Jailbait by Lesleá Newman Read Free Book Online

birthday. Since we weren't expecting him, Mike came home to an empty house and when he set off the alarm he had no idea what was happening. (Mike swears we never told him about the burglar alarm; Fred swears we did. My guess is that Fred's right but Mike was probably so stoned at the time it didn't register.) Anyway, when the cops came and asked Mike the secret password, all he kept saying was “Hey, c'mon. I live here, man.” Well, the cops took one look at him with his long hair and ratty clothes and said, “Sure you do, buddy.” And then they hauled him right off to the station. I bet Shirley will never forget that birthday.
    “I'm sorry,” I apologize to Shirley for the third time. “It won't happen again.”
    “It better not,” Shirley says. “Now go get me a pack of cigarettes, will you? My nerves are shot.”
    Ever the dutiful daughter, I go into the kitchen and open the drawer where most people keep their silverware but where we keep cigarettes—Virginia Slims for Shirley and Lucky Strikes for Fred. “Another twenty nails for your coffin,” I say softly so Shirley won't hear, since the one time I said it out loud she took away my allowance for two weeks.
    “Here,” I say, bringing the pack into the living room.
    “Thank you.” Shirley takes the cigarettes and looks up to give me the once-over. “Oh, Andrea, do you have to wear pants with patches on the knees to school?” She sighs dramatically. “If you need new clothes, I've told you a hundred times I'd be happy to take you shopping. We could go right now.”
    “For your information, this is a style, Shirley,” I tell her. “All the kids at school wear pants like this.”
    “Some style.” Shirley strikes a match and lights her cigarette. “Your father works extremely hard, Andrea, and I'm sure he doesn't appreciate his daughter running around looking like we're two steps away from the poor-house. And what happened to that nice pocketbook I bought you? Do you have to go around with that worn-out knapsack on your back like a hobo?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, it doesn't do anything for you, Andrea, if you know what I mean.” Shirley directs her attention back to the TV and I study her as she watches her show and puffs away. She holds her cigarette between the second and third fingers of her left hand. Her fingers are long and slender and her nails are shiny and red, courtesy of heronce-a-week appointment at the beauty parlor. And on her fourth finger she wears this band of diamonds that Fred gave her for their twentieth anniversary, instead of the plain gold wedding band he gave her the day they got hitched. She keeps that ring in a velvet box at the bottom of her underwear drawer. The new ring is nice and everything, and you can tell it cost a mint, but I like the old one better. Sometimes I look at it when I put away the laundry. When I was younger, I used to like trying it on, but now it only fits my pinky because compared to Shirley, I'm an elephant, as she constantly reminds me.
    “What did you have for lunch today?” Shirley asks during an Alka-Seltzer commercial, as if on cue.
    I rack my brain. “Um, an apple and a Dannon vanilla yogurt.”
    “Good.” Shirley nods her approval. If she knew I'd had macaroni and cheese, a brownie,
and
a chocolate chip cookie, she would kill me.
    “I went to Mrs. Goodman's for lunch,” Shirley tells me, like I care. “She served us fondue, isn't that interesting? Cheese fondue for the main course and chocolate fondue for dessert. Everyone got these cute little forks to dip chunks of bread and fruit with. It was delicious, Andrea. Of course, I have to go right back on Weight Watchers tomorrow, but it was worth it. Maybe I'll make it sometime, but I'm not sure your father would like it. What do you think? You know his taste. Do you think he'd enjoy it?”
    “Whatever.” I mean, how should I know if Fred would like fondue or not? Besides, it's a moot point, sinceShirley hasn't cooked a real meal since