Jailbait (10 page)

Anyway, I'm sure Frank would just think all this is kid stuff as opposed to Shirley's ring, which I bet is fourteen-carat gold, which means it's got to be worth something. And I'm sure I won't get caught stealing it, either. I'm not even stealing it, really, just borrowing it. And besides that, Frank and I aren't doing anything wrong. What kind of idiotic world is this anyway, where two people have to worry so much when all they really want to do is be together and fall in love?

Bring me her broomstick….
That's what this feels like:
Frank's the Wizard of Oz, I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas, and Shirley's the Wicked Witch of the West. All day long, Shirley's wedding ring has been burning a hole in my pocket. When I got to school this morning, I thought about putting it in my locker, but what if some stupid kid called in a bomb scare like Donald Caruso did last week when he didn't study for his math test? We all knew it was him because while everyone was standing outside waiting for the all-clear bell to ring, it began to rain and Donna Rizzo started screaming at Donald, “Now look what you've done. This sweater is ruined. Ruined!” And
then she stomped off with Donald trotting behind her. Anyway the point is we get bomb scares at least once a week and the fire department has to come and search the entire building, including our lockers, and what would happen if I got caught? That would not be pretty.

God, this day is taking forever. I can't pay attention to anything my teachers are saying because all I want to do is get out of here and see the expression on Frank's face when I give him Shirley's ring.

As soon as school is over, I grab my coat from my locker and hurry away before Donald Caruso can try and stop me. The big idiot just loves to pop my cork at the end of the day.

“Hey, Dee-Dee,” he calls, “what's your hurry? C'mere, I want to Jee-scuss something with you.”

Blow me
, I think, but of course I don't say it. I just keep going.

“What's your big hurry, Dee-Dee?
She
can wait,” he yells, but I don't even slow down. Donald Caruso is so stupid. As if I would ever be in this much of a hurry to meet a girl.

“Hey, Hillary.” I hear Donald say behind me. “Whoa, Nellie.”

Poor Hillary Jacoby, nicknamed Horseface Hillary because of her equine features, including her enormous eyes, her sunken cheeks, and her incredibly long, horselike teeth. I guess since Donald can't get a rise out of me today, he's going to give her a run for her money. I hear him behind me neighing, snorting, and pawing the ground with his big fat foot. Next to me, Hillary is Donald's favorite
target, and he does really mean things to her. Once he left a jar of rubber cement in front of her locker with a note that said
See you at the glue factory.

I hightail it out of there, and as soon as I get to Farm Hill Road I see Frank in the brown VW, right in our spot, with the motor running just like it should be. I go to my side of the car, pull on the door handle, and almost dislocate my shoulder before it sinks into my thick skull that the door is locked again.
This is really getting old
, I think as I walk around the car to Frank's side and wait for him to roll down his window.

“Hey, Frank,” I say when he does, but he doesn't say anything back. He just sticks out his hand and waits until I reach into my pocket and place the brown velvet box in his palm. He keeps his face still, so I can't tell if he's disappointed or impressed. Then, just as I'm about to say, “Open it,” he does. I wait a minute but he still has no reaction.

“It's my mother's wedding ring,” I say, pretending he asked,
What is it?

“What is she, a midget?” He takes the ring out of its box and examines it. It looks really tiny and lost in his big hairy hand. Then he puts it on his pinkie, his right pinkie, the one that's all disfigured, and I start feeling really jumpy, like I might start to laugh. Or cry. I just want him to take it off his pinkie, so I say, “Look inside,” and reach over to grab it, but he moves his hand away so I can't reach.

“Patience, Vanessa,” he says, holding his hand out in front of him, like he's a woman in a jewelry store admiring
a ring she's thinking of buying. Something rises in my throat, my lunch maybe, so I swallow hard and wait. Finally, he takes it off.

“Look at the inscription,” I say, pointing. “My father did that to surprise my mother the day they got married.”

“Sweet,” Frank says like he means it. Then he puts the ring back in its little satin slit and snaps the box shut with a loud crack. “Thanks, doll,” he says, and before I can say “You're welcome,” he steps on the gas pedal and takes off. Just like that.

I can't believe it. My mouth must be hanging open because all of a sudden I start coughing from the dirt the back wheels of the VW kicked up. “Frank!” I yell, like he can even hear me. What is he, crazy? I stand absolutely still and keep staring down the road like I'm in shock or something, waiting for him to come back even though I know he's not going to. I sink down to the ground like I'm wounded, like instead of Frank taking off with Shirley's wedding ring, he stole my heart. Except I can feel it pounding away in my chest like it's going to shatter into a million pieces unless I calm myself down.

I shut my eyes and take a few deep breaths. What did I do wrong now? I handed him my own mother's wedding ring, so why did he take off like that? What more does Frank want, blood? God, I feel like crying and I feel so mad I could just punch somebody. Somebody named Frank. Screw him. Who does he think he is, anyway? He's not so great. Maybe I'll just get Shirley's ring back and break up with him. Yeah, right. How can I break up with him if I never even see him again? And what about
Shirley's ring? Frank wouldn't sell it or anything, would he? God, if Frank doesn't show up tomorrow, I'll kill him, I really will. I guess I should just go home, but I don't really feel like moving. So I lean back against the fence post, pick up a strand of hair, and just rip the living daylights out of my poor split ends.

Thank God it's Friday. At least I don't have to wait the entire weekend to see if I still have a boyfriend or not. When the final bell rings, I grab my coat and hurry out the door before I can bump into Donald Caruso, who I am definitely not in the mood to see today. I walk with my head down because of all things, it's raining out, so if Frank is there, my side of the car better be open—or else. And I mean it too.

I walk fast with my fists jammed in my pockets and my knapsack bouncing up and down. He just better be there, is all I have to say. And he is. And not only that, my door is open. And I don't just mean unlocked. I mean swung open wide, like a big welcome sign. Which is really stupid because now half the seat's wet on account of the rain. But it's the thought that counts, as Shirley would say, so who cares if my seat is a little damp?

I get in without saying anything because even if Frank is trying to make up, I'm still mad about yesterday. Let him say something first. And he does.

“I
missed you.” Frank says it so softly I can't tell if I heard it or if I just think I heard it, since it's what I want him to say.

“Really?” I ask, just to be sure.

“Really,” he says, and I feel all the anger seep out of me like warm water going down a bathtub drain. He missed me!

“C'mere,” Frank says, which is hard to do since the front of his car is so small and there's the stick shift between us besides. I just sort of turn toward him and he gathers me up and gives me this big hug and holds me for a minute. God, it feels so good to be with him, I don't even care that the steering wheel is digging a major hole out of my side. And then I don't mean to, but I can't help it, I start to cry.

“What's the matter?” Frank asks, stroking my hair.

“I thought you weren't coming back.” I gulp for air because I'm all smushed up against his jacket. “I thought…” I hardly dare think it, let alone say it. “… I'd never see you again.”

“Silly girl.” Frank holds me even tighter. I love it when he's like this. “Listen, Vanessa,” he says. “Relationships are built on trust. You have to trust me.” He's talking quietly now, his voice all soft and soothing, the way you'd talk to a frightened animal.

“Why did you just leave yesterday?” I ask his chest.

“I had to see a man about a horse.”

“What?” I sit up and look at him. “What man? What horse?”

“Vanessa, it's just an expression. I had to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“None of your business.”

Even though that's true, I don't let up. “Lloyd?”

“Who?”

“Lloyd, you know, your partner in crime.”

“Yeah, Lloyd,” Frank says, but he doesn't sound like he's telling the truth. What if he was with another girl?

“Really? It was Lloyd?”

“Vanessa, what is this, an interrogation?”

“No,” I say, “but it would have been nice if you'd told me.”

“And it would be nice if you trusted me,” he says.

I don't say anything back, but I guess that's true.

“Let's change the subject.” Frank reaches behind us into the backseat. “Look, I brought you a present.”

“You did?” I couldn't be more surprised if he said
Look, will you marry me?

“Here.” Frank twists back around and hands me a box all wrapped up in red paper and tied with a shiny gold ribbon.

“What is it?” I ask. I'm so excited I can hardly stand it. I never got a present from a boy, let alone a man before.

“You'll see,” he says. “Don't open it yet. Let's go kiss and make up.”

“Okay,” I agree, even though that's a weird thing for Frank to say since he's never kissed me. As you know, we've done other stuff, but for some reason he's never given me a big fat smackeroo. Maybe he will today.

Frank starts driving and I wish he would put his hand on my leg but he doesn't. Instead, after a few minutes, he takes
my
hand and puts it on
his
leg. And then between his legs. All I can think of is that joke:
Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
Which isn't very funny.

We get to the house and Frank actually seems glad to
be with me which is nice for a change. And it's stopped raining, which I take as a good sign, even though it's too cloudy for a rainbow. Frank even holds my hand as we walk up the driveway. I'm holding my present under my right arm, so Frank has to hold my left hand with his right one and I can feel where his pinkie ends—the tip is rougher than the rest of his skin—but I try not to dwell on it because if I do, I'll definitely get grossed out.

We get to the door and when Frank lets go of my hand to open it, I blurt out without thinking, “What happened to your pinkie?” Me and my big mouth. The smile disappears from Frank's face as fast as Fred's always does the second he sees my report card.

“I cut myself,” Frank says slowly.

“How? When?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. But maybe it would be better if I knew all the gory details. Then at least I wouldn't wonder anymore.

Frank studies his pinkie and then says softly, almost like he's talking to himself, “Once upon a time there was a little boy named Frankie. And Frankie was a real fifty-pound weakling. All the other kids called him sissy-boy and used him as a punching bag. So one day little Frankie decides he's had it and he's going to toughen up. So he takes the biggest kitchen knife he can find to school, and in the middle of recess, he gathers all the kids who are always torturing him in a big circle and then he sits down right in front of them and cuts the tip of his finger off. And the other kids freak, not because there's blood everywhere, but because”—and here Frank looks right
up at me and there's something in his eyes I've never seen before—“because, Vanessa, the other kids know if Frankie could do that to himself, he could do a whole lot worse to them. The End.”

Frank drops his hand, opens the door to the house, and goes inside without waiting for me, like he doesn't care if I follow or not. I scurry after him, with Shirley's voice ringing in my ear,
There, Andrea, are you happy now?
I can't believe I ruined a perfectly good afternoon by being so nosy and rude.

“Frank, I'm sorry,” I say, following him into the kitchen. He's already perched on the counter, fishing for a cigarette.

“Aren't you going to open your present?” he asks, like he's already forgotten the whole thing.

“Sure,” I say, anxious to forget it too. I don't think Frank's a liar or anything, but how could he cut his own finger like that? Didn't it hurt? What did the other kids do? And the teachers? And his parents?

“Go on.” Frank motions toward the box. I shake it up and down, stalling a little, because for some reason, I'm afraid the present is going to be something gross, like the bloody tip of Frank's pinkie, or a frozen horse turd like Donald Caruso once wrapped up in a fancy box and gave to Horseface Hillary.

I pull the gold ribbon slowly, and then carefully remove the red wrapping paper and open the box. Oh my God, it's a bra. A black bra. A black lace bra. Hiding beneath this red tissue paper like something scared. I pull it out and I'm just about to say “Oh, Frank, it's beautiful,”
when I see something else. Black lace underwear. And some kind of flimsy black lace thing to wear on top of it.