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drinking through a straw and then he shakes the match out and tosses it on the floor. For a second I'm scared the whole house will go up in flames but it doesn't. Frank tilts his head back, exhales, and blows out a smoke ring. I'm glad he doesn't just let the smoke stream out of his nostrils the way Shirley does. I think that's the grossest thing in the world.
    “Model,” Frank says, and I jump a little. What does he mean, model? What does he want me to do, get up and walk across the room like Twiggy even though I'm ten times her size? Yeah, right. I look at him and he gestures with his cigarette, leaving a trail of blue smoke in the air. “Model house. Supposed to be a new neighborhood but the developer went broke, poor sucker.” He shrugs,turns away and takes another drag. Case closed, I guess. Well, that explains the house, anyway. It doesn't belong to anybody. A model house. Like a model child. But how come he gets to come here? When I ask him, he shrugs. “Connections” is all he says.
    Frank finishes his cigarette and puts it out against his work boot. Then he stares out in front of him at nothing for a long time. It looks like his eyes are fixed on a spot about two inches in front of his shoes, but there's nothing there. That I can see, anyway. But maybe Frank can see things I can't, like a cat in the dark. Maybe that's another one of his magic powers. I try to fix my gaze on the exact spot he's looking at, but it's hard to tell if I'm successful. I almost think Frank's forgotten I'm even there, but the second I think that, he turns toward me.
    “Nice hair,” he says, picking up a strand. “I like my women with long hair.”
    I shiver again, but I'm not cold. I
like my women….
Am I one of Frank's women now? I hope so. How many does he have? No one's ever called me a woman before, let alone
his
woman. Frank examines my hair closely, like it's the most interesting thing on the planet. Which it isn't; it's just hair, dark brown frizzy hair that's almost down to my waist and would be in much better shape if I didn't split my ends when I get nervous.
    Frank weaves a hank of my hair in and out of his fingers, which are quite tan. And kind of hairy. His fingernails are dirty and I can tell from how short and ragged they are that he bites them. And there's something wrongwith his right pinkie. The top of it is all scarred and wrinkled like it got caught in a meat grinder and his nail is all black and gross-looking. I try not to stare at it, but I'm afraid I'm going to be sick. I'm really squeamish about stuff like that. Like this one time Shirley gave me a tomato to cut up for a salad and I sliced the tip of my finger by accident instead. The minute I saw that first drop of blood I got nauseous and dizzy and if I hadn't grabbed the counter, I definitely would have hit the floor. Not that Shirley cared. She was more concerned with how much blood I was getting on her brand-new yellow dish towel than with the fact that I almost fainted and was practically bleeding to death.
    Anyway, Frank must be able to tell I'm feeling a little funny because he grins at me, lifts a handful of my hair, and tickles my face with it. I try not to laugh but I can't help smiling in spite of myself.
    “Old enough,” Frank mumbles, and then in half a second he's on top of me. I'm so surprised I freeze for a second before I try to push him off. But it's impossible, so I try to at least get away from the wall, because my neck is all bent out of shape at this crazy angle and the last thing I need right now is my head falling off. I can tell Frank likes the struggle—I can just hear him saying, I
like my women feisty
—so I keep it up even after I'm lying flat on the floor. Frank's still on top of me, and I like the way his body feels. It reminds me of the lead shield my father puts over me at his office (he calls it the Fred Shield) when he X-rays my teeth. It's nice and heavy. Comforting, like a big blanket on a rainy day.
    “Ever kiss a