Sins of Innocence (25 page)

The knot around Ginny’s throat grew tighter. The room began to go out of focus.

“No!” she shrieked, clutching the sweatshirt until her knuckles went white.
No. This is not going to happen. This is not going to get me
. With her heart pounding, Ginny ripped off her blouse and pulled the sweatshirt over her head.
Fuck the girls. Fuck M.I.T. I’m going to the Dew-Drop and play some pinball. I’m going to drink and have fun. I’m going to get through this. I’m going to forget
.

She had thought the hard part was going to be sneaking out of Larchwood Hall. Challenge always made things
more exciting, so Ginny had been disappointed when leaving the house had posed no problem. It was nearly eleven, and the house was quiet, with the good little mothers-to-be tucked into bed for the night. Miss Taylor had a habit of leaving the big skeleton key in the lock inside the back door. Ginny had turned the key, opened the door, and left. No one came running after her; no one called out her name. She just left.

Ginny walked quickly alongside the dark, winding road into town. She didn’t have much money. The bundle she’d ripped off from her stepfather was rapidly dwindling. Hopefully there would be enough to keep her in cigarettes and an occasional pint of whiskey until December. To be on the safe side, however, she’d have to be inventive, like with the twenty bucks she’d lifted off the kitchen counter. Mrs. Hines must have left it out for the milkman, or the egg man, or whoever the hell he was. Stupid old broad. She ought to know better than to leave cash out in plain sight. Ginny patted the pocket of her skirt; the bills were safe.

She could hear the sounds of the Dew-Drop two blocks away. The rest of the sidewalks had been rolled up for the night, but the jarring notes of the off-key piano and the ring-a-ding clanging of the pinball machines cut through the darkness and welcomed her. Ginny stepped inside and felt immediately at ease. The smoke, the smells, and the jammed-together bodies were familiar, almost like home. How many nights had she spent hanging around look-alike bars watching Mama hit on any guy who would buy her a drink? As painful and embarrassing as that had sometimes been, Ginny had discovered there was a certain safety inside a barroom, because for every drunk who tried to grab a quick feel, there was another one ready to jump on him and tell him to fuck off.

She marched up to the bar and squeezed herself between two men on barstools. She signaled the fatso bartender and tossed out a dollar bill. “Change this for nickels,” she shouted over the noise.

She felt the guy on her right eye her up and down. She knew the sweatshirt covered her stomach; she knew the miniskirt was short enough to stop a truck. For the sheer pleasure of watching him squirm, Ginny propped one foot on the railing under the bar, hiking her skirt up a bit higher and revealing the shadow just below her pubic hair. That ought to stiffen his prick. From the corner of her eye she saw him squirm. Ginny smiled.

“Nickels must mean you’re going to play a little pin-ball,” the man said.

Ginny looked at him. Christ, he must be forty. Kind of bald, kind of homely. No, not kind of,
real
homely. “Yeah, thought I might,” she answered.

“It’s more fun to play when you have a drink too,” he said.

Ginny shrugged. “You buying?”

“Sure.”

She scooped the nickels off the bar. “Great. VO. Splash of water. I’ll even let you challenge me to a game.” She pushed through the crowd toward the pinball machine, knowing the bald, homely man would arrive soon, her drink in his hand. But Ginny knew he was harmless. The kind of guy who’d be satisfied to have a few fantasies, then jerk off in the men’s room. The kind of guy who
knew
no one as sharp as Ginny would actually go home with him. He knew, but he could dream.

Ginny dropped a nickel in the slot and watched the chrome-plated balls spring to life. She pulled the lever back and let the first ball go, watching it arc and spin around the maze of colored lights and plastic obstacles. As the ball began its rapid descent toward her, Ginny timed the pacing, then banged the flipper. The ball shot back up to the top and ricocheted again and again off a rubber pad, the scoreboard dinging and flashing its lights, racking up points faster than Paul Newman in
The Hustler
.

After a few minutes Ginny sensed someone watching her. It was the bald guy, and he was holding her drink.

“Some player,” he said. “Looks like you’ve done this a few times before.”

Ginny laughed and took the drink. “A few,” she said, and gulped a big drink of the whiskey. It burned her throat; it always did. Ginny hated booze. It was the kind of thing that was good to have around to calm the nerves, but other than that, it was pretty much a waste of time. “I’ll play you for another drink,” she said.

“Whoa!” the man replied, indicating the scoreboard. “I think I’ll need a handicap.”

“Okay. Ten thousand points. Fair enough?”

The man dug into his trousers and pulled out a handful of change. “You’re on.”

Four games and four drinks later Ginny was still on a roll. She was blowing him away, and his ego couldn’t stand it. He kept pumping nickels into the machine, and Ginny was having a blast. Luckily she had switched to ginger ale after the second drink; otherwise she’d be smashed. Smashed and feeling weak and out of control. But Ginny knew she would never let that happen. No one would ever see Ginny Stevens out of control.

She pulled back the lever to release the last ball of the game. She was fifty thousand points ahead, and the bald guy was digging into his pants pocket again. “Come on, baby,” Ginny urged the ball. She grasped the flippers, hooted, and leaned back, sticking her boobs into the air and flashing another crotch shot. Might as well give the guy a show for his money.

Suddenly Ginny felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Not now!” she screamed, and continued to maneuver the ball through its course.

“Miss Stevens.” Ginny’s fingers let go of the flippers. The voice behind her was harsh, firm. Ginny turned around. Miss Taylor glared at her.

Ginny’s heart sank. Even in the darkness she could see the woman was pissed. Really pissed. “Hey, Miss T.!” Ginny sprang to the defensive. “Care to try one against the wizard?” Behind her, Ginny heard the last ball trickle down into the gully, pointless.

Miss Taylor grabbed Ginny’s elbow. “The game is over, Ginny. Time to go home.” The woman pushed Ginny
forward and toward the door, all the while grasping her elbow.

Shit, Ginny thought. I’m dead.

Out on the street sat the station wagon, with Pop behind the wheel. Miss Taylor opened the back door and shoved Ginny in. Then she slammed the door behind Ginny and got into the front seat. Pop pulled away from the curb.

“I’d have thought we had enough problems at Larchwood today,” Miss Taylor said, not without a note of displeasure.

“I was only trying to have a little fun,” Ginny said.

“Fun!” Miss Taylor turned in the seat and shook her finger at Ginny. “You are seventeen years old! Hanging around a bar is not what I consider ‘fun’ for a seventeen-year-old girl! And you’ve been drinking too. I can smell it.”

Ginny sighed and looked out the window. What was Miss Taylor going to do? Send her home? She couldn’t. Ginny had already paid for her stay—in full.

“This type of shenanigan may be why you wound up at Larchwood in the first place, Ginny, but you’re not going to get away with it here. You’re grounded.” The woman turned back in her seat and stared out the windshield. Case closed.

Fuck. Now the old lady would probably put a chain on her door. But how the hell did old bleach head find her in the first place? What the hell, might as well ask. Ginny couldn’t be in any more trouble than she already was.

“Gee, Miss Taylor, I’m really sorry,” Ginny cooed.

“You’re only sorry that you got caught,” Miss Taylor snapped.

Well, that’s true, Ginny thought, but she knew better than to admit it. But, damn, if she ever expected to sneak out again, she’d better find out how the old lady caught her. Ginny put on her sweetest voice. “Miss Taylor, I’m so sorry. But after today—with Jess’s kitten and all—I needed to get out. I was so upset.” The old lady didn’t say anything. Maybe she was buying this. Ginny continued. “I
tried to be real quiet so I wouldn’t wake any of the others. I’m sorry if I did. If I woke you.”

“You didn’t wake me, Ginny. You’re much too sneaky for that. No, what you didn’t count on is that this is a small town. And small towns have eyes.”

Eyes? Was old bleach head saying someone had seen Ginny and called Larchwood Hall to rat on her?

Pop turned the station wagon into the long driveway. Miss Taylor kept talking. “In fact, young lady, you’re lucky you didn’t get arrested.”

“
Arrested
?” Ginny couldn’t conceal the surprise in her voice.

“It was Sheriff Wilson who phoned me. He had gone into that place to retrieve one of his friends from Alcoholics Anonymous. He recognized you as one of my girls.”

The sheriff? The fucking sheriff knew who she was? The fucking sheriff was A.A.? Great. Just what she needed. She’d seen that type once when she’d dragged her mother to an A.A. meeting. They were all holier-than-thou and tried to save the world. Ginny was almost more glad her mother hadn’t stayed than she would have been to see her turn into one of them.

Pop pulled to a stop.

“Now get upstairs and stay there until morning,” Miss Taylor commanded. “But don’t think you’ve heard the last of this.”

“I thought you’d like some company,” Jess said from the other side of Ginny’s door the following evening. It had been a bitch of a day for Ginny. Old bleach head had threatened to call her mother, had threatened to send her home. In the end they agreed Ginny could stay, with the stipulation that every night after dinner she go to her room. The punishment was to go on for at least a month, until Ginny could prove to Miss Taylor she would “
never
do anything like that again.”

So now Ginny was sprawled on her bed, rereading her movie magazines for what seemed like the hundredth time, trying to figure out how she was ever going to raise
enough money to get to L.A. once this damned kid was born.

Jess knocked again. “Ginny?”

What the hell. Might as well pass the time talking to somebody.

“It’s open,” Ginny said.

Jess walked in, carrying a bag. “I went into town today,” she said.

“Don’t tell me,” Ginny said. “You went to mail your letter to Richard.”

Jess nodded.

“And what fine things did the sheriff, alias postmaster, have to say about me?”

“Nothing. He didn’t say anything.” Jess handed the bag to Ginny. “I picked these up for you though. I thought you might like them.”

Ginny opened the bag. Inside were three magazines:
Hollywood Today
,
Inside the Movies
, and
Stars of the Cinema
. All the latest issues. “What’re these for?” she asked.

Jess curled a spray of hair around her finger. “I thought you might like them. Sort of a ‘thank you’ for all your help yesterday. It wasn’t your fault about Larchwood, you know.”

Ginny snorted. “Couldn’t be because you feel sorry for me being under house arrest, could it?” But in spite of her words, Ginny couldn’t believe this. No one had ever bought her anything special before. Not even her mother. There was never any extra money when they were alone. After her stepfather came into the picture, there was never any need. On birthdays and Christmas, Mama just gave Ginny money and told her to get whatever she liked.

Jess was smiling. “Well, maybe. I do feel bad that you got into trouble.”

“My own fault. But how the hell was I supposed to know Miss T. is tight with the sheriff?” Ginny fingered the magazines. No. No one had ever really
thought
about her before. But what the hell. Jess was so loaded, she was probably used to buying her friends. She might not be a
bad person to get close to. Ginny’s eyes automatically fell to the emerald-and-diamond ring on Jess’s hand.

“Have a seat,” Ginny said, and Jess sat at the chair to Ginny’s desk. “There’s just one thing.”

“What?”

“You can stay and talk to me as long as you don’t ask me about the father of my baby. And we won’t talk about Richard. Deal?”

“Deal,” Jess said.

Ginny reached in under her bed and pulled out a pint of whiskey. “Want a taste?”

Jess started to move a hand toward the bottle, then stopped. “No. No, you go ahead, Ginny. I really don’t like the taste much.”

“Me either,” Ginny said, and shoved the bottle back in under the bed. “But it’s good to keep on hand for emergencies.”

P.J
.

It had been nearly a month since P.J. had first sneaked out to meet Peter. She had only seen him three times since then: Both times she had met him when he was finished working, and each time they’d gotten a thermos of coffee and parked at the lake. Peter pressured P.J. to meet his friends, to go to a movie, to let him take her to the diner for dinner. And, good God, once he’d even suggested he take her home to meet his parents. Her excuses were running thin: Her aunt might find out, there wasn’t enough time, she didn’t have on the right clothes. P.J. needed to keep things as they were: a quick stolen couple of hours together alone, where they would talk about dreams, and problems with their parents, and compare the things they did as kids. Then Peter would innocently kiss her, and she would feel loved. That was enough, that was all she wanted. More than that P.J. wasn’t capable of now.

She stood naked in front of the full-length mirror in her room. Her once-sultry body was now misshapen with
five months of pregnancy. Her breasts were swollen; the once-dark nipples were now flat and stretched to pale beige. And, though she faithfully coated her stomach with cocoa butter each night, hideous purple stretch marks had begun to appear. P.J. sat on the floor and began to cry. She was fat, ugly, and undesirable. So this is what it felt like to be ordinary.

Tonight she was going to see Peter again. It was to be the first time since Ginny had gotten in trouble for sneaking out. Hopefully P.J. would be luckier, but, in truth, she was more than a little uneasy about this rendezvous. With each day, each week, each meeting with Peter, P.J.’s stomach had grown. He would notice soon.