Blue Angel by Francine Prose Read Free Book Online Page A

that decides at this most inopportune moment to show him his shocking face, the deep Buster Keaton furrows, the stubble, the messy graying hair, a guy who looks more like a divorced cop in a TV series than a well-respected middle-aged but still vital and attractive writer, teacher, husband, and father. Nasty white specks on his glasses, pouches under his eyes. Swenson scrapes something suspicious off his front tooth, then checks the troublesome molar.
    Ugh. No time to think about that. It’s off to work we go.
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    Running up the four flights to his office comprises Swenson’s entire exercise program, but this morning the aerobic benefits are undermined by the stress of being late. By the third floor, he’s panting. Chest pains? Possibly. Probably. Is this his fate—to collapse and die at the Doc Martened feet of this…leather-jacketed toothpick? Angela’s sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, balancing an open book on the milky knobs peeking through the ripped knees of her jeans.
    A few steps from the top, Swenson’s able to read the title of her paperback, which is not, as he expected, the work of some trendy child author, but rather, Jane Eyre . She grasps the novel with talons lacquered eggplant purple, curling from fingerless black leather gloves studded with silver grommets. Her tiny hands—or perhaps their proximity to Charlotte Brontë’s novel—give the gloves a prim Victorian decorousness. Otherwise her outfit is pure sci-fi unisex shitkicker. A streaked green and orange ponytail, spraying straight up from the top of her head, makes her look like a garish tasseled party favor.
    â€œGood morning,” calls Swenson, overheartily.
    Glancing up from her book, Angela considers the bizarre coincidence that seems to have brought the two of them to this landing at the same moment.
    â€œOh, hi,” she says, uncertainly.
    â€œSorry I’m late,” Swenson says. “I lost track.”
    â€œThat’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
    Swenson grabs the banister, partly to steady his breathing and partly to keep from strangling this thankless brat who’s dragged him out of bed—well, off the couch—practically at dawn and sent him racing here, risking his life…. That’s okay. Oh, is it ? Hisoptions are limited but clear. A stern, unpleasant lecture on manners and the value of thank you , or he can bite the bullet and get through fifteen minutes of her mumbling about her work or, more likely, about the reasons she hasn’t done any work, and then he can mumble something back, and everyone will be happy.
    He says, “Should we reschedule?”
    â€œOh, no no no. Please, no. I need to talk to you. Really. I was kind of liking it. Sitting here. Hiding out. It’s like when I was a kid. I’d crawl under the porch and read when I was supposed to be at school.”
    â€œA reader,” says Swenson. “Excellent.”
    â€œYeah. I guess,” she says. She leans on one arm to push off from the floor. Swenson reaches out to help her. She seems to think he’s asking for her book, which she obediently hands over. While she stands, they negotiate the awkward exchange by pretending it was intended. As she gathers up her backpack, he leafs through the book, in which she’s underlined passages. So. She’s reading it for a course.
    â€œHow do you like Jane Eyre ?”
    â€œIt’s practically my favorite novel. I’ve read it seven times.”
    Swenson should have known. Under all that crusty leather beats the tender heart of a governess pining for Mr. Rochester.
    â€œWhat I like,” says Angela, “is how pissed off Jane Eyre is. She’s in a rage for the whole novel, and the payoff is she gets to marry this blind guy who’s toasted his wife in the attic.”
    â€œCome in,” says Swenson. “Sit down.”
    As Swenson unlocks his office, Angela’s still