Jailbait (3 page)

“Hey, c'mon, Donald, I have to go,” I say, but he doesn't move.

“No need to get Jee-fensive, Dee-Dee. What's the big hurry?” he asks. “You have to go call your
girlfriend!”
He gestures toward the pay phone at the end of the hall and then clasps his hands to his chest, sighs, and puts this stupid moony look on his face. “Ah, young love.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, and he answers, “Blow me,” which is his all-time favorite expression. I swear, Donald Caruso has the intelligence of a gerbil, my apologies to the animal kingdom. Finally Donna shows up with an
unusually ugly frog barrette holding back her hair, and off they go, his big hairy arm draped across her thin bony shoulder, and her little skinny arm looped around his thick wrestler's waist. I don't know how she stands him, I swear to God, I really don't. If I were her, I'd definitely have my head examined.

The rest of the day drags by, and when the last bell finally rings, it's not a moment too soon. I grab my jacket, slam my locker, and head out, right past all those lined-up yellow school buses that look like overgrown sticks of butter about to melt in the sun. I keep my pace steady because if I walk too slow, I might miss the guy in the Volkswagen altogether, and if I walk too fast, I'll just have to stand there like I'm waiting for him and wouldn't that look stupid? This whole thing is stupid; it's crazy, I don't even know the guy. But hey, maybe he'll be my friend or something, you never know. I certainly could use the company. And he's got to be more mature than the boys at school, which wouldn't take much, let me tell you. I swear, if one more boy blows into his elbow to make a farting noise when I walk by, I am going to just haul off and slug him. Especially if his name is Donald Caruso.

And speaking of the world's biggest jerk, I can't believe he noticed that I at least tried to look good today. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a total slob or anything. It's just that I don't think appearances are anything to get all hyped up about. Yeah, right. Just try telling that to the girls in my class and they'll look at you like your face just turned bright green like the Wicked Witch of the
West in
The Wizard of Oz
or something. I mean, you should see them all crammed together like sardines in the girls' room before first period, trying to get a spot in front of the mirror. The way they all push and shove, you'd think something really important was written over their reflections, like the name of the boy they're going to marry, which is all most of them care about anyway. I mean, they are
so
shallow. All anyone talked about today was who went to fat camp and lost weight over the summer, who got a nose job, who got their braces off, who got contact lenses, and what everybody was wearing. I of course wore the same thing I always do: a black sweater over a pair of dungarees, with black high-top sneakers.

Shirley tried to take me shopping for school clothes this year—she tries every year—but I refused to go. The last time we went shopping I practically lost my lunch at the way Shirley and the salesgirl were oohing and aahing over all the cashmere sweaters and pleated skirts I wouldn't be caught dead wearing.

“Isn't this adorable?” Shirley asked, holding up a belted red and green plaid jumper with a matching red sweater. When I didn't answer, a salesgirl who was standing nearby started cozying up to her.

“Oh that's a very popular outfit,” the girl said, and the way Shirley turned around and started in on how they're wearing their skirts so short this year, and how you have to have really great legs to get away with that, and blah blah blah, I could just tell she wished more than anything that the salesgirl with her perfectly straight
hair, her frosty pink lipstick and nails, and her color-coordinated skirt and sweater set were her daughter instead of me.

This year, Shirley waited until the second-to-last week in August before she started in on me about my “wardrobe,” as she calls it. It was one of those days when it's so hot you wish you didn't have to wear your skin, let alone your clothing. She was drinking sugar-free iced tea in a tall Bugs Bunny glass that we got free from the gas station with our last fill-up and browsing through the JCPenney circular. “Isn't this dress cute?” she asked, pointing to a page. “Let's go shopping this afternoon. It's cool in the mall, and besides, you could use a few new outfits.”

“Outfits” for God's sake. That just about killed me. I haven't worn an “outfit” since first grade.

“I have everything I need,” I told her.

“Don't you want a few new dresses or skirts?” Shirley asked, like I had turned into someone else overnight. “I wish you would wear something colorful,” she went on. “Why do you always have to wear black?”

Because I know it bugs you
, I wanted to say, but of course I didn't. You'd think Shirley would be glad I always wear black, since according to
Redbook
and
Good Housekeeping
and all those other magazines she's always reading, black makes you look thinner. But it just goes to show you that when it comes to Shirley, I can't do anything right.

“Black is the presence of all colors,” I said, quoting my art teacher, but Shirley wasn't impressed. She just
started in on me about always wearing dungarees instead of skirts, but I refuse to wear anything else. I like dungarees because they have lots of pockets and I carry lots of stuff: my Swiss army knife in case I need to open a soda bottle or peel an orange, my keys, some money, and my lucky shell.

I got my lucky shell from Mike, who gave it to me one day when he was a senior and cut school, though of course I wasn't supposed to know that. Mike walked into the house with his shoes all sandy from the beach and said, “Now don't say I never gave you anything,” and I said, “Oh, thanks a lot,” like
My brother went to Jones Beach and all I got was this lousy shell
, but actually I was really surprised that in the middle of cutting school and hanging out with his friends and smoking dope, Mike thought of me. So I keep it in my pocket for luck.

I'm touching my shell right now, in fact, as I make my way over to Farm Hill Road, walking with my hands in my pockets and my head down as usual, but I feel on the alert like a dog with her ears perked up, waiting for the sound of her master's step. And then there it is, the putt-putt of the Volkswagen's engine, and before I can stop it, my right hand snakes its way out of my pocket and waves, and worse than that, this stupid smile breaks across my face like I just won a trip for two to Hawaii from Monty Hall on
Let's Make a Deal.
I feel like such an idiot, but luckily Mr. VW doesn't seem to notice. He toot-toots the horn like he did on Friday, gives a little wave, and keeps driving. I watch the car and I
think I see him checking me out in the rearview mirror but I'm not sure. Anyway, I can't let him see that I'm checking him out while he's checking me out, so I look away and by the time I look back, all I can see is the tail end of his tailpipe and then the little Volkswagen is gone.

Tuesday afternoon is all overcast and I'm praying, even though I'm not sure if I believe in God or not,
Please don't let it rain. Please don't let it rain.
I mean, I'd look really stupid standing out there soaking wet waiting for the brown Volkswagen to go by. Then again, maybe it should rain. Then maybe my guy would roll down his window and say, “Hey, kid, don't you know enough to come in out of the rain?” and give me a ride.

I walk down the road at my usual pace, with my back straight to improve my lousy posture. Shirley's always after me to stand up nice and tall because she thinks it makes me look thinner. Give me a break. What it really does is make my breasts stick out more. Which is a huge and I mean
huge
problem, but there's not much I can do about it. I don't want them sagging down to my waist or anything like my grandmother's. She has real hangers, let me tell you.

I guess I take after my grandmother in that department, because unlike the two of us, Shirley's pretty flat. Believe it or not, I started getting breasts when I was only in third grade. First they were small, though they were certainly big enough for the other kids to notice and tease me about. (“What are those, pimples on your
chest?”) They stayed that way for about a year and then one day they just started growing, and they grew and grew and grew and there was just no stopping them. I mean, I am definitely what you call stacked. Which is why I walk with my arms folded across my chest, like I'm doing now. There's no one out here on the road—no one on Long Island ever walks anywhere—but still, I hate the feeling of bouncing all over the place. I don't understand those women's lib chicks who braid the hair under their armpits and walk around braless, I really don't. I've been wearing an over-the-shoulder boulder-holder since I was nine and a half.

See, when I was younger, I used to go to sleep-away camp every August. The summer I was nine, I must have had a growth spurt while I was gone, because the first thing Shirley said to me after she hadn't seen me for a month was “Young lady, you go put on a bra right now or else.” Like I was committing a crime or something. I didn't even own a bra, for God's sake, so Shirley had to take me shopping. That was a barrel of laughs.

Shirley and I walked into Macy's lingerie department and a saleswoman with a yellow tape measure hanging around her neck like a snake rushed over to us. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“My daughter needs a bra,” Shirley said, like this was the worst news she'd ever had to give someone.

But the saleswoman couldn't have been more pleased. “Isn't that wonderful?” she asked, all smiles. “Her first?”

“Yes.” Shirley sighed. “You'll have to measure her.”

“Lift your arms for me, dear,” the saleswoman said,
whipping the tape measure off her neck. Then right there in the middle of the aisle she wrapped the tape measure across my back and pulled it over my breasts and I was so embarrassed I wanted to die.

“Thirty-two. And it looks like she's a B already,” the woman announced to me, Shirley, and everyone else in the Tri-State area.

“Thirty-two
Bl”
Shirley repeated in this horrified voice, because, for your information, Shirley also wears a size B, a 36B in fact. I happen to know this because I see her bras when I fold the laundry, which is one of my weekly chores. Chores, for crying out loud. You'd think we lived out on the prairie or right here on Bessie's farm.

I put down my knapsack and call Bessie over. And though I try not to, I can't help noticing her udders swinging from side to side. I hate when anyone notices my breasts, and believe me, after that summer, Shirley wasn't the only one who paid attention to them. Mike made a few cracks about “keeping abreast of the situation” until he saw how upset it made me, and then he stopped. Fred never said anything, of course, but he definitely noticed. And he wasn't the only one. Take it from me, every single member of the male species treated me differently from the moment my bazooms entered the picture. Especially Donald Caruso, who for a while acted like his sole purpose on earth was to see how many times a day he could snap my bra strap. And then there was that school trip to Old Stur-bridge Village.

Old Sturbridge Village, in case you don't know, is this place in Massachusetts where everything is still like it was two hundred years ago, with the people who work there all dressed up like Pilgrims and stuff. It took forever to get there, and then on the way home it was all dark and I was sitting on the bus by myself because Ronnie was out sick, when Donald Caruso slipped into the seat next to me. Now, this was way before he started going out with Donna Rizzo, and every girl in my whole school had a big crush on him except for yours truly, who couldn't care less. So I just shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep, and the next thing I knew, Donald Caruso had his arm around my shoulders, which was okay, I guess, and then the next thing I knew after that, his hand was on my breast.

You'd think I would have popped him one right on the kisser, and I probably should have. But I didn't. I don't know why. I mean, it never occurred to me that Donald Caruso might actually like me. I couldn't even believe it—me, the least popular girl on Long Island, was going to second base with the most sought-after boy in our entire school.

I guess I was too stunned to do anything but sit there and see what it felt like. It was okay, I guess. Donald was gentle, which surprised me. He just let his hand rest against me so softly, I got a little dreamy and could hardly even tell if I was asleep or not. His hand was soothing, sort of, and I think I almost did fall asleep. Until I heard someone laughing and I opened my eyes to see John Batista, Donald's best friend, leaning over the back
of the seat in front of us, looking down with this stupid smirk on his face that made me want to just rip his head off. But instead I just made this little chewing noise, like I really was sleeping and just happened to be switching dreams or something, and then I rolled over toward the window and folded my arms over my chest, and then Donald got up to change his seat and that was the end of that.

Except the next day at school, I felt really weird. God, what a stupid eighth grader I was. I didn't even know if Donald Caruso liked me or not. I mean, we made out on the bus, sort of, and doesn't that mean a guy is your boyfriend? At least, that's what I thought, but when I passed Donald in the hall, a million girls were all over him as usual, and he didn't even say hi to me, and I knew better than to say it first.