Jailbait by Lesleá Newman Read Free Book Online Page A

TV dinners were invented.
    “Your father is such a meat-and-potatoes man,” Shirley goes on. “You can cook meat in it too. Maybe I'll try that.…” Her voice trails off.
    “I'm going to start my homework,” I say, turning to leave.
    “Can you change the channel?” Shirley points at the TV with the tip of her cigarette. God forbid she should get off the couch and change it herself. “Put on channel two. I want to see who's on
The Mike Douglas Show.”
    After I change the channel, I go upstairs to my room and put a Janis Joplin album that Mike left behind when he went off to college on my record player. Then I flop down on my bed, but before I even have time to take off my sneakers and relax, Shirley yells up the stairs, “Andrea! Turn that screeching down!”
    “It's not screeching. It's singing,” I yell back before I turn the volume knob a hundredth of an inch to the left. I wait a minute, and when Shirley doesn't yell again, I lie back down on my bed, shut my eyes, listen to Janis, and think about Frank. Oh my God, I can't believe what happened to me today. A guy—no, a
man
—whisked me off and had his way with me. Well, sort of. You have to admit what he did was pretty weird, but he didn't hurt me or anything. He just ran the tip of his finger down my stomach like he was checking to see if it was dusty. But who cares? He was really sweet and gentle, especially when he put his arms around me over by the window and we just stood there being quiet. It felt peaceful, like when I hangout by the fence with Bessie. Most people don't know how to just be still like that. I'm glad Frank does.
    I reach over for Snowball, my favorite stuffed animal, and hug the soft white cat to my chest. “Do you think Frank and I will fall in love and live happily ever after?” I whisper into her ear. Then I move her head up and down like she's saying yes. Hey, don't laugh; it could happen. Donna Rizzo is totally convinced she's going to walk down the aisle with good old Donald Caruso. I wonder if Frank is even the marrying type. He strikes me more as the living-together type, which is no big deal. I don't care about a stupid piece of paper, though believe me, it wasn't the greatest idea in the world to tell the Parental Units that.
    It was a Sunday morning, and the three of us were sitting around the kitchen table eating bagels spread with this putrid low-fat cream cheese that Shirley insists on buying, and reading sections of the
New York Times.
Shirley was reading the wedding announcements and Fred was reading the obituaries, which tells you something, but I don't know what.
    “So guess who's getting married?” Shirley asked out loud.
    “The Pope?” I asked back.
    “Very funny.” Shirley shook her head. “Fred, take a guess.”
    “I give up,” Fred said.
    “Karen Blumenthal. And her picture's right here in the
Times.
Isn't that something?”
    “Who's Karen Blumenthal?” Fred and I asked at the same time, though neither one of us really cared.
    “Alice and Sid's daughter. You know, they live over on Garden Lane? That's going to be quite an affair.” Shirley licked her lips as though she could already taste the high-calorie fancy food the Blumenthals were sure to serve. “They certainly can afford it. But don't worry, Andrea,” Shirley added. “When the time comes, we'll go all out for you.”
    “I'm not getting married,” I said, reaching for another half a bagel, but Shirley stopped me cold with one of her “you don't need that” looks.
    “What do you mean you're not getting married? Of course you're getting married. Everyone gets married.” Shirley's voice went up a zillion decibels as she went totally bananas.
    “Okay, okay, don't wig out, I'm getting married,” I said, just so she'd get off my case. “But I'm going to be barefoot and have wildflowers in my hair and my dog will be the ring bearer and it'll be up on top of a mountain and…”
    “Andrea.” Shirley let out this huge sigh like the