“Hah!” Amanda’s staccato bark barely qualified as a laugh and carried with it not one hint of amusement.
His anger surged. Though he knew exactly what she was getting at, Jake refused to give her wild charges any credence. “C’mon, be reasonable.”
“I am reasonable. I’m not the one interested in children.”
He pushed back his desk chair with a clatter and stood, his hands clenched into tight fists. “This discussion is over.”
“What’s the matter?” she taunted, her pretty face twisted. “Hitting too close to home?”
Jake shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. It had been a long time since he’d been so disappointed in a friend. How could she, who knew him so well, even think such a thing?
Granted, they were very different people. He’d often wondered how they’d ended up dating at all. In the beginning, he’d been sure she’d been interested in someone else. But then Jim had died, and she hadn’t left his side. He couldn’t have asked for someone more supportive. And when her father had died a month later, he’d returned the kindness. He realized now that they’d been two souls in need of someone to heal their pain
“I’m right, aren’t I? You want that child.”
His gaze met Amanda’s, and he forced himself to look beyond the anger and see instead the hurt and confusion. He sat down and raked his fingers through his hair. Unfortunately, understanding where this was coming from didn’t make it any easier to bear.
“Amanda, listen. You know me too well to be making such accusations.”
“I thought I knew you.” She lifted her chin and tossed her head defiantly. “I’m not so sure anymore.”
Jake blew a harsh breath. “I want you to leave. When you’re ready to be rational you come back, and we’ll talk.”
She started to protest, but he waved her words aside. “My next class is in fifteen minutes. It will have to be later.”
With all the bearing of a queen, Amanda rose. She flipped a strand of hair over her shoulder, then leaned forward, bracing one hand against his desktop. “Just be careful, Jake. Be very careful.”
He let her go, relief flooding him when she pulled the door shut behind her. If she had stayed much longer, he might have said something he would regret. Still, what nerve! To suggest he had a personal interest in Angel Morelli was beyond ludicrous.
He had been a teacher long enough to know the boundaries that must never be crossed between teacher and student, despite any misplaced attractions. And he could guarantee to Amanda and to anyone else with such crazy notions that Jake Weston would never venture one step over that line!
With all the righteousness of a man who knows what he stands for, Jake dismissed Amanda and her words from his thoughts. He pulled out his plan book and focused instead on the upcoming lesson.
“Coach?”
Jake’s head jerked up. A freshman who’d failed to make the baseball team stood in the doorway, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his too-thin neck. “Could you come here for a minute?”
Jake sighed and pushed aside the book, resigned to sticking with his original lesson plan.
He followed the boy out into the hall.
“It’s over there. I was on my way to the media center when I saw it.” The gangly freshman pointed at a purple backpack propped against a locker. The teen’s voice lowered. “Do you think it’s a bomb?”
Jake recognized the backpack immediately. Angel was the only student who carried one like it.
“Maybe we should call the police.” The boy’s voice cracked and his expression was so anxious, Jake’s heart went out to him.
Making the leap from abandoned backpack to bomb seemed a bit overreactive. Still, with all the violence involving young people these days, one couldn’t be too careful.
“You did the right thing in coming to me.” Jake clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “But I know who it belongs to. Her locker’s right in this area.”
They talked companionably for a few minutes before Jake sent the boy back to his homeroom with an excuse why a trip to pick up a book had taken so long.
Jake picked up the backpack and brought it into his classroom, dropping it on his desk with a thud. It weighed a ton. If he had to guess, he’d say it carried her entire day’s supply of books. Why she hadn’t missed it by now was a mystery. Assuming, of course, that this was actually her bag.
His gaze returned to rest speculatively on the purple nylon. It was the spitting image of Angel’s, right down to the unique white stripe on the front flap. But the actual brand was a popular one, and this was a big school. It could conceivably belong to someone else.
A thought struck him, and it was so obvious he almost laughed. Why didn’t he just look and make sure it was hers?
He slid open the zipper. As he’d surmised, the bag was jammed full with textbooks. Jake carefully pulled the heavy volumes out and looked in each for a name in the front jacket or a paper with a name stuffed inside. He searched them one by one until they sat stacked on the corner of his desk in a single neat pile. All that remained in the bottom were a few pennies and one nickel.
Jake frowned. No name in the books. No papers. Not one stick of identification. He’d have expected a wallet, or at least a driver’s license, to be in the bag.
Resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t know for sure until he saw her during last period and could ask her, he picked a book from the pile and shoved it into the opening. His fingers brushed against an inner pocket. He’d had a similar backpack in college and had often used that hidden compartment for storing extra cash. Perhaps this owner kept her—or his—identification inside.
The flap opened easily, and Jake stuck his hand into the small place, reminding himself he wasn’t doing anything improper. He needed to confirm the rightful owner so he could return the bag as soon as possible.
In seconds, a Missouri driver’s license, a tattered picture and a twenty-dollar bill lay in the palm of his hand.
Jake couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph. A wilder, much younger Angel stared back at him. Dressed in an off-the-shoulder blouse and jeans, she looked to be no more than fifteen. Her hair bushed out in all directions, and thick black eye-liner encircled both eyes. Lipstick darkened her mouth, and rouge applied with a heavy hand colored her cheeks. She looked, Jake thought, like a young streetkid. But it was the innocence behind the smile that tugged on Jake’s heartstrings and told him, even at a young age, Angel wasn’t as wild as she appeared.
His gaze slid over the boy with his arm looped around Angel’s bare shoulder. Jake moved the picture into closer view—and froze.
What was that substitute teacher they’d had last semester doing with Angel?
Jake paused, collecting his thoughts. It couldn’t be Tony D’Fusco. The kid in the picture and Angel looked about the same age. Tony had to be a good six years older than her.
Perhaps this little hoodlum with his long hair, arrogant sneer and cigarette dangling from his lips was Tony’s younger brother—though it seemed improbable that the clean-cut Tony, who didn’t smoke and was a health nut, could have such a brother.
Tired of speculating, Jake turned his attention to the driver’s license. Angel was lucky—it looked like her. Unlike his driver’s photo, which made him look like a cross between a concentration camp prisoner and a deranged ghost.