Jailbait (17 page)

“Yeah?”

“He treats you okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What do you guys do?”

“What do you mean, what do we do?”

“I mean, does he take you to the movies, does he take you bowling … ?”

I've never been able to lie to Mike. “No, he doesn't really take me places.”

“What do you mean, he doesn't take you places? What do you do when you're together?”

“God, what do you think, Mike? He's a guy, I'm a girl. What do you think we do when we're together? Play poker? Use your im-ag-i-na-tion.” I throw his own words back at him.

“Blah blah blah blah blah blah.” Mike covers his ears and shuts his eyes like a little kid who wants to block out what a grown-up is saying.

“Mike!”

He opens his eyes and takes his hands away from his ears.

“That's better.”

“Listen, Squirt. Let me just ask you one thing.” Mike narrows his eyes at me. “Frank isn't, like, pressuring you, if you catch my drift?”

“No.” I'm, like, pressuring him, in fact, but of course I don't say that to Mike.

“I don't know.” Mike still isn't satisfied. “You're kind of young to be going out with an older guy.”

“Mike, I'm sixteen.”

“Duh. Why do you think I came home, birthday girl?” When Mike calls me that, I remember Frank saying it and I shudder a little. “You cold?” Mike pitches his M&M's bag and unlocks the driver's side of the car.

“Mike!” He knows I hate it when he litters. I go after the trash and try to stuff it in my pocket, but my hand hits something. “Hey, look what Shirley gave me.” I show him the locket and make him hold up all my hair so I can fasten the chain around the back of my neck. “And remember this?” I take my shell out of my pocket and hold it up too.

“No, what's that?”

“My lucky shell. You gave it to me, don't you remember? Like six years ago when you cut school and went to Jones Beach.”

“When I cut school?” Mike asks, like he's the kind of guy who would never even think about doing such a thing.
“I
never cut school, Squirt. You must be thinking about your other big brother.”

“C'mon, Mike. Don't you even remember giving this to me?” I hold my shell up to his face but he just shrugs and shakes his head. Then he gets in the car and I go around to my side, but I feel totally sad all of a sudden, and I'm afraid if I look at him, I'll cry. So I get in and just look at my shell instead. It's not even a whole shell, really; it's just a piece of one, and it's an ugly, stupid pink too. Suddenly I'm completely disgusted with it and I open the car window and throw it into the traffic.

“Squirt, did you just litter?” Mike turns to look at me. “Don't you know you can get fined fifty bucks for that?”

I don't answer him and after a while he turns on the radio and switches stations until Bob Dylan's twangy nasal voice fills the air. Mike loves Bob Dylan, but if you
want my opinion, the guy can't sing to save his life. I think Mike likes him because he gives him hope: if one Jewish guy who can't carry a tune can get rich and famous, then why not another?

“This is a really cool song, Squirt,” Mike says, starting to sing along. “Listen to the words. It's pure poetry.”

“How's your poetry?” I ask, but he puts his finger up to his lips, telling me to be quiet so he can concentrate on the song.

“Um, Mike, I hate to interrupt you, but …”

“Quiet, Squirt, this is the best part.”

“But Mike, we missed our exit.”

“What?” Mike comes to and looks around. “Oh well,” he says with a grin. “Welcome to Pennsylvania.”

“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. Mike's way of saying “oops” is “Welcome to Pennsylvania” because two years ago when he and some friends tried to go to Woodstock for the biggest rock-and-roll concert of all time, they were so stoned they got completely lost, which they didn't even realize until they passed a sign that said welcome to Pennsylvania. When they finally got themselves turned around and heading back to upstate New York, they got stuck in this huge traffic jam and missed the whole concert. And that, ladies and gentleman, is basically the story of my big brother's life.

We get off at the next exit, get back on going in the right direction, and finally pull into the driveway half an hour late for dinner. But still, Mike's not in a big rush to get out of the car.

“Here,” he says, handing me a little bottle.

“What's this?”

“Visine. For your eyes, so they won't look so red.” I use it; then he takes the bottle out of my hand, tilts his head back, and puts some drops in his eyes. “And take a piece of gum too.”

“Mike, we should really go in,” I say, popping a piece of Wrigley's Spearmint into my mouth.

“Not so fast,” he says, resting his head back against the seat. “Listen, Squirt. Have the Rental Units met this guy Frank yet?”

I stare at him. “Get real.”

“Maybe they should.”

“Yeah, well, maybe they should buy you a ticket to Honolulu.”

“Squirt.” Mike picks his head up and frowns. “Listen, maybe I should meet him while I'm home.”

“How long are you staying?” I try to keep my voice calm.

“Just until Sunday. I told you I have tests next week, I have to fly back.”

“Well, Frank's away for the weekend,” I say, which is sort of true. I mean, he's away somewhere, I just don't know where.

“What kind of guy goes away for the weekend when it's his girlfriend's birthday?” Mike asks. “You sure this guy is on the level?”

“I'm sure,” I say in a voice I hope is convincing.

“I don't know, I just don't like it.” Mike shakes his head. “How come if this guy is so great you've never told me about him before?”

“Mike, you know Fred is always listening on the upstairs extension,” I say, my voice full of exasperation. “Listen, Frank's a great guy. Really, he is.”

“Well, just be careful, okay, Andi? You can't really trust guys. I'm a guy—believe me, I know.” I swear, I get goose bumps when he says that, I really do. That is just too weird, for Frank and Mike to say the exact same thing to me on the exact same day. “So, is he going to take you out or something when he gets back or what?”

“Don't worry, Mike, we're definitely going to have a celebration.” Boy, are we ever.

“You just make sure he treats you good, or else.” Mike reaches for the door handle.

“Or else what? You'll fly back from Hawaii and cream him?”

“You better believe it. C'mon.” And the two of us get out of the car and go into the house for my big birthday supper.

As soon as Mike and I walk in, Shirley announces that
dinner is ready, so we head into the kitchen. Shirley serves London broil to Fred and Mike and gives me a vegetable and cheese omelette which is actually almost edible. Then she piles some chicken slices with the skin cut off on top of the little postage scale she keeps on the counter to measure out her Weight Watchers-approved portions. By the time she brings her plate over to the table, Fred is holding his empty dish up in the air, which means he's ready for seconds, so she has to serve him again before she gets to sit down.

Nobody really says much at dinner, I don't know
why. Maybe because we're not used to eating together as a family anymore. Or maybe since we're all on our best behavior for my birthday, no one wants to bring up anything that could start a fight. Which basically rules out everything.

When we're done eating, Fred clears his throat. “Why don't you and Mike retire to the living room?” he asks.

You mean Shirley's actually going to clean up? I
raise my eyebrows in surprise and then quickly vacate the premises with Mike. And then just as I convince him to get his butt off the couch and switch the TV from
Star Trek
to a Mutual of Omaha wildlife special on giraffes, since after all it is my birthday so I should decide what we watch, Fred calls out in a phony voice, “Children, please come into the kitchen.”

“C'mon,” I say to Mike. “It's show time.”

We get up, turn off the TV, and go back to the kitchen, which is dark except for the light coming from the seventeen candles on top of my birthday cake (one for each year and one for good luck). I act all surprised like I'm supposed to even though I'm not, since this is what we do for birthdays every year, and then Fred and Shirley and Mike sing “Happy Birthday,” which is a total disaster since everyone in my family, including me, is completely tone-deaf.

“Make a wish, Andrea,” Shirley says, so I shut my eyes, wish that Frank and I will stay together forever, and blow. Then Shirley cuts a big piece of cake for Mike, a medium piece for me, and a tiny sliver for Fred. While we all munch away Shirley goes into the hall, and just as
Fred is sneaking himself another slice, she comes back with some envelopes and a box wrapped in shiny yellow paper.

“For me?” I ask, genuinely surprised. I thought I got my presents this morning.

“Well, if you don't want them, I'll take them,” Mike says, motioning for Shirley to give the gifts to him.

“No way,” I say, pushing aside my plate.

First I open an envelope from Shirley and Fred, which has another card in it, and tucked inside this one is a crisp one-hundred dollar bill. Next I open the card my grandmother sent from Florida. She sent some money too, so now I'm loaded.

“Your grandmother called while you and Mike were out,” Shirley says. “You'll have to call her later and thank her.”

“Okay,” I say, reaching for the box. “Who can this be from?” I ask Mike, who just shrugs, so I know it's from him.

“Wow, this is cool,” I say when I see what it is: a big coffee-table book about endangered animals, with really beautiful photos in it. I flip through the pages and almost start to cry because the animals are looking right out at the camera, and they look so sad, like they know their time is almost up, which just about breaks my heart.

“Thanks, everyone,” I say, and just as I go back to my cake, the phone rings.

“I wonder who that's for,” Fred says, like I'm the kind of teenage girl who gets phone calls every night. He answers the phone and then hands it to me. For a minute
I'm afraid it's Frank, but of course it can't be. He doesn't know my last name—or even my first name—for one thing. And for another thing, if a man ever called here asking for me, Fred would never just hand over the phone like that.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Andi, it's me. Ronnie. Happy birthday!”

“Ronnie!” I'm so happy to hear her voice. “How are you?”

“I'm pretty good. Hey, sorry I didn't send you a present or anything. I started making you a card, but then I got busy….”

“Don't worry about it,” I say. “What are you so busy with?”

“Oh you know, school and stuff. Hey, guess what, I made cheerleading.”

“Cheerleading?” I say the word like I'm not sure what it means. “I thought you hated cheerleading.”

“I never said I
hated
it, Andi,” Ronnie says, which is such BS I almost puke up my birthday cake. Ronnie hates all that rah-rah, go-team, school-spirit stuff as much as I do. Or at least she used to.

“It's kind of cool, really,” she goes on, and her voice is sincere, not sarcastic. “We have these really cute maroon and white uniforms and we get to travel with the team sometimes and …” Ronnie must realize from my silence that I'm in shock because she quickly changes the subject. “Anyway, never mind me, it's your birthday. So what's going on?”

“Oh, nothing much.” What can I possibly tell Ronnie?
I can't talk to her about Frank with the Rents standing two feet away from me. I suppose I could take the call upstairs in the Units' bedroom, but all of a sudden, I don't really feel like talking to Ronnie. “Listen, I have to go, we're having a little celebration here. I'll call you soon, okay?” I hang up and go back to eating my birthday cake. When I finish, I ask Shirley for another piece, which she actually cuts and serves me without a nasty comment for once in her life, and then everyone goes upstairs to their separate rooms and my birthday party is over.

It's Saturday morning, the day after my birthday, and everything's back to—and I use the word loosely— normal. Fred and I are eating bagels for breakfast and Shirley's chowing down on a Weight Watchers cheese Danish, which is really cottage cheese mixed with Sweet'n Low and cinnamon plopped on top of melba toast and broiled in the toaster oven. Gag me. Mike's gone already; Fred took him back to the airport early this morning. I wish he were still here so there'd at least be someone to talk to. Fred's knee-deep in
Newsday
and Shirley is skimming the recipes in
Good Housekeeping
, which is a pretty clear indication that no one's interested in having a conversation.

Shirley takes a last gulp of her coffee, puts her mug down, and, closing her magazine, gets up from the table. “Will you please clean up, Andrea,” she says in a way that lets me know her words are a command, not a question. I guess now that my birthday's over, I'm back to being Cinderella.

Shirley and Fred wander off to watch television and have their after-breakfast smoke while I put all the leftover food into the refrigerator and load our plates into the dishwasher. When I'm done, I poke my head into the living room for a minute and stare at Superman as he flies across the TV screen.