Darker Angels

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“How long has this been going on?”

The teacher sat on the corner of his desk, a pile of ungraded math worksheets shifting under his thigh, and thought about how best to answer. The woman stood, waiting. She was younger than he was by almost a decade. Pale hair, ice-blue eyes, cream linen suit, shoulder holster. She wasn’t how he’d pictured an FBI agent. She was almost small enough to sit at one of the kids’ desks, but it took a while to notice that. She seemed bigger.

How long had this been going on?

“Maybe six months, more or less,” he said, “but it’s not the kind of thing you can be sure. I mean, Daria’s always been smart, and this isn’t a school system that’s been much good with smart kids. Especially smart black kids. She’s always had a struggle to find her place here.”

The woman smiled and nodded, the implicit message being that she understood. He was free to speak, even about issues of race. The teacher relaxed a little.

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