The File on Angelyn Stark by Catherine Atkins Page A

this,” Steve says.
    I pull him to me. He fumbles with my bra clasp.
    “I will,” I say, and while I do, he rears off to strip himself.
    Arms above my head. The bra sliding from my finger to the floor.
    “Angelyn,” he says. Choked. And falls on me.
    Bare chests pressed, we roll on the cool and shiny polyester.
    “Let’s get under the covers,” Steve says.
    “What?”
    He’s pulling me up. Tossing the comforter back.
    “Steve—”
    The bed is unmade underneath. Bunched blankets, rumpled sheets.
    He rummages through like he’s making us a nest.
    Danny’s musk is rising. A long black hair from Mom sticks against a pillow.
    I want to spew.
    “Not here either.” I backstep from the bed. “Don’t even get mad.”
    Steve faces me. “You know, you’re not Goldilocks.”
    “Yeah, well.” I nod to him. “I don’t think
that
is what she was looking for.”
    “Okay. Where do
you
sleep?”
    We shuffle down the hall, me topless in jeans, Steve naked. “Here.” I point.
    He snaps on the light. I wince at the bright overhead.
    Silence, then: “What are you,
ten
?”
    I see my room as Steve does. Twin bed. Plain frame desk and a straight chair stacked with clothes. Walls bare except for a high shelf that holds my model horses. Sixteen in a row, watching the bed. Watching over me.
    Steve is laughing. “Hot-ass Angelyn and this is how you live. Wild.”
    “So
this one
isn’t right for you?” I ask, arm anchored across my breasts.
    “Hey, no.” He turns. “It’s fine. It’s a bed, isn’t it?”
    “Yes. It’s a bed.”
    He smooths a hand along the mattress. “This could work.”
    “Why wouldn’t it?” I ask.
    Steve grins. “Wish I’d known you back then.”
    I gawk at him. “When I was
ten
?”
    “Well, no.” He walks to me. “Not ten.” Steve pets my arm.
    I let it drop. “Didn’t think so.”
    “Yeah,” he says, holding me. “Not ten.”
    We’re moving to the bed.
    “Twelve, say.”
    I freeze against him. “What?”
    “Yeah. You’re twelve and I’m fourteen. Doin’ homework.”
    “Okay, stop.”
    Steve laughs to himself. “Your freaky folks down the hall—”
    “Hey!”
    He nuzzles me. “You’re this hot little girl.”
    Palms out, I shove him off.
    Steve stumbles backward, hard onto the bed.
    “Angelyn, what the hell!”
    I’m tugging on a T-shirt. “Don’t
talk
that way.”
    He squints. “So, now it’s off.”
    “Thanks to you,” I say.
    “You are crazy. You know that? Crazy.”
    Steve stomps out.
    The walls close in.
    “Why does everything have to be about that?” I say down the hall.
    He pops out of their room, kicking on his jeans.
    “You brought me here for
that
,” he says. “
That
is why I came.”
    I flap a hand. “Why can’t we watch TV? Or, I don’t know—talk.”
    Steve ducks into the room again. He steps out dressed.
    “Okay. Tell me what just happened.”
    “What do you mean?” I ask.
    “Why’d you get so weird? Let’s talk about that.”
    I press to the wall. “You were being gross.”
    “ ‘Gross.’ Good one, Angelyn.”
    “Stay anyway?” I ask, small-voiced.
    “Stay and then what?”
    “I don’t know. Just stay.”
    “I’m out,” Steve says. But doesn’t move.
    “We can talk!” I say. “I’ll talk.”
    “I don’t believe you,” he says. “But, okay—go.”
    Oh God
. “I can’t—be with you that way here.”
    Steve all but taps his foot. “I get that. Why?”
    I bite the inside of my cheek. I shut my eyes.
    He would tell. Everyone
.
    And:
    I don’t have the words anyway
.
    I open my eyes. Steve is staring.
    “Angelyn?” His voice is a little softer.
    “You can go,” I say.
    “What?”
    “You were right, Steve. You should go.”
    His face closes. “You are going to end up alone. I mean, like, forever.”
    “Yeah,” I say, like:
I do not give a shit
.
    Steve leaves.
    I wait five minutes and I leave too.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    I stay to the ditch that parallels the connector road to the highway. I watch for