Kaplan, the loser no one will eat lunch with, the klutz nobody picks to be on their softball team during gym, the big fat slob whose thighs rub together in the summer because her shorts are too tight. And not just any boyfriend either. I'm not talking about some pimply-faced, greasy-haired, stupid kid with braces as long as the entire Long Island Rail Road strung across his teeth. I'm talking about a grown-up
man.
I wish I were standing here making Frank's supper instead of Fred's, but that's the way it goes, I guess. Shirley's the one who should really be preparing Fred's chow, but Shirley spends as little time as possible in the kitchen these days. She says it's too tempting to be around all that food and God forbid she should eat something she thinks she's not supposed to—she might gain an ounce or two. You'd think she'd tell me to stay out of the kitchen too, since according to her I'm the one who needs to lose weight, but hey, someone has to cook Freddie Boy his dinner; he's certainly not going to do it himself.
So what happens nowadays is Shirley defrosts something during the day—lamb chops, a chicken breast, whatever—and then it's my job to cook the carcass she's left out on the counter. Tonight it's a T-bone steak, which is at least easy to make. I put on a pair of oversized black oven mitts so I don't touch the meat with my bare hands, slit open the cellophane package with a knife, plop the steak onto a flat metal pan, and put it in the oven to broil. It's totally unfair that I have to cook Fred's suppers, especially since he eats meat every night and I'm a vegetarian, but when I complained to Shirley about it, she said, “Andrea, life isn't fair,” which is basically her answer to everything.
I sit down at the kitchen table while Fred's steak is cooking, stare out the window, and think about—what else?—me and Frank. We've come a long way in the past few weeks and I can't even believe how happy I am. Frank and I are just perfect for each other. That's because, as Frank told me, girls and boys mature at different rates,which was hardly news to me. It's a biological thing, really. See, as soon as a girl gets her period, she's sexually mature, which usually happens when she's eleven or twelve (I was ten), and boys that age haven't even started shaving yet. That's why older men and younger women go so well together. Frank says since girls mature twice as fast as boys, a man should be at least twice as old as his girlfriend.
Frank is different than anyone I've ever met before. He treats me like a grown-up, not like a kid. Like, if we have problems, which we do, like any other couple, we talk things through and work them out. Take that Friday a few weeks ago, for example, the day he gave me the black outfit. First we were having a great time, and then when we had to leave, Frank got nasty. The next time I saw him, I told him he had hurt my feelings. He apologized and explained that he gets a little distant at the end of our time together because it's so hard for him to leave me and not see me again for an entire day. So who can blame him for getting cranky at the end of our visits?
And anyway, after school when he picks me up he's always happy to see me, and lots of times he brings me presents. He got me a red lace outfit just like the black one, and he also bought me a few dresses, including a waitress's uniform and a French maid's outfit, which are both short, low-cut, and very tight.
At first I was completely embarrassed about putting on all this stuff, but Frank said I was being ridiculous and that I have a perfect figure. Nice and curvy. Voluptuous. He says I'm built exactly the way a woman should be. (Iwish he could tell that to Shirley.) Plus he brings me all kinds of things he says are essential to a woman's wardrobe: garter belts and fishnet stockings and high-heeled shoes. I never really liked playing dress-up before, but I don't know, it's different with Frank.
Since obviously I can't bring all
man.
I wish I were standing here making Frank's supper instead of Fred's, but that's the way it goes, I guess. Shirley's the one who should really be preparing Fred's chow, but Shirley spends as little time as possible in the kitchen these days. She says it's too tempting to be around all that food and God forbid she should eat something she thinks she's not supposed to—she might gain an ounce or two. You'd think she'd tell me to stay out of the kitchen too, since according to her I'm the one who needs to lose weight, but hey, someone has to cook Freddie Boy his dinner; he's certainly not going to do it himself.
So what happens nowadays is Shirley defrosts something during the day—lamb chops, a chicken breast, whatever—and then it's my job to cook the carcass she's left out on the counter. Tonight it's a T-bone steak, which is at least easy to make. I put on a pair of oversized black oven mitts so I don't touch the meat with my bare hands, slit open the cellophane package with a knife, plop the steak onto a flat metal pan, and put it in the oven to broil. It's totally unfair that I have to cook Fred's suppers, especially since he eats meat every night and I'm a vegetarian, but when I complained to Shirley about it, she said, “Andrea, life isn't fair,” which is basically her answer to everything.
I sit down at the kitchen table while Fred's steak is cooking, stare out the window, and think about—what else?—me and Frank. We've come a long way in the past few weeks and I can't even believe how happy I am. Frank and I are just perfect for each other. That's because, as Frank told me, girls and boys mature at different rates,which was hardly news to me. It's a biological thing, really. See, as soon as a girl gets her period, she's sexually mature, which usually happens when she's eleven or twelve (I was ten), and boys that age haven't even started shaving yet. That's why older men and younger women go so well together. Frank says since girls mature twice as fast as boys, a man should be at least twice as old as his girlfriend.
Frank is different than anyone I've ever met before. He treats me like a grown-up, not like a kid. Like, if we have problems, which we do, like any other couple, we talk things through and work them out. Take that Friday a few weeks ago, for example, the day he gave me the black outfit. First we were having a great time, and then when we had to leave, Frank got nasty. The next time I saw him, I told him he had hurt my feelings. He apologized and explained that he gets a little distant at the end of our time together because it's so hard for him to leave me and not see me again for an entire day. So who can blame him for getting cranky at the end of our visits?
And anyway, after school when he picks me up he's always happy to see me, and lots of times he brings me presents. He got me a red lace outfit just like the black one, and he also bought me a few dresses, including a waitress's uniform and a French maid's outfit, which are both short, low-cut, and very tight.
At first I was completely embarrassed about putting on all this stuff, but Frank said I was being ridiculous and that I have a perfect figure. Nice and curvy. Voluptuous. He says I'm built exactly the way a woman should be. (Iwish he could tell that to Shirley.) Plus he brings me all kinds of things he says are essential to a woman's wardrobe: garter belts and fishnet stockings and high-heeled shoes. I never really liked playing dress-up before, but I don't know, it's different with Frank.
Since obviously I can't bring all
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