Jailbait (8 page)

“That's what you think,” I say, reaching for a paper towel.

“Is that so, Miss My Cups Runneth Over?” Cheryl blows a puff of smoke at my back. “Tell us all about it.”

“This I've got to hear,” Diane Carlson says as she and Cheryl close in on me. But before I can open my big fat mouth again, the door bangs open, Donna Rizzo marches out, and two seconds later someone else marches in clearing her throat.

“Are there students smoking in here?” It's Mrs. Mark-son, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “All right, you three. To the principal's office. March.”

“But”—I shut off the water and try to protest—“I wasn't—”

“No, ifs, ands, or cigarette
butts
,” Mrs. Markson says, fanning her hand in front of her face. “Let's go.”

“You're dead, Kermit,” Cheryl hisses to Donna Rizzo,
who smirks as we pass her in the hall. Luckily the principal lets me off with a warning since I'm a first-time offender, and I'm only a little late to math, my last class of the day. I just sit there in a fog, waiting for class to end, and when it finally does, you'd think I'd rush down the hall, out the door, and over to Farm Hill Road to see if Frank's there or not, but I just go at my usual pace. Either he'll be there or he won't, so who cares if I walk fast or slow?

When I turn onto Farm Hill Road, I know without even looking that Frank's not there. It's not even that I don't hear his motor running, it's just this sinking feeling I have in my stomach, like I just ate a hundred matzo balls that my grandmother made for Passover, which weigh about a pound and a half apiece. I can't believe it's all over. The best thing that ever happened to me in my entire life.
Finito.
Done. The End.

There's nothing for me to do but walk over to Bessie's fence, but I don't even click my tongue to call her over. I'm too depressed to do anything but stand here and pick at my split ends. They're easy to see with the sun shining on my hair, and who cares if I wreck it now that Frank is gone?

I wish I had someone to talk to about all this. But who, Shirley? Yeah, right. For all Shirley knows, I don't have a clue about the birds and the bees. When I told Shirley I got my period she said, “Oh God, already?” like I'd done it too soon. Like I could help it. Then she gave me a box of pads and spent a good twenty minutes showing me how to wash out my underwear (cold water and
Woolite does the trick). And that was our big mother-daughter talk about the facts of life. And Fred is even worse. He'd totally kill me if he knew about Frank. Fred thinks I'm his private property or something. Like once when I was eleven, I asked him when I could start dating. He said, “When you're thirty-five,” but he was only kidding. I think.

So who's left—Mike? I don't know if I'd even tell Mike about Frank. Most girls don't get along with their older brothers, but Mike and I have been tight ever since I was a baby. When Shirley used to walk me in my carriage, Mike trotted along right beside her, helping her push it. And when someone came up to check me out, Mike would point to himself and say in this tough-guy voice, “That's
my
sister. You can look but you better not touch.” God, I wish Mike were still around. Mike left home the minute he could and he hardly ever comes to visit. We talk on the phone sometimes, but it's just not the same.

If Ronnie hadn't moved away, I'd probably tell her about Frank, but Ronnie's gone. Pennsylvania, for God's sake. I miss her so much. You know how when someone looks really sad and someone else says to her, “What's the matter? You look like you lost your best friend?” Well, I
have
lost my best friend. Ronnie and I were pretty much inseparable. We spent so much time together that Donald Caruso called us lezzies. Or rather, he called me a lezzie, which is really stupid because if I was one, then Ronnie would have to be one too, right? And now even with Ronnie gone, Donald still teases me about being a
lesbian, always asking me where my girlfriend is in that stupid tone of voice he uses. I wish Donald could meet Frank. Then he'd shut up about me being queer in two seconds flat.

I guess I should just go home, but I don't exactly want to. And besides, my feet feel like they weigh about three hundred pounds. Each. I want to sink down into the ground and never move again, but just when I'm about to give in to gravity, I hear something. Something that sounds awfully like a car. And not just any car: Frank's car. I'm afraid to look, because what if my ears are playing tricks on me? I wait until the sound gets louder and then when I finally look up, Frank's practically on top of me and I have to run to where he's pulled over so he doesn't leave without me. But it turns out there's no chance of that since he's turned the motor off. Which is weird, because usually he keeps the car running, I hop in, and off we go. But I'm so happy to see him, I don't even care. I just run around to my side of the car and yank open the door. Only it doesn't yank. I try again and practically pull my arm out of its socket before it finally dawns on me that the door is locked.

What gives? I knock on the window but Frank ignores me. I bend down to look through the glass and see he's just staring out the windshield straight ahead of him, like there's something really fascinating going on right in front of the car. Which there isn't.

I go around to Frank's side and rap on his window. He rolls it down without even looking at me and I know I have to wait. I look down at a gray pebble and move it around
with the toe of my sneaker, because I know Frank doesn't like being stared at. After a minute he turns to me and fixes me with those gorgeous eyes of his, and then I don't dare move, like I'm a rabbit caught in a pair of headlights.

“Listen, Vanessa,” Frank says, and for a split second I don't even know what he's talking about. Then I remember he thinks that's my name.

“Vanessa,” Frank says again, shaking his head. “I don't know if I can see you anymore.”

“Why not?” The words burst out of my mouth like I've just been sucker-punched.

“It's not that I'm not attracted to you,” he says, and my heart starts pounding. “You're a very beautiful woman.” He runs his tongue across his top lip and looks me up and down, letting his eyes rest on my chest for a minute until my legs go all rubbery like they did yesterday when we were fooling around.

Frank reaches through the window and touches my arm. Even through Mike's jacket and my sweater, his fingers feel hot. “Listen, babe.” He lowers his voice, and I have to lean in closer. “How old are you?”

“Old enough,” I say, but that doesn't cut it this time. Maybe because my voice comes out all small and shaky. Frank frowns and shifts in his seat like he's about to start the car and drive away.

“Seventeen,” I blurt out, trying not to sound totally panicked, but Frank doesn't buy it. He sort of snorts and sort of laughs.

“Sixteen,” I say, but the word comes out all squeaky with a question mark at the end.

Frank doesn't say anything but he gives me this look, like
Tell me the truth or else
, so I do.

“Almost sixteen,” I finally confess, and then I let out this big sigh because I know he'll never want to be with me now that it's out in the open that I'm just a kid.

“See, Vanessa,” Frank says, and every time he says my name, my secret name that only the two of us know, I ooze with happiness. “I could get in big trouble for seeing you.” He pauses to let his words sink in. “Some people out there”—Frank takes his arm off my sleeve and makes a sweeping gesture—“wouldn't understand about us.”

“I won't tell anyone, Frank. You know that. I could get in trouble too.” While I'm saying this, I'm thinking,
Please, please put your hand back on my arm.

“What could they do to you? Ground you for a month? Take away your TV privileges?” Frank sounds totally disgusted, like I'm only three years old. “I could get in major hot water for being with you, little girl.” He pulls a cigarette out of the pack of Marlboros on his dashboard and taps it on my arm. “It's not for nothing they call sweet things like you jailbait.”

“What?” I'm only half listening to Frank because I'm concentrating so hard on trying to will him to put his hand back on my arm. Frank shakes his head like I'm the dumbest person on the planet. Then he lights his cigarette and blows a long stream of smoke in my face, which is completely rude, but I know he doesn't do it on purpose.

“Vanessa,” Frank says, soft as a kiss, like I'm something he misses already even though I'm standing right there in front of him. “This is a really screwed-up world,
sweetheart. A lot of people wouldn't understand about us. Haven't you ever heard of statutory rape?”

“What?” I say again. I'm floating on the soft cloud of the word
sweetheart
and then I land on my butt hard, with the thunk of the word
rape.
Rape? He's got to be kidding. I take a step back because I feel off balance, like the world is spinning too fast.

“Frank, what are you talking about?” My voice comes out as a whisper. “Of course I've heard of statutory rape, but you would never rape me. You'd never force me to do anything. I know you wouldn't.” I have to convince him somehow that everything's all right. “Frank,” I say, my voice a little louder. “First of all, no one's going to find out about us. And second of all, I'm not a baby. I'm making my own choices. And I'm choosing to be with you. I like being with you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” What does he mean, why? “Because, I don't know, you make me feel good.”

“How?”

“Frank, you know how.”

“Vanessa, if I knew I wouldn't be asking you.”

God, sometimes Frank is so annoying. Do I have to spell it out for him? “You make me feel good by, you know. When we're together.” My voice drops down to a whisper again and I feel my face get all hot and red, so I look down at my sneakers, hoping I won't cry. I don't even know why I'm so upset. But I am.

I wait for Frank to say something else but he just puffs away on his cigarette until he gets down to the filter
and then he pitches it out the window. God, I hate that. I want to run over and step on his butt with my sneaker and then pocket it but of course I don't. I just stand there trying not to cry because I know this is the end and I'm sure Frank knows it too, so why doesn't he just say it already so I can go home and kill myself?

But when Frank finally does speak, he doesn't say good-bye. He says, “Get in,” and before I can even say,
what?
he's leaning across the front seat to unlock my door and I'm so happy I do start to cry, which is really weird because who cries when they're happy unless they're completely insane?

I run around to my side of the car and get in quick before Frank changes his mind. I turn toward him but he's staring out the window again with this vague expression on his face. He doesn't move for a long time. I look at the screwdriver on the dashboard and think,
Pick it up, Frank. Start the car.
But he doesn't.

Finally, when I just can't stand it anymore, I say, “Aren't we going?” but Frank doesn't bother to answer my question, and why should he? Isn't it obvious we're not going anywhere?

“Listen, Vanessa.” When Frank finally does talk, I jump a little and he calms me down by putting his hand on my thigh. “I want you to do something for me.”

“What?” I say, but what I'm thinking is
You name it, Frank. Your wish is my command.

“I want you …” Frank pauses, and while he's thinking, his hand works its way up to my jacket. Then his hand is under my jacket. Then it's under my sweater.

“What is it?” I whisper, since I can hardly breathe.

“Since I'm taking such a big risk to be with you, you have to take a big risk too.” As he talks to me, his hand moves softly and I start to feel sleepy, as if Frank were hypnotizing me.

“I want you to give me something that's really important to you. Something that will show me we're in this together.”

“Here.” I pull away from Frank long enough to reach into my pocket, grab my lucky shell, and offer it to him.

“What's that?”

“A shell.”

“A shell?” He says the word
shell
like he's never heard it before.

“Yeah, take it.” I give it to him and he turns it over on his palm. “It's my lucky shell. My brother gave it to me.”

“A shell.” Frank blows air out of the right side of his mouth like now he's heard everything. “A shell, huh. That's just kid stuff.” Frank pokes my shell with his finger like it might be alive or something, and then he chucks it out the window.

“Frank!” Oh my God, is he nuts? What if some stupid Buick comes along and runs over my shell? My special shell that probably got tossed around the ocean for over a billion years before Mike found it. And then for it to wind up being crushed to death by some housewife on her way to the butcher to pick up a pot roast just doesn't seem fair. I want to run out of the car and grab it right now but I don't dare.

“Something you could get in a lot of trouble for,”
Frank says, sneaking his hand up under my clothes again and going on like nothing's even happened. And in one second I've got it. I'll bring him Shirley's wedding ring. She'll never miss it. She doesn't even wear it anymore since she likes the twenty-diamond anniversary band Fred gave her so much better.

“I know what I can bring you,” I say, sounding like I'm in a big hurry to race out of the car and get it. Even though Frank's hand feels nice and everything, I'm frantic to get out of there on account of my shell. I can see it on the side of the road, an accident waiting to happen. “I'll bring it tomorrow, okay?”

“Tomorrow,” Frank says, giving me an extra squeeze before taking his hand away. I know that's my cue to get out of the car, so I do. Frank starts the ignition and drives off, with the usual wave and smile. He heads straight for my shell and my whole body stiffens waiting to hear that awful crunch, but at the last minute Frank swerves the other way. See, he's not really mean, he just likes to tease me. I run over and pick up my shell.

“There, see,” I say to it, “everything's okay. You're not hurt. That was a little scary, but you're all right now. You're all right.” I lick my finger and clean the dust off my shell before I put it back in my pocket where it's nice and safe. Then I hurry home like a girl with a mission. Which is exactly what I am.