Free Blue Angel by Francine Prose

Angela’s voice, “Leave me a message if you want. Okay. Wait for the…” Beep . He’d forgotten what he planned to say and almost hung up, then babbled semicoherently about how he’d really liked her chapter but unless she desperately wanted to have her work discussed in class, she should just keep on with it, they could talk about it in conference. Beep beep . No tape left to trick him into saying that it would be hellish to hear her classmates tell her how to “improve” her work.
    Only after he’d hung up had he realized what trouble he’d made for himself. Now he’d have to call around to find a student story to discuss, and get it photocopied and distributed. Saintly Ruth Merlo, the department secretary, saw him moping around the office and volunteered, angelically, to take on the extra work.
    So today—unless he’s got it wrong—they’re doing Back Bay Barbie’s story. Oops. Courtney Alcott. When he’d asked Courtney if she was related to Louisa May, she didn’t know whom he meant.
    It’s Courtney’s week to be bound and gagged and forced to watch her darling dismembered before her eyes. As always, Swenson’s overidentified with the student whose story they’re doing. He always tries to give the condemned an encouraging nod or wink. Now, he seeks out Courtney, but before he can find her, his gaze snags on Angela Argo, rooting ferociously in her backpack. How could this twitchy ferret have produced the pages that Swenson has—he checks to make sure—in his briefcase? This girl just doesn’t seem capable of having written those complex sentences, that disturbing scene in the henhouse.
    When the class has settled down, Swenson says, “So I assume that everyone’s had a chance to read Courtney’s story?” For some reason, this is hilarious.
    â€œEnlighten me,” Swenson says.
    â€œWe never got it,” says Carlos. “Courtney screwed up, man.”
    Courtney covers her face with one hand and with the other plays with her medallion: a silver bulldog snarling at the end of a thick silver chain. “I got the copies.” Her cartoon-mouse voice squeezes out through the lattice of her pearly inch-long nails. “But I put them in my bag and I, like, forgot to hand them out.”
    â€œI guess Courtney really didn’t want us to do her story,” says the forgiving Nancy.
    â€œSomebody should’ve given the copies to Claris,” says Makeesha, with inarguable logic. “Those stories be handed out by now.”
    Courtney says, “I’ve got the copies with me. We could read it now. It’s short.”
    â€œCourtney could read it to us,” suggests Meg. “We could read along with her.”
    What is Swenson supposed to say? Courtney’s not going to read her goddamn story out loud while we sit here and suffer!
    â€œCourtney?”
    â€œI could do that.” Courtney always seems to be chewing gum, even when she isn’t.
    So be it. Swenson takes a copy—short, it’s true—and passes along the stack. “Well, thank you, Courtney. For coming to our aid and bringing us something to talk about.”
    Courtney takes a deep breath. “I really like this story. It’s the first thing I ever wrote that I thought was, like, totally good.”
    â€œI’m sure the rest of us will, too.” Oh, dear Lord, Swenson prays silently. This could really get ugly.
    â€œIt’s called ‘First Kiss—Inner City Blues,’” says Courtney.
    â€œThat’s two titles right there,” says Makeesha.
    Courtney ignores her, and begins:
    â€œâ€˜The summer heat sat on the hot city street, making it hard for it to breathe, especially Lydia Sanchez. Lydia sat on the filthy, garbage-laden front steps of her brownstone tenement home, watching kids play in the gutter in the water rushing out of a broken fire hydrant. Just yesterday