Jailbait (11 page)

“Put it on,” Frank says in a hoarse voice that sounds like he has a bad cold or just woke up from a nap. I don't know how I feel about this exactly, but I also know that how I feel doesn't matter. And anyway, guys are supposed to like this sort of stuff, and I want to make Frank happy, don't I?

At least Frank turns his back while I change my clothes. I hear him light a cigarette while I take off Mike's jacket and the strike of the match startles me for a second, it's so spooky and quiet in here. I pick up my new bra and study it for a minute. It's a 38D, which just happens to fit me perfectly. How did Frank know? It's kind of weird but then again, not surprising. For some reason, I have a funny feeling there are lots of things about me that Frank already knows.

When I finish putting on Frank's present, I just stand there waiting and feeling totally self-conscious. I've never worn lingerie before and I wonder what I look like. I guess I'll never know since there's no mirror in here, which is probably just as well, because as Shirley always says, what you don't know can't hurt you.

Frank must hear that I'm not fidgeting anymore because he turns around and motions to me. “C'mere, baby,” he says, and I take a step toward him. “Beautiful,” he says quietly, like he's talking more to himself than to me. The cigarette in his mouth moves up and down with the word. “Beautiful,” he says again, like I'm a painting he just finished. “You look like a movie star,
you know that, Vanessa?” He smiles and studies me with his head cocked to one side like he's an artist and I'm his model. I half expect him to raise his thumb and close one eye, but of course he doesn't. “Black suits you,” he says, and I think,
Tell that to Shirley.
I just watch Frank watching me. His eyes change as he looks at me. They get bigger and darker, and his face softens. I like having this effect on someone. Though what the effect is I'm not exactly sure.

“Come closer—I won't bite,” Frank says, and I go to him and let him touch me. That's when I forget everything: school, stupid Donald Caruso, my parents … I just float away and let Frank go further than he did last time. But I don't mind. Lots of girls at my school have gone to third base and even further, and they've done it with stupid teenage boys, not someone as mature and wonderful as Frank.

When Frank is done he gathers me up in his arms and rocks me. I like sitting on his lap. I feel all cozy and loved and safe. After a while he turns me around so he can look at me and says, his liquid brown eyes all dark and serious, “Thank you, Vanessa.”

“For what?”

“For being so beautiful. And for spending time with me.”

I can't believe my ears. I mean, if anything, I should be thanking him.

“You're really special, Vanessa.” Frank runs his finger all the way from my forehead down to my cheek to my neck to my throat. “You're not like other girls your age.
You really know how to make a man happy. We're going to have lots of good times together.” Frank gathers me close again and starts rocking me. “I knew the minute I saw you, you were different than other girls. Most high school girls aren't very smart, but you're like a grown woman. You're much more mature. You know what's important in life. You and me, baby, we're cut from the same cloth.”

No one's ever said so many nice things to me before. I lean into Frank but stay a little on guard because I know he can change like the weather: sunny one minute, stormy the next.

“Sit back and relax a minute, sweetheart.” Frank adjusts us so I'm all the way up on his lap. “I'll miss you this weekend,” Frank croons while he hugs me tight, and it feels really nice. But then he snaps out of it and jerks up and pushes me away.

“What happened?” I ask. “Did I hurt you? Am I too heavy?”

Frank doesn't answer. He's up on his feet already and I feel like a total moron just sitting on the cold floor practically naked except for this flimsy black lace.

“Get dressed,” Frank says in his voice that lets me know he's done with me. I scramble to my feet and throw on my clothes, trying not to think about anything, because if I do, I'll cry. I shrug on Mike's jacket and follow Frank down the stairs, out of the house, and into the car without a word. I don't know why he's mad at me again and I wish he'd tell me but he doesn't and I know it's not a good idea to ask. Maybe he thinks I'm selfish. He spent
all that time making me feel good and I didn't do anything for him. Maybe I should do something right now, like reach over and touch him while he's driving, but I don't know, that could get kind of dangerous. And anyway, Frank's always the one who makes the first move.

We don't say anything the whole way back to where he drops me off, and then before I know it we've arrived, and there's nothing for me to do but get out of the car. I want Frank to say something, anything, but he doesn't. I try to think of something to say, but all I can come up with is
Thanks a lot
, or
Have a great weekend
, which both sound completely lame. So I just wave and watch him drive off and pray the weekend will fly by until I get to see him Monday, after school.

Everything's so different now that I have a reason to get
up in the morning. I'm standing here in the kitchen making Fred's dinner, and I'm actually
humming
, and I'm not exactly the humming type. But can you believe it—
I've
had a boyfriend for more than a month. Me, Andrea Robin Kaplan, the loser no one will eat lunch with, the klutz nobody picks to be on their softball team during gym, the big fat slob whose thighs rub together in the summer because her shorts are too tight. And not just any boyfriend either. I'm not talking about some pimply-faced, greasy-haired, stupid kid with braces as long as the entire Long Island Rail Road strung across his teeth. I'm talking about a grown-up
man.

I wish I were standing here making Frank's supper instead of Fred's, but that's the way it goes, I guess. Shirley's the one who should really be preparing Fred's chow, but Shirley spends as little time as possible in the kitchen these days. She says it's too tempting to be around all that food and God forbid she should eat something she thinks she's not supposed to—she might gain an ounce or two. You'd think she'd tell me to stay out of the kitchen too, since according to her I'm the one who needs to lose weight, but hey, someone has to cook Freddie Boy his dinner; he's certainly not going to do it himself.

So what happens nowadays is Shirley defrosts something during the day—lamb chops, a chicken breast, whatever—and then it's my job to cook the carcass she's left out on the counter. Tonight it's a T-bone steak, which is at least easy to make. I put on a pair of oversized black oven mitts so I don't touch the meat with my bare hands, slit open the cellophane package with a knife, plop the steak onto a flat metal pan, and put it in the oven to broil. It's totally unfair that I have to cook Fred's suppers, especially since he eats meat every night and I'm a vegetarian, but when I complained to Shirley about it, she said, “Andrea, life isn't fair,” which is basically her answer to everything.

I sit down at the kitchen table while Fred's steak is cooking, stare out the window, and think about—what else?—me and Frank. We've come a long way in the past few weeks and I can't even believe how happy I am. Frank and I are just perfect for each other. That's because, as Frank told me, girls and boys mature at different rates,
which was hardly news to me. It's a biological thing, really. See, as soon as a girl gets her period, she's sexually mature, which usually happens when she's eleven or twelve (I was ten), and boys that age haven't even started shaving yet. That's why older men and younger women go so well together. Frank says since girls mature twice as fast as boys, a man should be at least twice as old as his girlfriend.

Frank is different than anyone I've ever met before. He treats me like a grown-up, not like a kid. Like, if we have problems, which we do, like any other couple, we talk things through and work them out. Take that Friday a few weeks ago, for example, the day he gave me the black outfit. First we were having a great time, and then when we had to leave, Frank got nasty. The next time I saw him, I told him he had hurt my feelings. He apologized and explained that he gets a little distant at the end of our time together because it's so hard for him to leave me and not see me again for an entire day. So who can blame him for getting cranky at the end of our visits?

And anyway, after school when he picks me up he's always happy to see me, and lots of times he brings me presents. He got me a red lace outfit just like the black one, and he also bought me a few dresses, including a waitress's uniform and a French maid's outfit, which are both short, low-cut, and very tight.

At first I was completely embarrassed about putting on all this stuff, but Frank said I was being ridiculous and that I have a perfect figure. Nice and curvy. Voluptuous. He says I'm built exactly the way a woman should be. (I
wish he could tell that to Shirley.) Plus he brings me all kinds of things he says are essential to a woman's wardrobe: garter belts and fishnet stockings and high-heeled shoes. I never really liked playing dress-up before, but I don't know, it's different with Frank.

Since obviously I can't bring all the stuff Frank gives me home, I keep everything at the house we go to. I use one room as a dressing room and put all the stuff on the floor in the closet. When we get there, I go upstairs and put on an outfit and then come out and surprise Frank. It works pretty well, and anyway, where else am I supposed to keep all my stuff? Here? Can you imagine what Shirley and Fred would say if they found it?

Not that the Rents care what I do with myself after school. I tell them, if they even ask, that I'm at the library, and as long as I get home in time to give old Freddie Boy his supper, that's all that seems to matter.

And speaking of Freddie Boy's supper, I better finish making it. I take out a box of Uncle Ben's Converted Rice (which Mike and I call Uncle Ben's Perverted Rice) and put a pot of water on to boil, even though Shirley thinks Fred should skip the starch and lose a few pounds. Then I turn his steak over, dump a can of corn into a saucepan, and add a pat of butter and a little salt. Not exactly a gourmet meal, but we're not exactly a gourmet family, in case you haven't noticed. While all this is cooking, I ignore the signs posted on the refrigerator for my benefit— Slenderness is next to Godliness and A minute on the lips, forever on the hips—and make myself a peanut butter, jelly, and banana sandwich. Not a great supper, I
know, but it's the best I can do. Ever since Mike left for college, family mealtime has fallen apart around here.

I set the table, put a lid on the pot of corn, and check on the rice, and just as I'm pouring some ginger ale into a Daffy Duck glass for Fred, I hear the front door open.

“Hell-o-o-o,” Fred sings from the hallway. No one bothers answering him, so he goes into the den to say hi to Shirley and then he comes into the kitchen and plops down at the table.

“What's cookin', cookie?” he asks as he loosens his tie. That's how he greets me every night.

“Steak, corn, and rice,” I answer, setting his plate down in front of him. “Need anything else?” I ask, hoping to be dismissed.

“Sit down,” Fred says, pulling out an empty chair next to him so I have no choice but to sit right beside him. Just my luck. Fred hates eating alone, and it's up to yours truly to keep him company. You'd think Shirley would do it—after all, she's the one who's married to the guy—but when it comes to wifely duties, Shirley can't be bothered.

“Boy, did I have a long day today,” Fred says, chewing a huge hunk of steak with his mouth wide open. “I'll tell you something, there are three things in life you can always count on: death, taxes, and cavities. No one has time to pick up a toothbrush anymore. Oh well. More business for me.” He takes a long gulp of ginger ale and I scrape back my chair and get up to pour him some more. While I'm away from the table, Fred pulls my chair even closer so when I sit down again, our legs are practically touching.

“Hey, guess who came in to have her teeth cleaned today?” Fred asks, like I care. He pauses and waits for me to guess. I just shrug. “Mrs. Pierson, isn't that something?”

Fred expects me to be impressed because Mrs. Pier-son is the closest thing we have to a celebrity around here. She's an artist, and some of her paintings have won prizes and been in museums in New York City and everything.

“She makes a mint on those pictures of hers,” Fred says, shaking his head. “I can't get over it. A couple grand for one little painting. That's not bad for a girl.”

Can you believe him? I want to say,
Oh, puh-leeze, Freddie Boy. Wake up and smell the coffee. It's the seventies, for God's sake. Mrs. Pierson is a woman, not a girl. She's like forty-five years old.
But of course I don't say that. I also don't tell Fred that a lot of kids make phony phone calls to Mrs. Pierson's house because—get this— her first name is Gay. In fact, just last week I heard Donald Caruso—who else?—at the pay phone outside the cafeteria saying, “Is this Mr. Pierson? Hey, is your wife Gay? Really? Then why'd you marry her?”

“Got any more corn?” Fred asks, so I take his dish over to the stove to serve him some. I put his plate back on the table and head for the doorway, trying to give him the message that as far as I'm concerned, my job here is done, but dear old Dad doesn't see it that way.

“Sit down,” Fred says, and when I slump into my chair, he pats my knee. “That was a very good dinner,” he says, and then belches. Gross. He takes a sip of ginger ale, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and clears his throat. “So what's going on with my favorite
teenage daughter?” he asks, which is supposed to be a joke, since I'm his only teenage daughter. “How's school?”

“Fine.”

“How are your classes?”

“All right.”

“How's your social life?” Translation: what's new in the B-O-Y department?

“It's okay,” I say, which for once in my life is actually true.

“That's good.” Fred lifts his steak knife, starts picking his teeth with it, and then stops. “What's that?” He points the tip of his knife toward my chin.