Jailbait (19 page)

Frank lets out a low whistle. “Wow, thirty-six. Somebody's prepared,” he says, shaking the package a little. Then he opens the box and takes one out.

“Where'd you get these, anyway?” he asks.

“At the drugstore,” I tell him, and then, like it's nothing, I add kind of proudly, “I stole them.”

“You what?” Frank barks, like he's on the verge of getting mad. “Vanessa, what do you mean, you stole them?”

What do you mean, what do I mean?
I want to ask him, and why is he getting so angry about it? “Well, I couldn't just go up to the cash register and pay for them, Frank. Mrs. Jacoby knows me, and I'm sure she'd tell my mother.”

“Who's Mrs. Jacoby?” Frank asks, totally clueless.

“She owns the drugstore, Frank.
Jacoby's
Drugs?” God, doesn't he know anything? I decide to skip the part about being spotted by Diane Carlson since that probably wouldn't go over very well. “And anyway,” I continue, “I thought you'd be really proud of me that I stole them, because now I'm risking going to jail to be with you, just like you are for me. So we're even.”

“Stealing is a very serious thing, Vanessa,” Frank says like he's a high school principal. “What do you want to do, end up in reform school?”

“But Frank, how else was I supposed to get them?” What I really want to say is
So why didn't
you
just get them?

“Stolen goods.” Frank looks over at the condoms and frowns. “I don't know if I can use them.”

Oh for God's sake, give me a break. What do I have to do, attack the guy? What is Frank's problem? Maybe he's just scared. Yeah, I bet that's it. I make my voice all soft and soothing like he does when he knows I'm frightened. “C'mon now, Frank. Don't be mad. Let's just have a nice time together.”

“You're sure you want to go through with this now, right, Vanessa?” Frank asks, like maybe he's changed his mind and wants to back out but doesn't want to admit it.

“Sure I'm sure, Frank. I want to make you happy. C'mere.” I take his hand and pull him toward me, talking to him all the time like he's a scared puppy. “It's okay, Frank. It's all right. C'mon now….”

“That's enough,” Frank says, getting to his feet. He takes off his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt, and motions for me to do the same. Then he starts doing all the talking. “All right now, don't you ever forget this was all your idea, sweetheart. No one's forcing you into anything here, remember that. This is your choice.”

I don't say anything and the house is so quiet you could hear a condom drop. Frank turns his back to me for a minute and then turns back around and says, “Lie down,” like he's talking to a dog, so I do.

I close my eyes and in one second Frank is on top of me, which feels like I'm being crushed to death, but before I have a chance to say anything, like “Get off,” we're actually doing it.

“Ow!” I yell, because it really hurts, but Frank tells me to shut up so I do. I can't even believe I couldn't wait to do this. How can this be the huge deal that everyone makes such a big gigantic fuss about?

I keep my eyes shut until it's over, and when it finally is, I have to wait for Frank to get off me, which takes a while because first he has to lie there panting like he just ran the New York City Marathon. Though from the way he was hyperventilating two seconds ago, I could have sworn he was having a heart attack.

When Frank's breathing gets back to normal, he whispers in my ear, “So, Vanessa was it everything you thought it would be?”

“Oh no, Frank, it was much, much more,” I tell him in this mushy voice, and Frank's so dumb, he doesn't even get that I'm being totally sarcastic. He just smiles, pushes himself off, and says, “Let's go,” like all of a sudden he's in a hurry. I feel like asking,
What's the rush, got a date?
but of course I know he doesn't.

I sit up, throw the package of Trojans into my knapsack, and pick up my clothes, but I feel so gross I can't even stand the thought of putting them on.

“Get a move on, kiddo,” Frank says, slapping my behind. He's got everything on already except his shoes and his jacket, so I hurry and put on my clothes too. When I'm all dressed, he says, “C'mere,” like he wants to hold me for a minute, and even though I don't want to, I let him give me a hug.

“So how does it feel to be a real woman?” he asks.

“Terrific,” I say, even though it isn't true. But I don't know, maybe it'll get better. They say the first time is never that hot and you have to communicate with your partner so he learns what you like. That's what all the magazine articles say, anyway. Yeah, right. Frank happens to know exactly what I like. He knows how to make me feel good. When he wants to.

Maybe it was his turn to feel good today. Maybe we'll take turns from now on. That's only fair, I guess.

Frank gives me a big hug and kiss and then lets go of me and heads downstairs. I grab my knapsack and go after him, and then we get in the car and drive back to the spot where he drops me off. As usual, I know better than to ask if I'll see him tomorrow, and to tell you the truth, I don't know if I even want to. But Frank's got other plans.
“Tomorrow,” he reminds me, squeezing my knee. “Be there or be square.” But instead of feeling happy, I just feel like taking the stupid screwdriver he uses to start the car off his dashboard and stabbing him with it, I really do. God, I wish I could figure out what is wrong with me. But I can't, so there's nothing to do but get out of the car, and the second I do, Frank gives his usual wave and just starts driving away.

I plod along thinking about how today was supposed to be the best day of my entire life and it turned out to be nothing but a great big fat disappointment. I mean, Frank could even go to jail for what we did, so you'd think it would be absolutely, positively, I don't know,
spectacular
or something, but it wasn't. At least not in my opinion. Which obviously means there's something seriously wrong with me. Like that's a big surprise.

When I turn the corner onto my block, I see that Shirley's car is missing in action, so at least one thing is going my way today. My grandmother always says you should be grateful for the little things in life and I guess she's right because I don't feel like talking to anyone right now. Especially Shirley. What I really feel like doing is taking a scalding hot shower, putting on my pajamas, and getting into bed with Snowball and my other stuffed animals and just pulling the covers over my head. So I do.

About an hour later, I hear the front door open, which means Shirley's home. Eventually she notices I haven't started making Fred's supper yet and she comes upstairs to find me.

“What are you doing in bed?” she asks, standing in the doorway to my room.

“I don't feel so good,” I say, which at this point is totally true.

“What's the matter? Do you have a headache?”

“Yeah,” I say, since that's easier than making something up. “I think it's because of my period.”
Good cover, Audi
, I tell myself, because now if Shirley goes into the bathroom and sees my washed-out underwear hanging in the shower, she won't be suspicious.

“I'll get you some aspirin,” Shirley says, and then she disappears.
Just bring me the whole bottle
, I think, since I wouldn't mind taking about fifty right now, but she only brings me two.

“Here.” Shirley hands me two aspirin tablets and a Porky Pig glass filled with ginger ale. I decide not to take her glass selection personally, even though I probably should. Then Shirley actually sits on the edge of my bed for a minute and feels my forehead with the back of her hand. “I don't think you have a fever,” she says, like she would know. Then she takes my empty glass and gets up to leave.

“Shirley, can you stay with me a little?”

My mother stops halfway between standing up and sitting down and gives me this puzzled look, like I just spoke to her in Japanese. I don't even know why I said it. I guess I don't feel like being alone. Shirley sits back down again, but she stays perched on the edge of the bed, like a cat that wants to step on the branch of a tree but isn't sure if it's strong enough to support its weight.
After a minute, Shirley sits back, crosses her legs, and starts picking at the fuzz on my bedspread. She's nervous because she can't go for more than a minute without a cigarette and she knows I'll have a major fit if she even thinks about smoking in here. She looks out my window and sighs this big heavy sigh but she doesn't say anything. Clearly, if we're going to talk, it's up to me to begin. I wish Shirley would just read some
Winnie-the-Pooh
to me, but I'm too old to ask for that.

“Shirley, how did you know that Daddy was the right one?” I ask, and I don't know who's more surprised to hear the word
Daddy
fly out of my mouth, Shirley or me, since I've been calling my father Fred since I was twelve.

She looks at me and shrugs. “I don't know, Andrea. You just know these things.”

“But how?” I ask. “I mean, do you believe in fate?”

“I don't know, Andrea,” she says again. “I suppose certain things are just meant to be.”

“Tell me how you met,” I say.

“Oh, Andrea, you've heard this story a hundred times.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Oh, all right,” she says with another sigh. Then she looks out the window again. “I was sixteen and your father was seventeen. You know he was an excellent swimmer when he was young. He was very handsome, with very broad shoulders. All the girls noticed him. Then one day I was at the pool, and your father was swimming
laps. I guess he got a little carried away with himself and lost his focus, because he got to the end of the lane, smacked into the wall, and practically knocked himself silly.”

“Were his eyes as bad then as they are now?” I ask since my father is legally blind when he's not wearing his glasses.

“Oh yes,” Shirley says. “Though they weren't so bad that he didn't notice me, even though he was only half conscious,” she says with pride. “I was wearing a white bathing suit that was cut like this.” Shirley makes a heart shape with both hands over her chest. “I wish I still had that suit. It was very flattering. Your father used to say I looked like Elizabeth Taylor in it.” She stares out the window again with this dreamy look in her eyes and then snaps out of it. “Where was I?”

“At the pool with Fred half conscious.”

“And bleeding, too. So I brought him a towel and he looked up and saw me all in white and said, ‘Where did this angel come from?’ And that was that. We've been together ever since.”

“You forgot something.”

“What?” Shirley asks, making it clear her patience is running out.

“You forgot to say the part about how his legs were so thin his friends used to call him Freddie Spaghetti.”

“Oh, right. Though now with his potbelly, they'd probably call him Freddie Meatball.”

“Freddie Meatball?” Shirley has never said anything like that before and it strikes me so funny, I giggle until I
get hysterical. “Freddie Meatball?
Freddie Meatball?”
I shriek, and then I'm laughing so hard tears pour from my eyes. A minute later I really am crying, but I'm still laughing too, and I can't get hold of myself.

“Andrea, are you all right?” Shirley asks, frowning.

God, what does she think? I give up and just tell her what she so obviously wants to hear. “I'm fine, Shirley. Just fine. You're dismissed.”

Shirley practically jumps off the bed, and then, not wanting to look too eager to leave, asks me if I need anything. I shake my head and wave my hand in front of my face like I'm shooing away a fly. She takes the hint and I lie there listening to her shuffle through the hall and down the stairs to the living room. Her footsteps get softer and softer and when I can't hear them anymore, I pull the covers over my head and shut my eyes and for some reason that makes me feel like I'm lying in a coffin. So I keep really still and pretend I'm dead, which actually doesn't sound half bad at the moment.

I don't know if anyone would even care if I died. Mike would, I guess, but he's probably halfway to Hawaii by now. Fred would stay home from the office for a day or two, just because it would look weird if he didn't. And Shirley? She couldn't care less about what happens to me. She'd probably just pop a few extra happy pills, go to her figure salon more, and be glad no one was around to give her grief about her cigarettes. I wonder if Ronnie would come in from Pennsylvania for my funeral. Probably. And I guess my grandmother would fly up from Florida.

And what about Frank? Would he come? How would
he even know? What if somehow he did show up and Shirley asked him,
Are you a friend of Andrea's?
He'd say,
Andrea? I thought her name was Vanessa.
And then he'd be so mad I lied to him he'd kill me, except I'd be dead already so he couldn't.

I wonder what Frank would do if I didn't show up tomorrow. Would he come looking for me? I mean, maybe I really am sick. But if I don't go to school tomorrow, I'll really screw things up on account of finals. No, I have to go. And maybe Frank will be back to his old self tomorrow. I'm sure he will; his bad moods never last two days in a row. Maybe he just got so excited that we finally got to go all the way that he just lost control of himself. Yeah, I'm sure that's it. I'm sure once he gets used to the fact that he can do anything he wants to me whenever he feels like it, everything will be just fine.

“Frank, can we talk?”

“Talk, Vanessa?” he says, like I just asked if we could do something ridiculous, like rob a bank.

We're upstairs in the sleeping bag room, and I don't know, I guess Frank thought we'd just dash upstairs, whip off our clothes, and do the same thing we did yesterday. He didn't even smoke a cigarette or tell me to put on an outfit.

“Frank.” I stare down at the tip of his work boot, because I know if I look up I'll cry. “I don't know, Frank. I … I didn't have such a good time yesterday.”

There. I said it. I keep looking down at Frank's boot,
which doesn't move, and wait for him to say something. He doesn't for a long time. Finally I look up into his eyes, which are dark with anger, and I'm afraid he's going to start yelling at me, but he doesn't. In fact, he doesn't say anything, which feels even worse for some reason.