Jailbait Read Online Free PDF

looks like maybe he had acne or chicken pox or something when he was my age and it left his cheeks kind of bumpy. But that only makes him handsome in a rugged, tough guy kind of way. I guess you could say his face has character, you know, like he's been through something but came out on top. He's wearing a navy blue shirt with pants to match, like some kind of uniform that should have his name embroidered over his right breast pocket only it doesn't. I can't really see his shoes.
    We drive for a while without talking until he looks over at me and says, “What are you staring at?” as if he didn't know.
    “Nothing,” I mumble, then turn and look out the window. As I watch cars go by, I feel him looking at me, but I don't say anything until we stop at a red light. Then I say without turning around, “What are you staring at?” just like he did.
    “You,” he says in such a gentle voice I turn backaround. And there's that happy grin on his face again, like
Bingo!
he just hit the jackpot, which I guess is me.
    “How old are you, anyway?” he asks.
    “Old enough,” I say, and I can tell he thinks so too. We both grin and look at each other hard, as if we're having a staring contest like Ronnie and I used to. I feel a giggle trying to worm its way up my throat so I press my lips together as tight as I can, but the harder I try not to laugh the more I want to. And then just when my face is about to break, the car behind us honks to let us know the light is green. But instead of moving, my guy just keeps staring at me. Then he gives me a wink, lifts his left hand, and flips the bird to the driver behind us. For a second I'm scared it's Shirley on her way to Waldbaum's to pick up some Wonder bread, but then the driver behind us honks again and we pull away too fast for me to turn around, not that I really care.
    “Where are we going?” I ask after a few minutes.
    “You'll see,” he says, which is probably just his polite way of saying “Shut up,” so I do, but just for a minute.
    “What's your name?” I ask.
    “Frank.”
    “I'm Vanessa,” I say, like he cares. I don't even know why I say it. I don't know anyone named Vanessa, but I don't want to say my name because I hate it. Andrea. Gross. Especially the phony way Shirley says it,
On-DRAY-uh
, like I'm the queen of England. I call myself Andi and spell it with an
i
, but I'm afraid Frank will think that's a boy's name, which is what my grandmother thinks.
    My grandmother refuses to call me Andi. She calls me Andrea Robin. Robin is my middle name, like Christopher Robin, the kid in
Winnie-the-Pooh
, which was my favorite book when I was little. See, even when I was a baby, I liked animals better than people. I have a ton of stuffed animals in my room, and a million books about animals too, like
Curious George
and
The Story of Babar
from when I was little, and
Black Beauty
and
The Incredible Journey
, which I like so much I read them over at least once a year. But anyway, the point is my grandmother used to read
Winnie-the-Pooh
to me all the time when I was little and whenever it said “Christopher Robin” in the book, she'd say “Andrea Robin” instead. I know it's kind of babyish, but once in a while, I still read
Winnie-the-Pooh
, and whenever it says “Christopher Robin” I say “Andrea Robin” too.
    While I'm thinking all this, Frank keeps driving, and just between you, me, and the stick shift, I have no idea where in the world we are. We haven't been driving very long, but still, I wonder what time it is. I never wear a watch, so every time I go somewhere with the Units, I'm always asking Fred what time it is and he always answers, “Why, got a date?” And now I guess I do.
    Finally we pull onto this dirt road and Frank stops the car. Then he takes a screwdriver off the dashboard, sticks it into the ignition, and turns it toward him to shut the engine off. I can't believe I didn't even notice we've been driving this whole time without a key in the