Blue Angel by Francine Prose Read Free Book Online Page B

talking. “The trouble is, I’m reading it for Lauren Healy’s class? Text Studies in Gender Warfare? And everything we read turns out to be the same story, you know, the dominant male patriarchy sticking it to women. Which I guess is sort of true, I mean, I understand how you could say that, except that everything isn’t the same.”
    Dealing with the lock and key spares him the always problematic dilemma of whether or not to agree when a student trashes one of his colleagues. Also, it’s disconcerting that this sullen near-mute from class has turned into a chatterbox. He’d planned on one of those meetings in which the students chew their nails while he extracts ten minutes worth of conversation-like noise.
    Swenson’s study has the yeasty smell of sweaters left in a drawer. How long since he’s been here? He honestly can’t remember. He throws open a window. Air rushes in. He lowers the window.
    â€œIs this too cold for you?” he says. “Yesterday was tropical. Today is freezing. The planet’s out of control.”
    Angela doesn’t answer. It’s taking all her concentration to walk across the room. Even so, she trips on the rug and nearly falls as she bends to straighten the carpet. All of which moves Swenson to prayer. God, don’t let her be on drugs.
    â€œOh, man,” she says. “I’m always falling over shit.”
    â€œTry not to hurt yourself,” advises kindly, paternal Swenson.
    â€œI’ll try not to. Thanks.” Is Angela being sarcastic?
    â€œPerhaps you’d be safer if you sat down,” he says.
    â€œIs it okay if I stand for a while?” She bounces from foot to foot.
    â€œHowever you’re comfortable,” Swenson says.
    â€œ Comfortable . Ha. I wish,” she says.
    Oh, please, Swenson thinks.
    Sliding into his desk chair, he plays with a stack of old mail, very official, tidying up. The doctor will see you now.
    â€œSo how’s your semester going?” Swenson’s on automatic.
    â€œMostly straight down the toilet.” Angela gazes out the window.
    â€œSorry to hear that.” Swenson’s reply is more sincere than she knows. The answer to his question is supposed to be: fine. Students don’t confide in him. He doesn’t encourage them to. Their lives may be disintegrating, but they don’t tell him. The poetry students confide in Magda Moynahan, who teaches the poetry workshop. But he never hears classroom gossip. Years after the fact, he’s learned that a student was coming unglued and he never noticed. Well, he’s got his own problems. He certainly doesn’t need theirs, though from time to time he does feel a little…left out, worried by his obliviousness to the dramas around him. He lacks the most basic observational skills. No wonder he can’t write.
    Angela says, “I think I’ll sit down now.”
    â€œSure,” says Swenson. “Go ahead.”
    Angela flops backward into the leather armchair across from his desk. First she crosses her legs on the seat in a failed attempt at a half lotus, then scoots down and pulls her knees up to her chest, then moves back and puts her feet on the ground and taps her ring on the chair arm. Swenson’s never seen anyone have so much trouble sitting. What’s she on? He doesn’t think drugs. Protracted adolescence. Her leather jacket keeps making the sound of someone tearing off a Band-Aid.
    She makes one last try at pretzeling her legs into some sort of yogic twist, then sits up straight and stares at him, a quivering punk Chihuahua. She’s gone easy on the facial jewelry—only a silver coil snaking though the rim of one ear and a thin nose ring studded with a tiny green star that glitters under her nostril like a dab of emerald snot. She’s left off the eyebrow ring and the upper-lip ring, so it’s slightly less upsetting to look at her pale triangular face. Her eyes