“Hey, guess who came in to have her teeth cleaned today?” Fred asks, like I care. He pauses and waits for me to guess. I just shrug. “Mrs. Pierson, isn't that something?”
Fred expects me to be impressed because Mrs. Pier-son is the closest thing we have to a celebrity around here. She's an artist, and some of her paintings have won prizes and been in museums in New York City and everything.
“She makes a mint on those pictures of hers,” Fred says, shaking his head. “I can't get over it. A couple grand for one little painting. That's not bad for a girl.”
Can you believe him? I want to say, Oh, puh-leeze, Freddie Boy. Wake up and smell the coffee. It's the seventies, for God's sake. Mrs. Pierson is a woman, not a girl. She's like forty-five years old. But of course I don't say that. I also don't tell Fred that a lot of kids make phony phone calls to Mrs. Pierson's house because—get this— her first name is Gay. In fact, just last week I heard Donald Caruso—who else?—at the pay phone outside the cafeteria saying, “Is this Mr. Pierson? Hey, is your wife Gay? Really? Then why'd you marry her?”
“Got any more corn?” Fred asks, so I take his dish over to the stove to serve him some. I put his plate back on the table and head for the doorway, trying to give him the message that as far as I'm concerned, my job here is done, but dear old Dad doesn't see it that way.
“Sit down,” Fred says, and when I slump into my chair, he pats my knee. “That was a very good dinner,” he says, and then belches. Gross. He takes a sip of ginger ale, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and clears his throat. “So what's going on with my favorite teenage daughter?” he asks, which is supposed to be a joke, since I'm his only teenage daughter. “How's school?”
“Fine.”
“How are your classes?”
“All right.”
“How's your social life?” Translation: what's new in the B-O-Y department?
“It's okay,” I say, which for once in my life is actually true.
“That's good.” Fred lifts his steak knife, starts picking his teeth with it, and then stops. “What's that?” He points the tip of his knife toward my chin.
“What's what?”
“That.” He narrows his eyes behind his glasses. “Looks like a pimple.”
Oh great. My hand flies up to my face but Fred moves it away. “Don't pick it, that'll only make it worse,” he says. “Maybe you should put some Clearasil on it.”
Maybe you should stick to being a dentist instead of a dermatologist, I want to tell him, but I change the subject instead. “Talked to Mike lately?” I ask.
“Your brother.” Fred shakes his head. “I hope he straightens himself out this time. He's never going to get into med school with the grades he's been getting.”
“Med school?” I almost laugh out loud. “I don't think Mike wants to be a doctor.”
“What he wants isn't the issue here,” Fred says. “Your brother is very smart, if he'd only apply himself. He has a knack for science, always has.”
“I think he wants to be a writer,” I say, not daring to use the word poet.
Fred laughs. “A writer? How will he support himself doing that? What'll he live on? He'll have to eat his own words.” Fred cracks up, impressed with his own cleverness. Then he pushes himself back from the table and pats his big belly. “I'm going inside to watch TV. Coming?”
“No thanks.” I stand up and make myself busy gathering his dirty dishes. “I have to clean up, and then I have a ton of homework to do.”
Fred lingers in the kitchen a little longer, going through the mail, glancing at the newspaper, rummaging around the junk drawer for a book of matches to light his after-dinner cigarette. Finally he goes into the den to join Shirley for their nightly smoke-out. He used to get on my case for not joining them after dinner for “family time” but I told him I have too much homework to do, and since he thinks good grades are more important than anything, he couldn't exactly argue with me. So that was the end of that, except he insists I come into the den at some point to give him and Shirley a kiss goodnight.
I rinse off Fred's dishes, load them into the dishwasher, sweep the floor, and then sit down with the newspaper before I go upstairs. I like reading the paper in the kitchen, where it's nice and quiet, even though it's pretty much the same every day—murders, robberies, and rapes, with a few recipes and fashion tips thrown in.
Frank says people like their daily routine—it gives them something to depend on, something they can count on. And I can definitely count on him. He's always right there in our spot every day after school and then away we go. Frank hasn't missed one single day except for that time when I gave him Shirley's ring, which he promises he'll give back to me the day I turn seventeen and I'm not jailbait anymore.
I turn to the entertainment section of the newspaper to check out what movies are playing, not that Frank and I could ever go to one. If we could, I'd make him take me to see some really romantic movie like Love Story and then go out for a pizza or maybe hot-fudge sundaes. Hey, here's an idea: we could even double-date with his friend Lloyd. It would be nice to meet one of Frank's friends, and I'm sure he'd never squeal on us.
But even I know all this is just wishful thinking, because Frank's really strict about us not being seen together in public. “Listen, Vanessa,” he says, “if anyone ever found out about us, they'd throw me in jail and then I'd probably kill myself because I'd never get to see you again.” See, that's what's so great about Frank. Most guys would probably say, “They'd throw me in jail and I'd kill you for telling,” but Frank's not like that. He would never hurt me. He treats me like a queen.
I give up reading the paper, shut my eyes, and think about Frank and me. Everything's been going really great except there's one thing that's bothering me: we haven't gone all the way yet. Usually with couples, it's the guy pressuring the girl all the time, but with us, it's just the opposite. I want to make Frank feel as good as he makes me feel, but every time I bring it up, Frank just says, “Don't worry about me. You're the one who matters.”
But you know, my birthday's coming up soon and I'm going to tell Frank. And then when he asks me what I want, I'm going to tell him I don't want him to give me something, I want to give him something. Like this Indian tribe we learned about in school once. Whenever anyone had a birthday, that person gave all their friends presents instead of the other way around. I think that's kind of cool. And wouldn't giving Frank my virginity be the best present of all? That'll really show him I love him, in case he doesn't already know. Or better yet, when he asks me what I want for my birthday, I'll wink and say, “You know,” in a way that will let him know exactly what I mean. I really, really, really want to make Frank happy, and that's what every guy wants, isn't it? And once I give him that, I'm sure we'll be bound together forever.
NINE
I can't believe I overslept today. It's so unlike me, but I was having this great dream about me and Frank. We were driving somewhere in a red convertible and I had this cute little brown dog with pointy ears on my lap, and there was a breeze blowing all my hair back away from my face and all my dog's fur away from her face, and I was really, really happy. So who can blame me for not wanting to get out of bed?
But finally I drag myself out of dreamland, get dressed, and go downstairs, and guess who's there? Fred, of all people, who's moving slower than usual this morning too. That was surprise number one. And surprise number two is we're having a snowstorm. Which is strange because it's not even the middle of December yet and it doesn't usually snow much around here until the end of the month. And that drives everyone crazy because all they can think about is Are we going to have a white Christmas? Are we going to have a white Christmas? I mean, what's the big deal, right? I've never heard anyone ask if we're going to have a white Chanukah.
Anyway, school isn't canceled, and since I'm already running late, Fred says he'll give me a ride. Oh great. I hate being alone with my father. Last time he took me somewhere was a few Saturdays ago. “W
ho wants to get some ice cream?” he asked after lunch, knowing Shirley would never go—too many calories. And even though she thinks I should lose weight, Shirley told me to run along. “Go with your father,” she said when Fred was out of earshot. “He needs you.” I wasn't sure what that meant exactly, so I couldn't really argue. I just got in the car, and when we arrived at the restaurant, I followed my father all the way to the back. When I slid into our booth, he slid in next to me instead of across from me and sat so close I was practically pinned up against the wall. And then when the waiter came to take our order, he told him we'd split a hot-fudge sundae, even though I would have preferred my own, thank you very much. I tried not to have my spoon touch what my father's spoon had touched, but after a while it was hopeless because the ice cream and the whipped cream and the hot fudge all melted together into one great big puddle that looked like mud.
But that's all beside the point right now because after all, I do have to get to school. So when Fred's done with his coffee we go outside and he unlocks the passenger side of his Caddie to let me in. The windows are totally covered with snow and I hunch down all snuggly and safe in the front seat like a bear hibernating in a cave and watch as Fred cleans off the windshield. First all I see is his black leather glove; then I see the tan wool sleeve of his winter coat. Next his red, black, and white scarf appears, and then finally the windshield is clear and I see his fogged-up glasses and his face and the rest of the world behind him. Then Fred gets in the car and off we go. We don't talk to each other, which is fine with me, since I'm not really a morning person.
As soon as we round the corner, Fred reaches across the front seat and takes my hand in his. He's always holding my hand when we go someplace, like he's afraid if he doesn't, I'm going to float away like a helium balloon disappearing into the sky. Which, believe me, I would gladly do, if only I could. I don't really like holding Fred's hand but I put up with it because the one time I told him I didn't want to, he got all hurt and said, “What's the matter, a father can't show his own daughter some affection?” It's weird because when the three of us go somewhere, which is rare, he never holds hands with Shirley. Anyway, just because Fred holds my hand doesn't mean I have to hold his back. I just let my hand go all limp in his, like it's a dead fish, and stare out the window.
At the end of our development when we come to a four-way stop sign, Fred brakes a little too hard and his right arm shoots out and slams across me, pinning me back against the seat for extra protection, even though I have my seat belt on. Fred keeps the car still, looking slowly to the right and to the left. “This is a very dangerous intersection,” he says, like I care. “You can't be too careful.” He lets two other cars go before us even though we were here first. Then he lowers his arm, takes my hand again, and holds it until he drops me off.
School passes in a blur as usual, except when it lets out, every single boy starts flinging snowballs around— first at each other and then at all the girls. Cheryl Healy and Diane Carlson start shrieking in that certain way that lets the boys know they're thrilled and terrified at the same time. Donna Rizzo is immune from the fracas because any guy knows if he even pretends to take aim at her, Donald Caruso will make mincemeat out of him in two seconds flat. And of course the big lug gets me with a freezing cold snowball at the back of the neck, but since I have Frank now, I don't really care.
I trudge past the buses and head for Farm Hill Road, and for once I really do admire the scenery. Right now Long Island looks like an old, artistic black-and-white photo. The sky is gray, the trees are black, and the snow is still pure white, like mounds of vanilla ice cream that Shirley would rather die than eat. And to make it even prettier, the snow is all twinkly, like someone scattered tiny little diamonds all over it. I know soon everything will be ruined—car exhaust will turn the snow by the side of the road all black, and dogs will lift their legs and make yellow patches—but right now it's a winter wonderland.
When I get to my spot on Farm Hill Road, I see that Frank's not here yet, but I'm probably a little early because I walked fast to keep my blood circulating so I wouldn't freeze to death. Now there's nothing to do but wait. It's too cold for Bessie to be out, which is too bad because I would have liked to talk to her. But it's just as well because Frank will be here any minute. Frank! Just thinking about him makes me shiver all over.
“Hi, Frank,” I say when the Volkswagen pulls up. I get in and barely have time to close my door before we take off. Frank doesn't say hi back or anything, but I don't mind. Sometimes he says hi and sometimes he doesn't. When we first started going out, I used to take it personally, but I don't anymore because now I know that Frank's just moody. They always say women are moody, but whoever “they” are, they've never met Frank.
I glance at the backseat to see if Frank brought me a present today, but all that's back there is a flashlight, a map, and an empty Coke bottle. I'm a little disappointed, but I've got a lot of stuff at the house, so it's really okay.
We don't say much on the ride over, and then when we get to the house I go into my dressing room while Frank waits in the other upstairs room for me. It's pretty cold in the house since there's no heat, but Frank brought some down sleeping bags for us, so I know once I get in there with him it won't be so bad. Last week when I told him I was cold, he said, “Don't worry, Vanessa, I'll warm you up,” and then he did, if you get the picture. Believe me, there's no lack of body heat when Frank's around.
I take off my jacket and change quickly. I put on my Lady in Red outfit, as Frank calls it: red miniskirt, red halter top, red stockings, and red shoes. Then I go into the other room, where Frank is sitting on a sleeping bag, smoking a cigarette.
“Vanessa, you look good enough to eat,” Frank says in that slow way of talking that he has. I shiver a little from the cold and from being with him. I wish he'd put his arms around me—it really is freezing today—but he doesn't. Instead, he takes something out of his coat pocket.
“What's that?” I ask.
“What does it look like?” he asks back, holding it up.
“A camera.” I state the obvious. “Are you going to take my picture?” I ask, my hands already making their way across my body in a futile attempt to hide my big fat stomach.
“Well, there's not much else to take pictures of in here, is there?” Frank says, waving one hand around the room. “C'mon, Vanessa, it'll be fun. And you look so good in that outfit, with your dark hair and eyes. Can't a guy have a picture of his own girlfriend?”
I'm so surprised my mouth drops open. His girlfriend? Frank's never called me his girlfriend before.
“C'mon,” he says. “Put your hands down. Don't hide yourself. You're beautiful. I just want a picture or two to get me through the weekends because I miss you so much.”
“All right,” I say. “But promise me you won't show them to anyone.”
Frank looks stunned, like I just slapped his face. “How could you even think I would do something like that?” he asks. “What we have together is so special, so sacred. Don't you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you, Frank,” I say, though that's not entirely true. I mean, I do trust him, mostly. But still, I'm not thrilled at the idea of him having pictures of me in this getup. I would just die if anyone but Frank saw me like this.
“Why don't you stand over there?” Frank points to the wall.
I walk over and then, just as Frank gets ready to snap, a thought occurs to me. “Can I take some pictures of you, too?” I ask, since after all, fair is fair. And Frank's not the only one who gets lonely on the weekends.
“Vanessa”—Frank lowers the camera—“you can't go running around with pictures of me.”
“But I won't show them to anyone, Frank. I promise. Don't you trust me?” I repeat his question back to him, but somehow it's not the same.
“It has nothing to do with trust,” Frank says. “You seem to forget, I could be arrested just for being with you, and then we'd never see each other again.” He scowls and
I'm afraid he's going to get in a bad mood, but instead he just changes the subject. “C'mon, now. Smile. And put your hands like this.” Frank puts his hands on his hips and puckers up like Marilyn Monroe, and I do the same. We try other poses too, and I have to admit, it is kind of fun. And anyway, when the film is all used up, he puts the camera away and makes me feel so good, I forget about it.
When it's time to go, I change back into my regular clothes and head downstairs. I have my hand on the front doorknob, but then I hear Frank say, “Wait,” and it makes me jump a little because I had no idea he was still in the house. I thought he was warming up the car.
I go into the kitchen, expecting to see Frank sitting on the counter, smoking a cigarette, but he's just standing there, staring out the window. I stand next to him, not too close and not too far away, and wait for him to say whatever he has to say.
“Vanessa,” Frank finally says after a good five minutes, and for some reason I feel like screaming, That's not my name, you idiot, but of course I don't. I'm the one who's an idiot for telling him my name was Vanessa in the first place.
“Listen,” Frank says, all serious. “I don't think we should see each other anymore.”
Oh no. Not this again. Frank gets into these moods every once in a while, I don't know why. And I especially don't know why today, since we had such a great afternoon. He always comes around and changes his mind, though.
“Here.” He reaches into his coat pocket and I think he's getting out the camera again, but then he puts something smaller on the counter. A little box. A little brown velvet jewelry box. For a split second I think he's giving me a present, but then I realize it's the box for Shirley's wedding ring and I get completely hysterical.
“Frank, what's the matter? What'd I do?” I keep my voice low and steady so I won't sound as scared as I feel.
“Vanessa.” Frank gives this huge sigh, like my name, or what I told him is my name, is the reason for all the trouble in the world. “It's just that …” He looks right at me and his eyes are so sad and beautiful, I want to drown in them. “I don't know, babe. I just don't think I deserve you.”
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