Jailbait

by Lesléa Newman

  “Please, Donald.” I toss my pride out the window and beg the guy. “Pretty please, with sugar on top.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blow me,” Donald says, yanking open his car door.

  “Okay,” I say, like it's no big deal.

  “Wha-a-at?” He freezes, all bent over, half in and half out of the car.

  “I said okay. You said blow me, and I said okay. I'll do what you want if you do what I want: keep your big mouth shut about me and Frank. Deal?”

  “Where?” This time Donald's voice is barely a whisper.

  “Get in,” I say, going around to the other side of the car. I throw my knapsack in and jump in after it. Donald starts the motor, but before he can even put the car into drive, I put my hand on his crotch.

  “Shouldn't we go somewhere?” Donald asks, his voice all breathy.

  “Just shut the car off,” I say, and he does. I mean, why not? There's plenty of room in here: the front seat of Donald's mother's car is huge, compared to Frank's, anyway.

  “Just relax now, Donald,” I say. “I won't hurt you. C'mon, let me see what you've got in there.”

  Donald hitches up his hips, undoes his fly and pulls his pants and underwear down to his knees.

  “Just lean back and shut your eyes,” I say in a soothing voice. Donald does as he's told and I reach over and take him gently in my hands. He lets out a huge sigh and reaches his arm across my back to push me down toward his lap. When my head is about two inches from his crotch, I twist my wrists hard and fast in opposite directions, like his penis is a sopping wet washcloth that needs to be wrung out.

  “Ow!” Donald's voice goes up an entire octave, his whole body jerks, and his eyes snap open. “What are you, crazy, Dee-Dee? Man, that hurt! What are you trying to do, pull it off? I thought you were going to blow me.”

  “Yeah, right.” I laugh. “You really thought I would put that microscopic peanut in my—”

  “Shut up, you—” Donald lunges toward me but I stop him by reaching into my pocket, pulling out my Swiss army knife, and snapping it open.

  “Hey, hey, what the … ?” All of a sudden Donald realizes how exposed he is and his hands fly to his lap to cover himself. “Dee-Dee,” he says, “put that thing away. Please? C'mon now, I'm sorry. Let's just forget this ever happened, all right?”

  “No way,” I say, looking him right in the eye. “Now you listen to me, you stupid jock.” I lay my hand flat on the seat between us. “You better not say a word about this and you better stop calling me Dee-Dee, you understand? Because if I can do this to myself”—I inhale sharply and run the blade right across the tip of my pinkie—“believe me, I could do a whole lot worse to you.” And then, just to make sure he gets my point, I slice the tip of my finger a few more times.

  “Hey, c'mon, cut it out. Quit it.” Donald is totally pale, like all the blood spilling from my pinkie is draining out of his face. For a split second, I feel totally peaceful, and I think, Frank, you should have told me, it doesn't hurt at all, but then the pain explodes all the way up my arm and I feel light-headed and nauseous and I start breathing really fast. The only way to stop the pain is to keep cutting myself, so I do, until Donald reaches over and grabs the knife out of my hand.

  “For cryin' out loud, Dee-Dee—I mean, Andi.” Donald quickly corrects himself. “What are you, nuts? Look what you're doing to my mother's car.” Donald pulls himself together and starts searching for something to wipe up the blood with.

  “Your concern is so … so touching,” I say, making a fist around my pinkie with my other hand and squeezing it tight to stop the bleeding.

  “What are you, really losing it, Andi? What are you trying to do, kill yourself? And look at this mess. What am I supposed to tell my mother?”

  “Tell her you got your period,” I say, and then I start laughing hysterically like a total lunatic.

  Donald gives me a funny look and leans over the seat and tries to mop up the blood with the hem of his T-shirt because he can't think of what else to do. And neither can I, so I grab my knapsack, get out of the car, and head home, keeping my hand way up in the air because that's what we learned in health class, to elevate a wound high over your heart, if you have one. And then when I get home, I fix up my finger myself, even though it's cut pretty bad and I should probably go to the emergency room and show it to someone and get a tetanus shot or maybe some stitches or something. But I don't care. In fact, I don't ever want my pinkie to heal. Or if it does heal, I want it to leave a huge, jagged, bumpy, ugly scar so that for the rest of my life, whenever I look down at it, I'll always, always remember.

  Epilogue

  All right, all right, since I'm sure you're just dying to know, first of all, no, I didn't get gangrene and my pinkie didn't fall off. After I got home and doctored it up, I avoided Shirley until suppertime. When she finally spotted my Band-Aid, I told her I cut my finger on a can of peas I was opening to serve Fred and it was no big deal. On Monday I showed it to the school nurse, who said it was just a superficial wound, which surprised me since there was so much blood and everything. My finger does have a wicked scar on it, though, which will probably be there for life.

  Second of all, you'll be happy to know that Donald Caruso had a major personality change after our little encounter in his mother's car and treats me quite nicely now. I think he's pretty scared of me because whenever I see him in the hall at school, he always goes out of his way to say “Hi, Andi” nice and loud, and he's even stopped teasing me with all the lezzie stuff, which is a big relief.

  And third of all, just in case you're wondering, no, Frank never came back. And I've been thinking about him a lot today, December 17, 1972, which just happens to be my seventeenth birthday.

  “Aren't you going to wish me a happy birthday?” I ask Bessie, who's busy eating a fistful of grass out of my hand. It's an unusually warm day for December, and old Bessie's out in her field today, which is like a birthday present to me because she's still better company than 99 percent of the people I know. While she chews, I tell her my unexciting birthday plans: first my family will eat dinner made by Shirley, who will cook something for the first time since last December, since it's a special occasion, and then we'll have the usual celebration with the same old chocolate cake with white and yellow frosting. And Shirley, Fred, and Mike will all sing “Happy Birthday” in their same old off-key voices and give me presents, and my grandmother will send me a corny card with some loot tucked inside.

  Mike, for your information, is back living at home. He never even made it to Hawaii, which is typical. He got as far as San Francisco and hung out there for a while with a bunch of hippies he met at a bookstore called City Lights that specializes in beat poetry. But then his money ran out, and I don't know, I guess he found out that life on the road is more glamorous when you read about it in a book by Jack Kerouac than when you actually live it.

  Mike isn't too happy being back home, let me tell you. He's working at a bookstore in the mall and—get this—the Rents are actually making him pay for room and board. Fred thinks hitting him in the wallet will teach Mike something about being a responsible adult, but I have serious doubts about that.

  Anyway, I'm glad Mike's around because now I have someone to talk to. I even told him about me and Frank, more or less.

  It was one of those rare days when Mike was laying off the weed, and we were hanging out in his room. Mike was sprawled across his beanbag chair and I was lying on his bed, both of us staring at the blobs moving up and down in the Lava lamp on his dresser.

  “So,” Mike said, “what ever happened to that guy Frankenstein you told me about last year on your birthday?”

  “Nothing happened to him,” I said, but Mike pressed me, so I told him the whole story. Well, not the whole story—there are some gory details that are way too embarrassing for a baby sister to tell her big brother—but I told him enough so he got the picture. The whole time I was talking, Mike was staring down at his hands, and then when I was done, he
stayed quiet for a minute. I was scared he was going to be angry or, I don't know, disgusted with me or something, but when he raised his eyes, they looked so soft and tender, and concerned, that a big lump formed in my throat and I almost couldn't breathe.

  “Oh, Squirt,” Mike said, his voice gentle, “don't you know you deserve to be treated better than that?”

  I thought for a second, then shrugged. “I don't know. I guess.”

  “You guess? I'm sorry, Squirt.” Mike sounded so sad I thought he might cry.

  “Sorry for what? You didn't do anything.”

  “Exactly,” Mike said. “I didn't protect you. That's my sister,” he said, pointing to himself and speaking in a tough-guy voice. “You can look but you better not touch.”

  “Oh, Mike,” I said, and then before I could stop myself, I started to blubber. Mike came over to the bed and took me in his arms and held me and rocked me and told me that everything was going to be okay. I cried for a long time and when I finally stopped, Mike said if Frank ever dared show his ugly face in this town again, it would resemble a bowl of chopped liver before he got through with it. That made me laugh, since Mike's not exactly the fighting type. But then he got all serious.

  “Listen, Squirt,” he said. “Just because a guy has the hots for you doesn't mean he loves you, you know what I'm saying?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I guess I was pretty stupid, wasn't I?”

  “It's not your fault,” Mike said, smoothing a piece of hair behind my ear. “That moron”—Mike almost spat— “really took advantage of you.”

  “But I let him take advantage of me,” I said, my voice all shaky like I might cry again.

  “Squirt, don't blame yourself.” Mike hugged me close. “He was the adult and you were the kid. You didn't know any better. And it's not like either of us learned how to have a normal relationship by watching the people around here.” He jerked his head toward Fred and Shirley's bedroom. “You'll do better next time, Squirt. Just remember you're an important person, okay?”

  “I am?” I whispered.

  “Of course you are. You're important to me. Why do you think I came home? To hang out with the Rents?”

  “Not bloody likely,” I say in a fake British accent, which makes us both laugh.

  “I guess I wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, was I, Bessie?” I ask, giving her another handful of grass to munch. While she's thinking it over, a car pulls up right by the fence post where Frank used to pick me up. Oh my God, I can't believe it. Can it possibly be Frank? The car isn't a Volkswagen—I think it's some kind of Ford—but still, my heart starts beating a million times a minute and I break into a sweat. What if it is Frank? What would I say to him?

  “Would he really remember my birthday?” I ask Bessie, my voice barely a whisper. I either have to turn around right now and get the heck out of here or walk right past the car to see whether it's Frank or not, and to tell you the truth, I'm not sure what I want to do. The smart part of me thinks if I never see Frank's face again, it'll be too soon, but there's another part of me, too. A part that wants to march right over there and give him a piece of my mind. Why don't you go pick on someone your own size? I want to yell at him, though that probably isn't such a great idea because when Frank gets mad, there's no telling what might happen.

  While I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do, my legs start moving and my feet keep putting themselves down one in front of the other, so I guess my body isn't going to wait for my head to decide.

  “Vanessa.” My stomach lurches at the sound of my old name, and I stop dead in my tracks. “C'mere, Vanessa. I've got something for you.”

  I know I shouldn't go anywhere near that car, but my body just floats over to it like I'm walking in my sleep.

  “Hey, Frank,” I say, but then I feel like an idiot, because this guy isn't Frank. His hair is curlier and lighter, and he's got freckles, too. I don't know whether I'm relieved or disappointed. Mostly just surprised, I guess. How does this guy know who I am?

  “Vanessa,” he says again, like he's trying my name on for size. “Vanessa, honey, I'm Lloyd, Frank's sidekick, and I sure am glad to meet you. You're ten times prettier than those pictures—I mean, than Frank said you were.”

  My face turns beet red and I almost spit, I'm so mad. I can't believe Frank showed Lloyd the pictures he took of me, after he said he wouldn't. Don't you trust me, Vanessa? I swear, I could just vomit.

  “Well, yeah, I saw them, Vanessa. Frank was so proud, he couldn't help showing you off a little. And you can't blame him really—I mean, look at you. His photos didn't come close to doing you justice.” Lloyd gives a low whistle. “You really are drop-dead gorgeous.”

  Yeah, right, I think, and your prick is the size of Alaska.

  “I mean, Frank said you were a real doll, but—”

  “Where is he?” I blurt out in the middle of Lloyd's BS.

  “Frank? Who knows?” Lloyd shrugs. “Frank's like the wind, honey. He blows in and out of town whenever he feels like it. He could be right around the corner, he could be a thousand miles away. But never mind Frank, Vanessa. Good-bye and good riddance.”

  “You're telling me.”

  “Hey, hey, don't be so hard on the guy.” For some reason, now that I agree with him, Lloyd changes his tune. “Frank does have a heart, Vanessa. Look, he asked me to give you this.” Lloyd holds out a small white envelope and I take it in my hand.

  For a minute I look at what I'm holding like I don't know what to do with it, but then Lloyd says, “Open it,” so I do. Inside is a piece of paper ripped from a notebook. I unfold it and read, Dear Vanessa. Happy birthday and congratulations. You're not jailbait anymore. Frank. And taped to the bottom is my mother's wedding ring.

  I can't believe Frank actually did something nice for a change. Maybe he isn't such a bad guy after all, I think, and then, as if he can read my mind, Lloyd sets me straight.

  “Don't get any ideas that Frank's turned into a saint, Vanessa,” he says, and every time he says my name—or what he thinks is my name—he says it with a hiss, Vanessssa, like he's letting all the air out of a bicycle tire. “This was all my idea. When I heard Frank had your mother's wedding ring, I was appalled, honey, I really was. He was going to pawn it, for God's sake, but I challenged him to a poker game and managed to win it back for you. And that was no small feat because Frank is a real cardsharp, let me tell you. But enough about Frank.” Lloyd waves his hand like he's shooing away a fly. “Why don't you get in the car and I'll give you a ride?”

  I stand stock-still and ponder Lloyd's offer while he keeps talking; I can tell he's the kind of guy who just loves the sound of his own voice. “You don't have to worry about me, Vanessa,” he says. “I'm a perfect gentleman. Not all guys are louses like Frank, you know. I'll take you right home, or anywhere else you want to go. Like, how about we swing into Manhattan? I know all the good places. We could have a nice dinner, see a show, go to a club, whatever you want. Me and you could have a real nice time together, doll. What do you think?”

  I think Long Island is chock-full of perverts, no matter how serene and safe Shirley and Fred say it is. That's what I think. But I don't tell Lloyd that. I just walk around to the passenger side of the car without a word. Before I even get there, Lloyd reaches over to unlock the door and push it open, to show me he's a perfect gentleman, just like he said. But instead of getting into the car, I hop the fence, run my hand along Bessie's back as I walk by her, and cut across her pasture.

  “Hey!” Lloyd calls out. “Hey, Vanessa. Where are you going?”

  Home, I turn around and mouth to him. Where there's at least one person who knows I'm important. I mean, what does Lloyd think, I'm still as stupid as I look?

  “Vanessa, come back,” Lloyd calls. “Vanessa? Vanessa!”

  That's my name, don't wear it out, I think, and then I correct myself: That isn't my name. My name is Andi. With an i. Short for Andrea. Andrea Robin Kaplan. That's what people call me now. If th
ey want me to answer.

  Lesléa Newman is the award-winning author of many books for young readers and adults. Known for her boundary-breaking book Heather Has Two Mommies, she continues to write stories for voices previously unheard. The recipient of creative writing fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Massachusetts Artists Foundation, Lesléa Newman lives and writes in Northampton, Massachusetts. Visit her Web site at www.lesleakids.com.

  Published by

  Delacorte Press

  an imprint of

  Random House Children's Books

  a division of Random House, Inc.

  New York

  Text copyright © 2005 by Lesléa Newman

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Newman, Lesléa.

  Jailbait / Lesléa Newman.

  p. cm.

  Summary: In 1971, unpopular and lonely tenth-grader Andi—teased at her Long Island high school for her large breasts and ignored at home by her distant parents—builds a fantasy romantic life around her clandestine, sexual relationship with a man in his thirties.