Jailbait (7 page)

Frank's hand is making my leg feel all tingly. I wish
my thighs weren't so fat—they look like a hippo's compared to Frank's—but he doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, I guess he doesn't care. He just keeps his hand where it is and I wonder if I'm supposed to do something, like hold it. The light turns green and Frank takes his hand away. He moves the stick shift, pulls out, and puts his hand back on my leg, a little higher this time. I look over at him with a question in my eyes, but he just smiles.

We pull up to the house and Frank cuts the engine with his screwdriver. I get out of the car before he does and then I don't know what to do. I should have waited for Frank to make the first move. He's still sitting in the driver's seat staring out the window like there's something there to see. Which there isn't. It looks like he's thinking about something but I have no idea what. Maybe he doesn't really like me. Maybe he's sorry he picked me up but he doesn't know how to tell me.

God, if Frank breaks up with me, I'll just kill myself, I really will. You probably think I'm nuts since I just met the guy yesterday, but I just know my whole life is going to be different from now on. That's what they say, right, that love changes everything. Puts a smile on your face, gives you a reason to get up in the morning. Like today, I didn't even mind being in school so much, knowing that after the last bell rang, I was going to see Frank. I didn't even lose it when Donald Caruso plowed into me on the lunch line and spilled orange soda all over my tray. Why should I care what that jerk does when I have more important things going on in my life? At least I think I
do.
Oh, please, Frank, just get out of the car
, I silently say to him.
Please. Please.
Please.

Oh my God, it works. Frank is actually getting out of the car. He shuts the door and pauses for a moment to give me that smile of his that lets me know we're the only two people in the world that matter. Then he turns and heads for the house with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. I follow like a happy puppy but not too closely listening to our feet crunch up the driveway.

Frank goes inside, and I do too. He closes the door behind us, walks into the kitchen, and hoists himself onto the counter without looking at me. I hope he doesn't want me to sit there next to him; I doubt I could get myself up there. It's kind of high and I don't want to make a fool of myself trying. So I just stand there and wait. Frank takes his time lighting his Marlboro, shaking it from the pack, hitting it against his hand, you know, the usual routine. He doesn't offer me one like he did yesterday, which is too bad, because I was thinking maybe I'd try it. Even though I think smoking is disgusting, there's got to be something to it, right? I mean, Shirley thinks cigarettes are the greatest invention since dishwashers, and Frank definitely enjoys puffing away, so I must be missing out on something. It's funny, most people have a cigarette after sex. At least, in the movies. Not before sex. Or whatever it is we're going to do.

After about seventeen hours, Frank finally finishes his cigarette. I'm totally relaxed by now, like I'm the one who had a smoke—at least, that's what Shirley says: there's nothing like a cigarette to calm your nerves—but
then Frank stubs his butt out on the counter and I start to feel nervous again.

“Didn't anyone ever tell you never to get in a car with a stranger?” Frank asks, staring at the floor.

What a weird question for him to ask me. I mean, what does he think, he's my father now? I don't bother answering him because this has got to be his idea of a joke. What am I supposed to say?
Yeah, Frank, about a hundred million times.

“Are you scared of me?” he asks. This time he looks at me and I can tell he wants me to say something.

“Should I be?” The question pops out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“C'mere,” he says, so I go over to him. I guess because I didn't answer his question, he's not going to answer mine. I stand right in front of him, and we stare at each other. He's wearing the same thing as yesterday, blue shirt and pants, but he's got a black jacket on too. “So,” he says, “you don't have a boyfriend.”

Even though it isn't a question, I answer, “No.” But then I think,
Wait a minute
—
yes, I do. His name is Frank.

“Have you ever kissed a boy?”

God, I don't want to say no. He'll think I'm a total loser. But if I say yes, what if he asks me who? “No”—I opt for the truth—“but a boy felt me up once.”

“Did you like it?” Frank asks. He looks me in the eye.

“No,” I say to the floor. Frank doesn't say anything else, and even though I don't want to, I start thinking about that time on the bus with Donald Caruso and stupid John Batista looking over the back of the seat, and
then to my absolute and total horror, a sob rises in my throat and I start to cry.

“Poor little girl.” Frank pulls me toward him and holds me close. I'm standing between his legs, and the edge of the counter is digging into my big fat stomach, but I don't care.

“Did he hurt you, baby?” Frank asks softly, and I just shake my head because I'm practically sobbing now. I'm so embarrassed, I want to die; I'm getting snot all over the front of his jacket and everything, but Frank is really nice about it. He strokes the back of my hair like he's petting a dog and holds me against him, leaning his cheek against the side of my head. Then he hugs me with both arms real tight and says right into my ear, “Listen, doll, I don't want you going out with any boys your own age, you hear me? They don't know the first thing about how to treat a beautiful woman like you.”

I can't believe my ears. Did Frank just call me beautiful?

“Take off your jacket.” Frank opens his arms so I can step back. I wish he would take my clothes off, like yesterday, but I guess for some reason he's not going to, so I yank the left side of Mike's jacket open. The snaps pop real fast, like fireworks.

“Take off your sweater.”

I whip my V-neck over my head.

“Keep going.”

Keep going? Does Frank want me to take off my pants or my bra? I know better than to ask. My guess is he wants to see my breasts. I take off my bra and consider
twirling it around in a circle over my head like a stripper, but of course I don't.

“Wow.” Frank stares, bug-eyed, and lets out a little whistle, of appreciation, I guess, and I have to say, I am kind of proud. I don't know why; it's not like I did anything, they just grew all by themselves. But they
are
mine.

Frank hops off the counter and lands on the floor with a little thud. I start to cross my arms over my chest, but then I make myself put them back down at my sides. Frank comes over, turns me around, and lifts me up by the waist onto the counter. For some reason I'm a little nervous and I almost laugh.

But Frank is very serious. “The difference between a boy and a man is that a man knows it's more important for his woman to be happy than it is for him to be happy.” A minute or so passes while I absorb this, and then Frank says the most amazing thing: “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?”

I shake my head and wait for him to start telling me how beautiful I am, but he doesn't. Instead, he feels me up, and it's not like that time with Donald Caruso in the bus at all. No, it's amazing. It's like I'm an M&M melting in Frank's hands or a lump of sugar dissolving in a cup of tea. My legs get all shaky like Jell-O, they really do. I guess all the corny things they say about being in love are absolutely true.

“You're amazing, Vanessa,” Frank says, looking up at me with a grin. Then he turns away and I just sit there, since I don't know what else to do. Frank lights a cigarette
and then turns back around and gives me this weird look, like he's almost surprised to see me sitting there.

“Get dressed,” he says in this hard voice like he's fed up with me. When I don't move, he barks, “Move it, move it,” like he's a drill sergeant.

“Okay, okay,” I say, jumping off the counter. “Frank, what'd I do?” I ask, trying not to sound as freaked out as I feel. God, what did I do wrong now?

“Nothing.” Frank softens his voice a little. “Just get dressed.” He picks up my clothes from the floor and tosses them to me. I do what I'm told and then race out of the house because Frank has already gone down the stairs and out the door without waiting for me.

“Hey, Frank,” I yell, but he ignores me and just keeps walking toward the car, so I start to run after him. He wouldn't just leave me here, would he? Then what would I do?

“Frank, what's the matter?” I ask as I slip into the Volkswagen next to him, but he doesn't say a thing. Oh my God, is it over? Frank is so moody. One minute he's the nicest guy on the planet and the next minute he's a big fat jerk. He shoves the screwdriver into the ignition and the car makes this horrible wheezing sound like it's just about to die.

“That stupid scumbag Lloyd,” Frank snarls as he jiggles the screwdriver around.

“Who's Lloyd?” I ask, even though I know I shouldn't.

“My partner in crime,” Frank mumbles, which I guess is his way of saying friend. “That jerk was supposed to fix this after he …” Frank's voice trails off.

“After he what?”

“Never mind,” Frank says in his “don't ask any more questions” tone of voice.

Finally, just when I think I'm going to have to walk home, the engine catches. Frank floors it and throws the screwdriver onto the dash. He doesn't say one word to me the whole way back, and believe me, I know better than to start a conversation.

When Frank stops the car at the farm, I reach for my knapsack, kind of stalling, but he still doesn't say anything, so I clear my throat and ask, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“That's for me to know and you to find out,” he says like a total five-year-old. I just look at him but he doesn't say anything else, so then there's nothing to do but get out of the car, slam the door, and wait until tomorrow. Frank sure is a puzzle. First he's nice as can be and then he's totally mean all in the space of an hour and a half. God, leave it to me to fall in love with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

“Hello, Kaplan, what are you, deaf?”

“Huh?” I look up from my science quiz to see Stephen Taubman, whose enormous overgrown Jew-fro blocks my view of the blackboard, all turned around in his seat staring at me.

“May I have that, please?” Mrs. Markson is standing right next to my desk with her hand stretched out, and by her tone of voice, I can tell this is at least the third time she's asked me to hand over my paper.

I turn in my unfinished quiz, ask to be excused, and skedaddle into the girls' room for a little peace and quiet. I just want to think for a few minutes, so I lock myself
into a stall and play yesterday's events over and over in my mind, like an old, scratched record that keeps skipping. But I just can't figure out what I did wrong. I let Frank go to second base with me, didn't I? Maybe I should have gone further. I don't want him to think I'm a cocktease, which is something guys supposedly hate. But on the other hand, according to Donna Rizzo, the only way to hold on to a guy is to refuse to go all the way with him. Because once you do, he'll think you're a slut and drop you like a hot curling iron.

The bell rings and before I can make my great escape, the door bangs open and a horde of girls comes pouring in. I don't feel like dealing with anybody so I stay where I am, wishing they would all go away. But of course they don't.

“God, I wish I'd get my period,” I hear someone say. It's Cheryl Healy; I recognize her whiny, high-pitched voice. And we all know she doesn't mean she wishes she'd get her period the way Hillary Jacoby wishes she'd get hers—she's the only girl in our class who hasn't gotten her friend yet. Cheryl Healy with her see-through blouses and her so-short-half-her-butt-sticks-out miniskirts is the biggest tramp in the whole school and she has a pregnancy scare just about every month. Plus she's really mean, too. Rumor has it that years ago she cut off her own sister's eyelashes just because she felt like it. And her sister didn't do anything; she was just minding her own business in her crib, fast asleep.

“I'm late too,” another voice says, bragging a little. That's got to be Diane Carlson, Cheryl's best friend.

“Oh, girls,” says a voice full of pity that belongs to none other than Donna Rizzo. “If you just had a little bit of common sense, you wouldn't be having these problems.” Clearly Donna feels like she's better than the rest of the world because she won't let her boyfriend lay a hand on her until they're actually married, or at least officially engaged. Which is probably why Donald Caruso is so obnoxious. I mean, if the poor guy could just get some action besides kissing, he'd probably calm down a little. I don't know why he doesn't just give her an ultimatum—screw me or screw you—but hey, what do I know about love?

I hear the strike of a match and then Cheryl says, “Care for a smoke, Donna?” Which is a joke, since Donna Rizzo would probably put Donald Caruso's you-know-what in her mouth before she ever let a cigarette touch her lips.

“Gross! Cheryl Healy and Diane Carlson, you put those cigarettes out right now,” Donna says, and then starts coughing like she's about to lose a lung.

“What's the matter, Donna, got a frog in your throat?” Cheryl says, which makes me laugh out loud. Oops. Big mistake.

“Hey, who's in there?” Cheryl Healy asks. Since the jig is up, I flush the toilet I didn't use and slink out of the stall.

“Well, if it isn't Mondo Busto,” Cheryl says with a chuckle. She and Diane rest their cigarettes on the win-dowsill and then, as if on cue, they raise their fists in front of their chests with their elbows pointing out,
pull back their arms in a steady pumping rhythm, and start chanting:

“Ha, ha, very funny,” I say, going over to the sink to wash my hands even though I don't really need to.

“Oh, never mind,” Cheryl says as she and Diane quit with the calisthenics and pick up their smokes. “Anything over a mouthful is just a waste anyway.”