Jailbait Read online

  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.

  God, I don't know why I'm thinking about all this stuff today. I ask Bessie if she thinks I'm losing my mind, but she doesn't answer. I don't know what Bessie thinks, but I definitely know what Shirley thinks. Shirley says I spend too much time by myself, which is a nice way of saying My daughter's a social reject. Where did I go wrong? I am kind of a loner, I guess, which between you, me, and this fence post worries me a little. I mean, every murderer I read about in Newsday is described as a loner. “He kept to himself” is what all the neighbors who wish to remain anonymous always say.

  Not that I have any homicidal tendencies or anything, in case you're getting worried. It's just that I think most human beings aren't really worth my time. The girls in my class? Airheads on heels. The boys? Numbskulls in high-tops. So where does that leave me? Talking to a poor old cow and waving hello to my only friend in the world, a guy in a brown Volkswagen who doesn't even know my name.

  THREE

  Some days, like today, for example, I wonder why I don't just give in and take the bus. I guess Shirley's right for once in her life—I am stubborn as a mule, like she's always telling me, because it's totally freezing out here and it's only the first week of October. I'm wearing an old jacket of Mike's and I can still feel the wind blowing up my sleeves. But I don't care. Bessie would miss me if I didn't show. And I would miss him.

  And here he comes. I almost don't hear the Beetle's engine because my sneakers are crunching through all these dead leaves and they make more noise than you'd think, and then there's the wind besides. I wave, as usual, and he waves, as usual … and then he stops the car by the side of the road a little ways up ahead.

  Oh my God, I can't believe it. I know this is it, the big it, the it I've been waiting for my entire life. I knew he'd stop for me, I just knew it. I feel like leaping in the air and kicking my heels together or turning a cartwheel like Donna Rizzo and all the other stupid cheerleaders—like I ever could.

  I don't walk any faster or any slower and it seems like it takes forever, you know, like one of those stupid sanitary napkin TV commercials where a woman is running in slow motion on the beach, but finally I get to the car. He's pulled over to the right side of the road, so I have to walk past the driver's side. He's got the window rolled down even though it's freezing, and his elbow is sticking out of the car like a big broken wing. I get up to the car and before I even say hi, a big grin bursts across his face like he just cleaned up on The Price Is Right or something. He looks me up and down and says, “Get in, gorgeous,” so I do, even though he can't possibly be talking to me. I mean, gorgeous? Who is he kidding? But there's no one else around except Bessie, and I'm sure he's not issuing an invitation to a cow.

  I get in the car even though I can practically hear Shirley screaming, What are you, crazy? How many times have I told you not to talk to strangers, let alone get in a car with one? But I don't care. And besides, I'm not some two-year-old who can be lured into a kidnapper's car by a lollipop. I'm practically a grown-up; I can take care of myself.

  As soon as I plop down into the seat and close the car door, my chauffeur starts to drive. He doesn't bother asking me where I live and I don't bother telling him.

  I look out the window and see Bessie watching from the middle of the field. She looks back over her shoulder, her big brown eyes wide with surprise, and then she swats at her face with the tip of her tail. I feel bad for her because I think she looks forward to our talks every day as much as I do, but what can I do? I can't exactly say, Hey, pal, could you just wait a minute while I say good-bye to my cow? How stupid would that look? She isn't even my cow.

  The Volkswagen's really small, unlike Shirley's Oldsmobile or Fred's Caddie. I mean, there's barely any room in here. And you should see the glove compartment. It looks so small, I bet all you could fit in there is a pair of gloves. My new buddy and I are sitting so close together, we're practically touching. Except the seats are bucket seats and the stick shift is sticking up between us.

  I've never been alone in a car with a guy before, and I'm not sure what to do. First of all there's the problem of my knapsack. Right now it's on my lap and it's kind of heavy with all my books in it, but I don't know if I should put it in the backseat or just keep it where it is. I could put it on top of my feet, I guess. The next problem is the seat belt. I probably should buckle up, but I don't want him to think I'm a big baby. If I were driving with the Rents, there would be no question about it: Shirley won't even back out of the driveway unless everyone in the car is all strapped in. Well, I guess I can take a chance and not wear my seat belt for once in my life. What the heck, he's not wearing his.

  I settle back in my seat and turn my head a little so I can look over at Mr. Wonderful while he drives. He's kind of good-looking, though not like your typical movie star. He has the most incredible brown eyes I've ever seen, dark as Bessie's, with long lashes, and his hair is dark too, parted on the side and falling over his forehead in front and long in the back, though not as long as Mike's. He doesn't have the greatest skin in the world, but hey, that isn't his fault. It looks like maybe he had acne or chicken pox or something when he was my age and it left his cheeks kind of bumpy. But that only makes him handsome in a rugged, tough guy kind of way. I guess you could say his face has character, you know, like he's been through something but came out on top. He's wearing a navy blue shirt with pants to match, like some kind of uniform that should have his name embroidered over his right breast pocket only it doesn't. I can't really see his shoes.

  We drive for a while without talking until he looks over at me and says, “What are you staring at?” as if he didn't know.

  “Nothing,” I mumble, then turn and look out the window. As I watch cars go by, I feel him looking at me, but I don't say anything until we stop at a red light. Then I say without turning around, “What are you staring at?” just like he did.

  “You,” he says in such a gentle voice I turn back around. And there's that happy grin on his face again, like Bingo! he just hit the jackpot, which I guess is me.

  “How old are you, anyway?” he asks.

  “Old enough,” I say, and I can tell he thinks so too. We both grin and look at each other hard, as if we're having a staring contest like Ronnie and I used to. I feel a giggle trying to worm its way up my throat so I press my lips together as tight as I can, but the harder I try not to laugh the more I want to. And then just when my face is about to break, the car behind us honks to let us know the light is green. But instead of moving, my guy just ke
eps staring at me. Then he gives me a wink, lifts his left hand, and flips the bird to the driver behind us. For a second I'm scared it's Shirley on her way to Waldbaum's to pick up some Wonder bread, but then the driver behind us honks again and we pull away too fast for me to turn around, not that I really care.

  “Where are we going?” I ask after a few minutes.

  “You'll see,” he says, which is probably just his polite way of saying “Shut up,” so I do, but just for a minute.

  “What's your name?” I ask.

  “Frank.”

  “I'm Vanessa,” I say, like he cares. I don't even know why I say it. I don't know anyone named Vanessa, but I don't want to say my name because I hate it. Andrea. Gross. Especially the phony way Shirley says it, On-DRAY-uh, like I'm the queen of England. I call myself Andi and spell it with an i, but I'm afraid Frank will think that's a boy's name, which is what my grandmother thinks.

  My grandmother refuses to call me Andi. She calls me Andrea Robin. Robin is my middle name, like Christopher Robin, the kid in Winnie-the-Pooh, which was my favorite book when I was little. See, even when I was a baby, I liked animals better than people. I have a ton of stuffed animals in my room, and a million books about animals too, like Curious George and The Story of Babar from when I was little, and Black Beauty and The Incredible Journey, which I like so much I read them over at least once a year. But anyway, the point is my grandmother used to read Winnie-the-Pooh to me all the time when I was little and whenever it said “Christopher Robin” in the book, she'd say “Andrea Robin” instead. I know it's kind of babyish, but once in a while, I still read Winnie-the-Pooh, and whenever it says “Christopher Robin” I say “Andrea Robin” too.

  While I'm thinking all this, Frank keeps driving, and just between you, me, and the stick shift, I have no idea where in the world we are. We haven't been driving very long, but still, I wonder what time it is. I never wear a watch, so every time I go somewhere with the Units, I'm always asking Fred what time it is and he always answers, “Why, got a date?” And now I guess I do.

  Finally we pull onto this dirt road and Frank stops the car. Then he takes a screwdriver off the dashboard, sticks it into the ignition, and turns it toward him to shut the engine off. I can't believe I didn't even notice we've been driving this whole time without a key in the ignition. Like Frank has magic powers or something. I glance out the window and see we're in front of a white house that looks like your typical, basic two-story Long Island home, only kind of run-down.

  “You live here?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Frank snorts. “Me and the president. C'mon.”

  He gets out and I open my door and hesitate. For the first time, I feel a little scared. I mean, just because I wave to Frank every day on the way home from school and he waves back doesn't mean I really know the guy. I don't think he's a total psycho or anything—I doubt he wants to kill me—but what if he's kidnapping me, and I'm going to have to live in this house out in the middle of nowhere for the rest of my life chained to a radiator with nothing to eat but bread and water? Well, that's one way to lose weight, I guess.

  I look out at Frank, who's walking up toward the house, and just at that moment he looks back and smiles that award-winning smile of his that warms me like the sun. Then he turns and continues strolling like he's got all day, and for some reason that makes me want to hurry. I scramble out of the car but then stop. What about my knapsack? Should I take it? Yeah, right, like he's going to help me with my homework. I slip my hand inside my pocket and feel my Swiss army knife. I wonder if I could ever protect myself with it. I doubt it; I can't imagine stabbing a perfect stranger, let alone Frank with it, and besides, I hate the sight of blood. Still, I guess it's good I have it on me.

  I slam the car door shut and hurry after Frank like a little kid in a department store trying to keep up with his mother before she steps onto an escalator and disappears. But Frank doesn't disappear. He waits for me outside the house, and then when I catch up to him, he opens the front door, bows, and makes this grand, sweeping gesture with his arm. “Ladies first,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I answer, bending my knees into a little curtsey. As soon as I do it, I feel really stupid, but Frank just smiles, ushers me inside, and closes the door behind me.

  “Whose house is this, anyway?” I ask once we're inside. We're standing in a hallway surrounded by completely empty rooms. I guess the people who used to live here moved out and the new people haven't moved in yet. I go into the kitchen, which at least has some counters and cabinets and a sink in it, and turn the faucet just for kicks, but nothing comes out. Then I walk through another room with light blue walls and follow Frank up to the second floor. The stairs creak with every step. Three more rooms, all empty, all painted white, and a bathroom with a toilet, which I can tell just from looking at it doesn't even flush.

  “Nobody's,” Frank says from one of the rooms. His voice sounds spooky, like it's coming from inside the walls of the house itself.

  “What?” I ask, walking toward his voice. He's sitting on the floor in one of the empty rooms with his back leaning against a white wall, fishing a red and white pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket.

  “You asked me whose house this was,” Frank reminds me. He taps his pack until a few cigarettes stick out of the top. “Nobody's,” he repeats as he takes the cigarette that sticks out the farthest from his pack and bounces it against the palm of his hand. For some reason that makes a shiver start at the small of my back and tremble up my spine. I put my right hand into my pocket and feel around for the lucky pink shell Mike gave me. It's there; I'm safe.

  “Smoke?” Frank asks. I sit down beside him, close enough to show I'm not afraid, but not too close since I am a little, and shake my head. I hate cigarettes. Shirley is a one-woman chimney and Fred smokes too, even though he's a dentist and should know better, and our whole house totally reeks.

  Frank sticks his cancer stick in his mouth, lights a match, and cups his hand around the flame as he brings it up to the cigarette. He sucks his cheeks in like he's drinking through a straw and then he shakes the match out and tosses it on the floor. For a second I'm scared the whole house will go up in flames but it doesn't. Frank tilts his head back, exhales, and blows out a smoke ring. I'm glad he doesn't just let the smoke stream out of his nostrils the way Shirley does. I think that's the grossest thing in the world.

  “Model,” Frank says, and I jump a little. What does he mean, model? What does he want me to do, get up and walk across the room like Twiggy even though I'm ten times her size? Yeah, right. I look at him and he gestures with his cigarette, leaving a trail of blue smoke in the air. “Model house. Supposed to be a new neighborhood but the developer went broke, poor sucker.” He shrugs, turns away and takes another drag. Case closed, I guess. Well, that explains the house, anyway. It doesn't belong to anybody. A model house. Like a model child. But how come he gets to come here? When I ask him, he shrugs. “Connections” is all he says.

  Frank finishes his cigarette and puts it out against his work boot. Then he stares out in front of him at nothing for a long time. It looks like his eyes are fixed on a spot about two inches in front of his shoes, but there's nothing there. That I can see, anyway. But maybe Frank can see things I can't, like a cat in the dark. Maybe that's another one of his magic powers. I try to fix my gaze on the exact spot he's looking at, but it's hard to tell if I'm successful. I almost think Frank's forgotten I'm even there, but the second I think that, he turns toward me.

  “Nice hair,” he says, picking up a strand. “I like my women with long hair.”

  I shiver again, but I'm not cold. I like my women…. Am I one of Frank's women now? I hope so. How many does he have? No one's ever called me a woman before, let alone his woman. Frank examines my hair closely, like it's the most interesting thing on the planet. Which it isn't; it's just hair, dark brown frizzy hair that's almost down to my waist and would be in much better shape if I didn't split my ends when I get nervous.
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  Frank weaves a hank of my hair in and out of his fingers, which are quite tan. And kind of hairy. His fingernails are dirty and I can tell from how short and ragged they are that he bites them. And there's something wrong with his right pinkie. The top of it is all scarred and wrinkled like it got caught in a meat grinder and his nail is all black and gross-looking. I try not to stare at it, but I'm afraid I'm going to be sick. I'm really squeamish about stuff like that. Like this one time Shirley gave me a tomato to cut up for a salad and I sliced the tip of my finger by accident instead. The minute I saw that first drop of blood I got nauseous and dizzy and if I hadn't grabbed the counter, I definitely would have hit the floor. Not that Shirley cared. She was more concerned with how much blood I was getting on her brand-new yellow dish towel than with the fact that I almost fainted and was practically bleeding to death.

  Anyway, Frank must be able to tell I'm feeling a little funny because he grins at me, lifts a handful of my hair, and tickles my face with it. I try not to laugh but I can't help smiling in spite of myself.

  “Old enough,” Frank mumbles, and then in half a second he's on top of me. I'm so surprised I freeze for a second before I try to push him off. But it's impossible, so I try to at least get away from the wall, because my neck is all bent out of shape at this crazy angle and the last thing I need right now is my head falling off. I can tell Frank likes the struggle—I can just hear him saying, I like my women feisty—so I keep it up even after I'm lying flat on the floor. Frank's still on top of me, and I like the way his body feels. It reminds me of the lead shield my father puts over me at his office (he calls it the Fred Shield) when he X-rays my teeth. It's nice and heavy. Comforting, like a big blanket on a rainy day.

  “Ever kiss a smoker?” Frank asks.

  Only Fred and Shirley, I think, but I'm sure that's not what he means. Frank takes my chin in his hand and moves my head so I have to look directly into his eyes, but he doesn't hurt me or anything. I've never kissed a guy before, period, but I'm certainly not going to tell him that.