“He works for my grandmother, but I don’t know what he does, exactly,” she said. “I’ve met him only a few times, and when I’m around, they talk about everything but what he does, I think. What does he do, exactly?”
Here I go, putting my foot into it. If I didn’t tell her things, she might get depressed and cry to her grandmother, and Mrs. Brittany would be angry, not only at me but at herself for permitting this to start. She wouldn’t have had to if I hadn’t been so damn nosy and gone out there to meet her. If I told her something Mrs. Brittany didn’t want her to know, she’d also be angry, maybe even more so. Was this some sort of test, too? A challenge?
I saw the look of hope in Sheena’s face, hope that she would finally have a girlfriend, someone who wasn’t afraid to tell her intimate things and hear intimate things. Maybe I was flattering myself too much, but I suddenly saw myself as the sister she never had. I wasn’t going to hurt her any more than she had been in her life. If Mrs. Brittany couldn’t see that, then good riddance to her and this whole idea.
“Mr. Bob is the one who brought me to your grandmother. He’s a kind of agent, like an actors’ agent who discovers new talent.”
“How did he discover you?”
Now we were really getting to the nitty-gritty, I thought.
“A short while ago, my father threw me out of our house, and Mr. Bob found me when I was about to give up on myself.”
“Really? Your father threw you out?” she asked, now looking shocked. Maybe this would end the attempt at any friendship. Maybe this was for the best. I’d tell her everything, and that would drive her away. “I can’t imagine a father throwing out his own daughter.”
“Yes. I was thrown out. I’ve been in trouble all the time. He simply gave up trying to change me, and he was worried about my influencing my younger sister.”
“Oh. How old is she?”
“She’s about nine years younger.”
“Did you, I mean, do you have a good relationship with her, anyway?”
“We hardly know each other,” I said.
She looked more shocked. “Why?”
“Our age difference, for one reason, and for another, my father has done his best to scare her away from me. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I’ve gone somewhere with her without either my mother or my father tagging along. The last thing I did that you might call sisterly was give her a charm bracelet that had been given to me.”
“What about your mother? Is your mother still alive?”
“She’s still alive, but she . . . she’s given up on me, too. I told you I was no angel. I’ve been in one pot of hot water after another. I guess I exhausted them, and they’re terrified I’ll spoil my sister. She’s perfect in their eyes, whereas I’m all that’s bad.”
She thought a moment and then surprised me with a smile. “Well, I’ve never been in trouble. I can’t wait to hear what you did to cause your own parents to think you were all bad.”
“I don’t know if I should get into all that with you, Sheena.”
“I do. You should. I won’t go blabbering to my grandmother, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” she said, “or anyone else. You can trust me with any secret you have. I want to trust you, too.”
“I’m not talking about just being a bad student, breaking school rules, or staying out too late and going places my parents forbade me to go to, Sheena.”
“Good. There’s nothing extraordinary about that. All that sounds like simple immaturity or being spoiled. Boring stuff,” she sang.
Was there anything I could say that would keep her from wanting to befriend me?
More important, perhaps, did I want to do that?
“I want to hear about your love life.”
“I haven’t had a love life, except with myself,” I said.
She laughed. “Okay, your sex life, then. As I told you, I’ve read about anything and everything you’ve done, probably. I just want to hear about it from someone who’s actually done it. Maybe what I’ve read isn’t so accurate. Maybe it’s too made up or too . . . hopeful. All right?”
“Okay. We’ll see,” I said.
“Yes, we will, but I’m not being fair.” She turned back to the books and papers. “It’s getting late, and I haven’t give you any pointers yet. I’m sure you’re tired. C’mon,” she urged. “Let’s go over some of this.” She laughed as she opened the fat art textbook. “I’m sure it will help you fall asleep.”
She was right. After nearly an hour, my eyes began to close, and we decided it was enough, but she did home in on the information I would need to impress Professor Marx the next day. Before she left, she told me she was going to ask her grandmother if I could have dinner with her and spend time with her in her suite studying afterward.