his work?" His dark eyes widened.

"He'll figure out the plot first with his friends and then with me. I edit and type his story, he illustrates it and,
voila
, he's published a book."

"That's crazy!" Ricardo exploded, the outburst lifting him off the sofa to tower over her. "How can you edit and type his story when you can't even read it?"

Angela was undaunted by his outburst. "It's simple. He reads the story to me and I write the standard words below his invented words. When I type the story for his book, I correct the grammar."

"Doesn't that upset his ego?"

"No. He realizes he’s not using standard spelling. He also appreciates being able to publish a book when he’s composed it."

"He can't read or write, and you tell me he's published a book?"

"We have our own class publishing company and we make a big deal about our books ending as finished copy."

"Angela, we aren't playing games here. Those kids have to learn how to read."

"They already do, Mr. de la Cruz, better than the average first grader, actually."

"I don't see how when—"

"You will," she interrupted with a touch of impatience. "That's what we plan to explain. But our explanations won’t mean anything to you if your mind is already set."

That threw him. He was renowned in his work for being fair and astute. "Angela, I'm trying to understand, but it's all very strange."

"Trust me. After we explain the theory, it'll all become clear."

He slumped down on the velvet cushions and, bracing his chin on steepled fingertips, he brooded.

"I don't want the rest of our filming time to be like today.” Sincerity traced a furrow across his brow. "You're upsetting my cameraman as well as your class."

"You're right." She leaned back, defeated. "The students sense my hostility."

"There's no need to be antagonistic toward me." Soft promise edged his tone. "I don't want to hurt you."

The strange part about it was, she believed him. Perhaps Cathy and Lupe had misunderstood his intentions. After all, he did plan to spend several days in her classroom. That had to arouse their suspicions. Then, too, if she was honest, she'd admit there was a possibility that the two of them had deliberately lied to upset her. Even though they enjoyed giving her a rough time, it was hard to believe they'd go this far—not with an influential man like Ricardo. Then again…

"Do you have any more questions about what you saw today?" she relented.

"Quite a few." He smiled then. "But I'll wait until the conference you've scheduled. You're tired."

The warmth of his smile washed over her and she relaxed. "I don't mind if—"

"Later." He stood to leave, reached over to take her hand and pulled her up with him. "If I assure you I haven't closed my mind or formed any set opinions about your program, will you promise me we won't have any more icy glares?"

"I promise." For the first time that day, Angela gave him a wholehearted smile and his tension visibly eased. It surprised her that she had the power to upset him.

"Till next week." He traced his finger along the curve of her cheek.

Her eyes closed in response to his touch. When she opened them he was gone.

CHAPTER 5

THE NEXT TWO SESSIONS
proceeded without hostile tension. Ricardo and Ken relaxed, and the students reacted to the camera with less caution. Once again, Angela enjoyed her students.

At one point during the third session, her glance came to rest upon Ricardo. Attentive and alert, he was listening to Carlos. They sat on the carpet, two dark heads, the small one bent over to read, the larger, more powerful head cocked to hear the child's story. Angela smiled to herself. If Carlos was reading his latest space fantasy, Ricardo would have a surprise in store for him.

"
Maestra
," the high-pitched voice brought her attention back to the child at her side.

"Read me your story, Leticia."

Angela listened with half an ear as the little raven-haired six year old read. A loud guffaw interrupted Leticia's words and they both looked up to see Ricardo, head thrown back, rocking with laughter.

"That's the funniest story I've heard in a long time," Ricardo told Carlos, giving him a pat on the back.

"Carlos always writes funny stories," confirmed one of his friends.

Several students had edged over to the pair still seated on the floor. Curious and ever in search of attention themselves, they wanted to be in on the action. For the same reason, Angela stood and joined them.

"You've heard this story?" Ricardo asked one of the bystanders.

The other students, noting his surprise, began to barrage him with their own plots.

"You have terrific imaginations!" He complimented the group, looking over at Angela.

She savored his delight. In that instant she realized an essential truth about Ricardo de la Cruz. Under that tough exterior and self-assured attitude hid a sensitive man.

Later, after dropping off the class for their music lessons with the specialist, she tried to appeal to that aspect of his nature.

"You like children, don't you?" she asked him as they returned to her classroom.

"Yes," he answered, but his wariness was apparent when he looked at her.

"They sense your interest. You get along well with them."

"That's because they know where I stand. They know I'm not going to let them get away with anything. Kids respect that, you know."

His words filtered into her thoughts. Was there a touch of reproach in his tone? "What do they respect?" she asked to see how he would answer.

"Structure, boundaries, limits." He pounded the side of one hand into the palm of his other."Children need to know the parameters of acceptable behavior and then those parameters need to be enforced. They don't respect you otherwise."

"I agree.”

"Do you?" He stopped and put his roughened hands on his hips. The green grass and the crimson bougainvillea that lined the breezeway faded into the background. The force of the man's physical presence captured her total attention. His next words, however, broke the spell.

"If you believe that, why do you let the children misbehave?" She could see he was struggling to understand.

"Who was misbehaving? Everyone was working today—even Fernie."

Fernie had been on his best behavior to impress the “big telebision mans” as he called Ricardo, Ken and the rest of the crew. Smiling to herself, she imagined the restraint Fernie must have used to control his hyper-energy. Couldn't Ricardo see that and appreciate the effort?

"They were all running amok again," Ricardo protested, and Angela could hear his frustration.

Movement across the courtyard caught her attention. Lupe and Cathy had been watching the exchange between her and Ricardo.
Great
. Now the two would really have something to gossip about. She hoped they were far enough away that they couldn’t hear what was being said. All she needed was to have Ricardo's criticism bandied about the school. And those two women would see to it that it was.

Annoyed with Ricardo and the whole situation, she swung around and continued toward her classroom. Ricardo seemed taken aback, but that was too bad. They needed to finish this discussion in private.

As he followed her, she lowered her voice to ensure Cathy and Lupe wouldn't overhear her. "It doesn't look like it to you, because of your preconceived notions, but I run a very strict class."

Her linen slacks swished together with her quick steps. Ricardo lengthened his stride to keep up with her.

"The rules are simple, but enforced. Every child has had it drilled into them that they are at school to
learn
and in class they
work
. If they want to play, I tell them to stay home. If they insist on playing at school, I send them home."

"That's a punishment?" He paced beside her and held open the door.

"To a six-year-old it's devastating." She entered the room and motioned Ricardo to follow, aware that his eyes had raked her from head to toe. Her voice broke. "They love school."

Ricardo's cameraman had retreated to the teachers’ lounge for a break, for which Angela was thankful. She didn’t want Ken to pick up on Ricardo's prejudices, nor did she think his awareness of their dissension would help her cause. The respect and loyalty he felt towards Ricardo was obvious.

"But how can you tell if they’re working or playing?" Ricardo asked before he hooked a leg over a nearby desk and sat down.

The casual action distracted her for a second. How natural he looked, even among the miniature furnishings of the classroom! She could spend all day looking at him.

"There's a distinct difference between the voice tone of children playing and children working. Their laughter is different, too, and so are their movements." She smiled as she settled on the top of a desk across from him. He was trying to understand her argument—it was all she could realistically expect of him at this point.

"Experience with kids gives you an insight." She shrugged, trying not to notice how the muscles in his legs strained against the taut fabric of his slacks. She raised earnest eyes to his face. "Just as I imagine experience has taught you to tell when a person you're interviewing is hiding something or outright lying."

"I see your point," he conceded after long moments of contemplation.

Angela watched him, alert to every nuance of movement and tone.

His brow furrowed and he rubbed his jaw. His mind must race like a computer—accepting and rejecting data. She held her breath, wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers over those chiseled features.

"Okay, assuming they're all working and not playing—” He looked at her, his ebony eyes filled with questions and some other, indefinable element. He hadn't accepted her premise yet, but the unusual component in his glance distracted her from the task of convincing him. She had to force herself to focus on his words. "How can they be learning when they work with
each other
instead of
you
? It's like the blind leading the blind."

Shifting her gaze from the intensity of his, she searched her mind for a reasonable answer. "Children learn from each other. They know far more than we give them credit for.”

He cast her an indignant scowl, which she ignored. She walked to Carlos's desk. When she realized Ricardo’s gaze was drawn to her body, she trembled slightly. She shook the wide-lined papers out to distract his attention from her and direct it back to the issue. The movement also helped to calm her nerves.

"Look at Carlos's story as an example." She perched next to him to show him the child's work. Awareness of him charged through her. Her fingers shook as she pointed to the words. "Would you believe that a six-year-old has mastery of such rich language? Look how he sets mood and emotion with these adjectives. You heard the reaction of the class."

"Yes, but—"

"First-grade preprimers don't use words like this. They use one-syllable, flat vocabulary that says nothing—and do you want to know why?"

Caught up in the conviction of her beliefs, she missed the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

"Why?" he asked as his breath fanned her cheek.

Losing her train of thought, she peered at him and saw the humor lurking around the curves of his mouth.