Jailbait

by Lesléa Newman

  “Go get in the car,” Fred says when I come back into the kitchen. “I'll be out in a minute.”

  Normally I would say something like Sure, I have to hurry up just so I can wait for you, but I hold my tongue, say good-bye to Shirley, and step outside. I'm a little nervous getting into the car by myself but I take a deep breath, open the door, and slide behind the wheel. And even though I have my key, I don't put it into the ignition until Fred is sitting beside me.

  “Ladies, start your engines,” he announces, which is supposed to be funny though I don't know why. I start the car and Fred says, “Don't be afraid to give her some gas,” so after I make sure we're still in park, I do. Fred shows me how to work the windshield wipers, the lights, the turn signals, and the horn, and I try them all. So far so good, though of course we haven't moved two inches yet.

  “Now put her in reverse, and slowly back out of the driveway,” Fred instructs me. I do as I'm told, but before we get even three feet, Fred yanks on my hair. “Whoa, Nellie,” he says. “You're going way too fast.”

  I brake, and Fred and I both lurch forward. Fred sighs and shakes his head. “Try not to slam on the brakes like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Try it again,” he says, and this time I do a lot better. I get to the end of the driveway and stop smoothly before I pull into the road. At the corner, I brake at the stop sign and wait for Fred to tell me what to do.

  “Turn right,” he says, “and be careful you don't swerve out to the left like your brother.”

  I take the turn and keep driving. “Wait a minute,” Fred says, unbuckling his seat belt. “I don't think your side-view mirror is adjusted right.” He slides over until he's sitting right next to me and reaches across my lap to roll down my window.

  “I'll do it.” I open the window and fix the mirror. Fred leans back as I take the right, but two seconds later, he's leaning forward again, practically sitting on top of me.

  “You forgot to put your signal on.” His arm shoots out to demonstrate. “This lever here, to the left of the steering wheel, is your turn signal. It goes down to signal left and up to signal right.”

  “I know, I know. I'm not a moron,” I say, and I brake so hard we both go flying again.

  “Don't be so heavy-footed with the brake,” Fred says, putting his hand on my knee. “Lighten up on the pedal. Try not to—”

  “Move over!” I yell. “Don't sit so close to me!”

  “What?” Fred tilts his head to the side, wearing this baffled expression like all of a sudden he's lost command of the English language. And though he takes his hand off my leg, he doesn't move an inch.

  “Move over!” I yell again. “God, I'm so sick of you always being right in my face! I can hardly breathe, Fred. Give me some room.”

  “What? What is the matter with you?” Fred stares at me with this shocked look in his eyes, like I might be having a brain seizure. “I was only trying to—”

  “Don't whine,” I say in a cold, Franklike tone of voice, which startles and pleases me at the same time. “Just move over,” I tell him, my voice low and steady. “Now.”

  Fred is too stunned to respond, so he just studies me like he can't believe what I just said. I stare him down until he finally slides back across the seat and buckles up again. I throw him one more “I mean business” look and then drive us through the neighborhood. We don't say another word until we pull back into our driveway.

  “You did pretty well for your first time,” Fred says as I put the car in park. “You're going to be an excellent driver.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I pull the key out of the ignition.

  “You just need practice,” he says. “Another year and you'll have your license….” His voice trails off. “It's amazing how time flies, isn't it? It seems like it was just yesterday I was changing your diapers….”

  The thought of that really creeps me out. “I'm not your little girl anymore,” I say in a low voice.

  “I know that,” Fred says.

  “Well, then act like you know it.” Suddenly I'm furious again. “I'm a grown woman, okay? I've got my own life. I am not your personal property.” He cringes as my voice rises. “I don't have to wait on you hand and foot, I don't have to cook your disgusting dinners, and I don't have to go out with you for ice cream or anything else.” I fling open the car door and storm into the house, slamming the front door behind me.

  Shirley's in the kitchen, talking to someone on the phone. “Mike? How is he?” she says into the receiver, like she's thinking it over. “Oh, he's fine. Fine. He's off skiing with some of his college friends, doesn't that sound like fun? He'll probably be home sometime next week.”

  Leave it to Shirley to keep the charade going. Oh yeah, fine, fine. We're just one big happy family.

  “Hold on a second,” I hear her say. “Andrea, is that you? Is everything okay?”

  “Peachy keen,” I say. “Jim dandy.” Then I run up the stairs and slam my bedroom door.

  The rest of the week passes slowly, but then almost before I know it, it's Sunday, the day before I'm leaving with Frank. I'm not sure what to bring with me and I can't take much; it's not like I can pack a suitcase—that would be real subtle—but I can put some stuff in my knapsack. If I leave my books home there's a lot of room in it, and I can just tell my teachers I forgot them and look on with someone else.

  I guess I should pack some clothes, you know, a sweater or two and some pants. I open my dresser drawers and pick out a few things. It's hot in the south, so I'll probably have to buy all new clothes anyway. I think I should take the things that are important to me, so I open my jewelry box and take out my gold name necklace, the Jewish star my grandmother gave me, and the leather bracelet from Ronnie. And my birthday locket, of course. And I think I'll bring some photos since they don't take up much room. Here's one of Mike and me building a snowman when I was little, and here's another of Fred and Shirley all dressed up to go to a wedding. And I think I'll take the picture of my sister Melissa that I stole from Shirley's box of photos too.

  What else do I want? I look around my room, and my eyes fall on my bed. And even though it's incredibly babyish to take a stuffed animal along, I stuff Snowball into my knapsack. “You'll be okay,” I tell her, tucking her head inside. I wish I could take some of my books with me: Winnie-the-Pooh and the endangered-animal book I got from Mike for my birthday, but I don't have room. I guess eventually Shirley can mail my stuff to wherever I am.

  When I'm done packing, I reach into my pocket for my money, drag it out, and count it up. I have what's left of my birthday loot and a few twenties I took from Shirley's purse, which comes to two hundred ten dollars total. That should get us pretty far, I guess. And Frank will have some money too.

  I really want to leave a note for the Rental Units, but I'm sure Frank would kill me if I did something stupid like that. I don't even know what I'd say. So long, suckers? I mean, it's weird, because I don't even like my parents very much, but in a way I think I'm going to miss them.

  Well, I'm all packed up and ready to go. The last thing I have to do is go downstairs and say good night to the Units. They're sitting in the living room, and for once in my life, I don't make a big deal of walking through all their smoke.

  “Good night, Fred. Good night Shirley,” I say, standing a little away from the couch. Ever since my outburst in the car I've kept my distance from Fred and vice versa.

  “Bedtime?” Shirley asks. “Too bad you have to go back to school tomorrow, Andrea. It's been nice having you around.”

  I'm tempted to go over and feel Shirley's forehead to see if she has a fever because she has never, and I repeat, never, said anything like this before. I didn't even know she cared.

  “Well, you could let me stay home if that's the way you feel about it,” I say, knowing she never would.

  “Soon you'll be off to college and the house will be so lonely,” Shirley says. I guess she's starting to get the empty nest syndrome on account of Mik
e being so far away. Too bad I can't tell her the house will be lonely much sooner than she thinks.

  After I say goodnight to Fred and Shirley, I go back up to my room and get ready for bed. I doubt I'll be able to sleep at all, but I have to try because tomorrow's a very big day. First I have to get through school, which seems totally impossible, and then I have to walk to the fence, say good-bye to Bessie if she's out, jump in the car with Frank, and go. And we'll probably stay up all night because we have to drive as far as possible to keep the cops off our trail. I wonder how long it will take Shirley and Fred to figure out I'm missing in action. And when they do, I wonder if they'll come after me or leave me alone so I can “ruin my life” just like Mike.

  I snuggle down under my blankets (for the last time!), but before I shut my eyes, I actually pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming, because if you really stop to think about it, this is almost too good to be true.

  EIGHTEEN

  The first day of school after vacation is nothing but a major waste of time. Instead of paying attention in class, everyone's blabbing about what they got for Christmas or Chanukah, showing off their tans if they happened to be lucky enough to go somewhere warm over the holidays, or bragging about how drunk they got on New Year's Eve. I couldn't care less except for one very interesting tidbit of gossip: it seems Donna Rizzo actually came to her senses and dumped Donald Caruso over vacation. See, Donna went away with her family to some Caribbean island for Christmas, and while they were there, she met a college guy and let him go to third base with her, or maybe even further, depending on who you get the story from. But it's definitely true because I saw Donna in the cafeteria with my own eyes and she was wearing a gigantic college ring on a chain around her neck and looking all moony besides. So now Donald is the laughingstock of our school because Donna never let him lay a hand on her. Poor Donald. My heart really bleeds for him, let me tell you.

  What I should really do is go up to Donna Rizzo and personally thank her, because if Donald didn't have his own problems, I'm sure he'd be shooting off his mouth about seeing me and Frank on the side of the road the day we hit the squirrel right before vacation. But Donald's got other things on his puny mind right now, which is a lucky break for me. I wouldn't be surprised if he's forgotten all about it.

  After school, I race to my spot by the fence to wait for Frank, but guess what. He's not there. I can't believe he's late today of all days, the day we're hitting the road. For God's sake, what in the world is wrong with him? I made sure I was here on time, so you'd think he could at least do the same. But nope, there's nothing here but me, a fence, an empty pasture, and a sky full of gray clouds that better not open up and dump a load of snow on my head while I'm standing here freezing to death.

  Simmer, Audi, I tell myself, taking a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. I'm sure Frank will be here any minute. He'll probably tell me he wanted to give me a little more time just in case I changed my mind, like he did on my birthday. But still, it's so cold out here I can see my breath, and besides, you'd think the guy would know how hyped up I am to go away with him, so where is he already?

  To try and keep warm, I start pacing, and then I start walking around in little circles, just like my mind is going around in circles. God, what if something happened to Frank? What if he got into an accident or something? How would I find out? Frank doesn't know my phone number or even my real name so how would he ever find me? And I don't know how to find him either. I don't know his last name; I don't know where he lives. I don't know anything about him, really, except he has a friend named Lloyd, like that's a big help. I mean, what if something terrible happened? What if Frank's lying on the side of the road somewhere, bleeding to death, and when the ambulance comes, he says, Tell Vanessa I love her, and then he dies before the ambulance driver can even say, Vanessa who?

  God, I'm such a worry wart. I've got the guy dead and buried already and he's only a few minutes late. I'm sure he's okay. Frank's a good driver, so I doubt he had an accident. Maybe the car broke down. That's a definite possibility since the Volkswagen isn't exactly in mint condition.

  While I'm thinking all this, I hear a car come up the road, so I snap my head around, but it's just some housewife with curlers in her hair driving a station wagon. I look down quickly, because I don't want anyone to see my face in case they put my picture in the paper when the Rents realize I'm missing. One of the first things I'll have to do when we get out of here is come up with a disguise. I'll probably have to cut my hair, which won't make Frank happy. But we'll both have to make sacrifices.

  Maybe Frank has the flu. Maybe he's lying in bed somewhere with a runny nose and a temperature, totally bummed out that we can't leave today. There's some kind of flu going around; lots of kids were absent today, though I bet some of them were still away on vacation.

  “Okay, Andrea Robin.” I stop pacing and start talking to myself. “Obviously something's come up but Frank had no way of telling you. I'm sure he'll be here right on time tomorrow with a perfectly good explanation about why he couldn't come today. And I bet he'd get really mad if he could hear all the thoughts racing around in your head because then he'd think you don't trust him. And of course you trust him. You wouldn't be stupid enough to run away with a guy you didn't trust, would you?” The question, along with my white puffs of breath, hangs in the air.

  Frank didn't show up on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday either. Now it's Friday, and if he doesn't come today, I don't know what I'll do. I'm so upset I can hardly think, and I have to lean against the fence post because my legs feel all shaky, they really do. Plus I have this sick feeling in my stomach that I'm never going to see Frank again and I just can't figure out why. I mean, what did I do? That last day we were together was so totally perfect. What could have happened? Maybe Frank's the one who needed eleven days apart so he could think things over, and after he did, maybe he decided he didn't want to go through with it. But why? And wouldn't he at least come by to tell me? He knows I'm standing out here freezing my jugs off. Not showing up for a whole lousy week is just so completely rude.

  I close my eyes and squeeze them tight because I really don't want to cry, and anyway, it's so cold my tears would probably freeze and wouldn't I look like an idiot with icicles hanging from my eyeballs when Frank shows up? He has to show today, he just has to. Please, please, please, let me hear the sound of a car slowing down, I pray to whoever up there might hear me. Please.

  And then, believe it or not, one second later I do hear a car. It doesn't sound like Frank's car, but it's been so long, maybe I don't recognize the Volkswagen anymore. I keep my eyes closed because if it isn't Frank, I don't want to know who it is. The car stops a little ahead of me and before I can open my eyes, I hear a familiar voice say, “Hey, Dee-Dee, what are you doing, meditating?”

  Just my luck. There's only one person in the world who can sound so stupid: Donald Caruso. He's actually parked his car and is standing beside it with his arms folded, leaning against the trunk. I keep my eyes closed, trying to heed the words of wisdom Shirley bestowed upon me one time when a horsefly was bothering me at the beach: “Just ignore it, Andrea, and it'll go away.” But of course it didn't; it bit me, in fact, and guess what— Donald Caruso isn't going away either.

  “So, what's up, Dee-Dee?” he calls, like all of a sudden we're best friends. I don't answer him, but instead of getting back in his car and driving off, he comes over to me.

  “What do you want?” I ask him in an “I'm not in the mood for any of your BS” tone.

  “Nothing. Can't a guy just say hello?”

  I look at him like he's lost his mind. Why in the world would Donald Caruso want to say hello to me?

  “Isn't it a Jee-lightful day?” Donald asks, leaning against the fence and tilting his head up toward the sun. “So, Dee-Dee, heard anything from your girlfriend lately?”

  “Donald, why do you keep asking me that?” I say, not in a nasty voice, but like I really want to know. “I mean, do you get
off on thinking that I'm a lesbian or what? Like do you imagine me and Ronnie doing it to turn yourself on, or—”

  “Shut up, Dee-Dee, okay?” He pushes himself off the fence and starts walking back toward his car without looking at me.

  “Maybe you're the lezzie, Donald,” I call after him, which is totally stupid since everyone knows you can't be a lesbian unless you're a girl. “Maybe you're the homo, Donald.” I start walking toward him, really yelling now. “Maybe that's why Donna needed to find herself a new boyfriend. I bet you couldn't even get it up.”

  Donald turns and glares at me. “Just shut up about Donna, Dee-Dee. I mean it. Shut up or else I'll—”

  “You'll what?”

  Donald spins around and wraps his arms around himself. Then he moves his hands up and down, caressing his own shoulders and neck so that from the back it looks like someone's making out with him. “Oh, Dee-Dee! Oh, baby …” He moans and smacks his lips together loudly and then stops to turn and face me. “I'll call your mother and tell her about your boyfriend.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, like I couldn't care less.

  “Or maybe I'll call your dad,” Donald says. “Yeah, that's what I'll do. Hello, Dr. Kaplan?” Donald puts his fist up to his ear like he's talking on the phone. “How are you? Do you know your ugly daughter's been seeing some older guy who drives a brown Volkswagen after school? How do I know? I saw them by the side of the road a few days before Christmas vacation. And believe me, they looked awfully cozy.”

  “You wouldn't dare tell my father about me and Frank,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

  “Frank! Thanks for telling me his name, Dee-Dee. Yes, Dr. Kaplan, his name is Frank. Frank … what did you say his last name was?”

  “None of your business,” I tell Donald.

  “Frank None-of-Your-Business, Dr. Kaplan.” Donald slowly lowers his hand and grins, knowing that he's got me.

  “Donald,” I say, “listen, this is serious. You can't tell my father about me and Frank. I mean it.” This is awful. If—no, when Frank shows up to take me away from all this, he's going to totally kill me because now Donald knows his name and what kind of car he drives and that'll spoil everything.