My Dark Vanessa(71)

The man isn’t bad looking, despite his grubby hands. He’s who the boys at school will grow up into—thick Maine accent and a pickup truck. “How old are you?” I ask. The question comes out more forceful than I intend, makes me sound accusing, but he doesn’t seem put off. He turns toward me, his attention immediately shifting away from Jade.

He says to me, “I feel like I should be asking you the same question.”

“I asked first.”

He smirks. “I’ll tell you, but I’ll make you work for it. I graduated high school in nineteen eighty-three.”

I think for a moment; Strane graduated high school in 1976. “You’re thirty-six.”

The man raises his eyebrows, sips his drink. “You disgusted?”

“Why would I be disgusted?”

“Because thirty-six is old.” He laughs. “How old are you?”

“How old do you think I am?”

He looks me over. “Eighteen.”

“Sixteen.”

He laughs again, shakes his head. “Christ.”

“Is that bad?” It’s a stupid question and I know it. Of course it’s bad. The badness of it is written all over his face. I flick my eyes over to Jade and she stares at me as though she’s never seen me before, like she has no idea who I am.

A senior girl at the other end of the table leans toward us. “Hey, can I have a sip of your drink?” she asks. The man grimaces a little, a small show of acknowledgment that it’s wrong, but slides the glass down the table. The girl takes one sip and then shrieks out a giggle, as though instantly drunk.

“Ok, ok.” The man reaches for his drink. “I don’t wanna get kicked out.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Craig.” He nudges the glass toward me. “You want a taste?”

“What is it?”

“Whiskey and Coke.”

I reach for it. “I love whiskey.”

“And what’s your name, sixteen-year-old-who-loves-whiskey?”

I shake my hair back from my face. “Vanessa.” I say it with a sigh, as though I’m bored to tears, as though a fire isn’t burning in me. I wonder if this counts as cheating, how angry Strane would be if he walked in and saw this scene.

Charley comes back over, her face flushed, hair messed up. She takes a long swallow from Jade’s can of soda.

“What happened?” Jade asks.

Charley waves her hand; she doesn’t want to talk about it. “Let’s get out of here. I want to go home and pass out.” She looks at me, suddenly remembering. “Shit, I need to drive you home.”

Craig watches intently. “You need a ride?” he asks me.

I balk, my limbs tingling.

“Who are you?” Charley asks.

“I’m Craig.” He holds his hand out for her to shake. Charley just stares him down.

“Right.” She looks to me. “You’re not leaving with him. I’ll drive you home.”

I give Craig a sheepish smile and try not to look too relieved.

“Does she always tell you what to do?” he asks. I shake my head and he leans in toward me. “So what if I wanted to talk to you sometime? How would I do that?”

He wants a phone number, but I know my parents would probably call the police at the sound of his voice. “Do you have Instant Messenger?”

“Like AOL? Sure, I’ve got that.”

Charley watches as I fish a pen from the bottom of my bag and write my screen name on the palm of his hand. “You really like old guys, don’t you?” she asks as we walk out the door. “Sorry if I cock-blocked you. I didn’t think you really wanted to let him drive you home.”

“I didn’t. I just like the attention. He’s obviously a loser.”

She laughs, opens her car door and gets inside, leans across and unlocks the passenger door. “You know, you’re surprisingly screwed up.”

On the drive to my house, Charley plays the same Missy Elliott song over and over, the dashboard glowing her face blue as she raps along: “Ain’t no shame, ladies, do your thing / just make sure you’re ahead of the game.”



By Monday everyone knows Charley gave Will a blow job, but he won’t speak to her now and Jade hears from Ben Sargent that Will called Charley white trash.

“Men are shit,” Charley says as we smoke cigarettes behind the grocery store, huddled between the dumpsters. Jade nods in agreement and I do, too, but only for show. I stayed up late Saturday and Sunday chatting with Craig, and my head still rings from all the compliments he gave me. I’m so pretty, so hot, unbelievably sexy. Since he met me Friday night, I’m the only thing he’s thought about. He’ll do anything to see me again.

Charley says that men are shit, but really she means boys. She wipes away tears before they have a chance to fall, and I know she’s mad and that it must hurt like hell, but a part of me can’t help but think: what did she expect?

*

Craig is nothing like Strane. He’s a veteran, was in Desert Storm, and now works construction. He doesn’t read, didn’t go to college, and doesn’t have anything to say when I try to talk about the things I care about. The worst thing about him is how much he likes guns—not just hunting rifles but handguns. When I say I think guns are idiotic, he writes, You won’t think that when someone breaks into your bedroom in the middle of the night. Being armed will probably seem pretty smart then.