Chapter 4
By Friday afternoon, after four and a half days on the job, Tracey Aronson's healthy young body had adjusted to the strenuous tasks, her blisters had hardened into painless calluses, and she'd acquired an enviable suntan. In most ways she enjoyed her unusual job, though she was a bit nonplused whenever she ran into one of her "cool crowd" classmates and they inquired about what she was doing this summer. Most of them, of course, didn't have jobs ... nearly everyone in the "cool crowd" was wealthy.
"You're what?! " Caroline Chittenden's nasal voice had shrilled when they met in Johnson's drugstore the other evening. She'd been buying Nivea cream for her blisters; Caroline was purchasing perfume and the latest issue of Vogue. "Well, I suppose it's something to keep you busy while what's-his-name's away, but a boat yard..."
"Oh, it's kind of fun," she'd pasted on a vivacious smile. "And anyway, Robbie Runions and I aren't going steady or anything."
Caroline didn't extend the hoped-for invitation to a party or beach picnic, but simply arched her over-plucked eyebrows and muttered, "oh, really?" as though she couldn't have cared less. Then she sauntered away, calling back over her shoulder, "Have fun down at the harbor. See you around when I get back from Europe, maybe." Then she was gone, and Tracey was left alone staring at her ring-less left hand.
It was going to be somewhat awkward explaining to her boyfriend why her finger had been bare in his absence. . . perhaps she could claim she was allergic to the metal, or say her Mom had thrown a fit. Whatever. The main thing was first, not to incite unnecessary unpleasantness at home, and second, not to discourage possible dates. One very positive aspect to working in the boat yard was that good-looking guys were always wandering around ... summer folks and upperclassmen from the "cool crowd" at High and prep school guys and even college men home for the holidays.
Guys like handsome Colin Highsmith...
Early this morning, when she'd been energetically engaged in stripping old paint and varnish from his Dad's ritzy motor cruiser-Mr. Comfort, in revenge against her mother, having assigned her the most arduous tasks he could invent all week-Colin had strolled into the boatshed looking crisp and elegant in spotless white duck trousers, Easy Rider sunglasses, and a black tee-shirt with a little alligator on the breast pocket to prove it wasn't just any old ordinary T-shirt. Since the temperature in the sun was already up in the nineties, she'd taken off all her clothing except her modified string bikini and an unfastened threadbare shirt. At first she'd been embarrassed to approach Colin-surely his sister Cressida and her refined girl friends never ran around half undressed with their hair in pigtails and paint splatters on their hands and legs-but since Toby and Rufus were as usual late to work and the boss had gone off on some errand, she'd had no choice but to speak to the Highsmith heir. "Hello. C-Can I help you."
He'd taken off his trendy sunglasses. "Oh, hi there, uh-Gracey, isn't it? Yeah, well, I just wanted to find out when my speedboat's gonna be finished."
He'd remembered her name ... well, almost. . . but nevertheless...
Obviously she knew who he was; everyone in this stretch of Michigan knew the Highsmiths, for they were just about the best-heeled family around, and old money, too, not like the Holches who'd gotten rich selling used cars and invested in a mammoth pick stucco split-level with pink dock, pink boathouse, pink powerboat, and pink Cadillac to match. Mrs. Holch had even had their poodle dyed pink until the poor thing developed eczema and insisted in scratching its genitals in public like a common hound dog.
No, the Highsmith's had class, and Tracey hadn't dreamed Colin would remember a Nobody like herself, even though she had been friends of sorts with his sister before Cressida went off to boarding school.
Once she'd even been to a birthday party in the Highsmith's huge villa, and though she'd only been twelve or thirteen at the time she remembered in covetous detail the velvet plush dining room with its crystal chandelier and the British manor-type gardens with their fountains and rose beds and mazes formed of neatly clipped hedges. Instead of the usual layer cake with candles and ice cream and bottled soda pop, they'd dined on some delicacy composed of raspberry sherbet and pistapeaches called a "coupe ambassadrice" and chocolate "truffles," plus a selection of exotic juices.
While she'd still been suffused in the warm afterglow of Colin's perfunctory appearance, something else nice happened. Mr. Comfort, who'd been mean as a bear all week long, had come out on the cruiser's deck with a jovial grin on his rugged, sun-browned face and had stood watching while she worked. After some minutes, to her utter surprise, he'd come up beside her to pat her bare shoulder in a kindly way.
"Okay, kid, guess you've proved you've got guts, after all. C'mon inside the office with me. Today I'll let you take things easy-this really isn't work for a little gal like you, not in this blistering heat."
She'd hesitated, blushing. "Gee, thank you, sir, but ... but honest, this stripping's not so bad once you get used to it, and-"
"Hey, don't worry," he laughed, squeezing her upper arm in a paternal manner. "You don't have to get uptight about Mama finding out I'm doing you special favors just 'cause you're a girl. Somebody's got to cope with the inventory while I finish up this end-of-the-month accounting, and I don't reckon either Toby or Rufus have enough sense to so much as count the toes on their stinking feet. So it's up to you, sweetheart. C'mon, let's get a move on-it's already after ten."
"Right, Mr. Comfort, sir." She positioned herself in what she fondly supposed to be a seaman-like stance, too intent on appearing eager and efficient to notice his scrutinization of her half-clad figure. "Math's not by best subject, but I do fine till Algebra and Geometry came along, and Miss Turnbull in Sophomore English said my handwriting was the most legible in the whole class. So I'll try my best."
"Good girl!" His eyes roved hungrily over her budding breasts, her half-exposed ass-cheeks. Accounting, a chore he normally abhorred, would be a far more pleasant task now that he'd have generous glimpse of tits and legs and taut teenaged buttocks whenever he raised his eyes. "Hey, sweetie, here's a buck. Run 'round the corner to the Sweetshop and pick us up some coffee and Danish before we get started, okay. No-too damn hot for coffee. Get me a coke, and whatever you like for yourself."
"Yes, s-I mean Ted," she dimpled up at him, grateful that he was finally acting friendly. "Just as soon as I get into my clothes."
"Oh, don't bother about that. Scorcher like this, you're better off in your bikini. And with all these summer folks waltzing around town in pin curls and underwear, no one's gonna mind your cute little swim-suit."
"Well. . . okay. You're right-it sure is hot today."
By five-thirty, when she'd finished tabulating tins of paint and coils of rope and cases of fiberglass and boxes of nuts and bolts, it was still so hot that the front seat of Mom's Rambler burned her bare thighs and the steering wheel was almost too hot to touch. In spite of the torpid weather, however, the fair-haired adolescent was in high spirits. Work had been more like play today, what with Ted making jokes and looking at her in a way that made her feel pretty. Un-like her mother, who blew her top if a man stared at her on the street, Tracey rather liked the warm feeling a man's admiring eyes gave her. And, of course, it was all perfectly okay with her boss ... just like with her teachers at school, or with her favorite Uncle, who was so similar in looks and personality to Ted Comfort.
Only one unpleasant incident had marred an otherwise enjoyable day. After work, when she was in the crew's quarters big bathroom changing into her lightweight cotton shift, she'd overheard her male coworkers talking in the corridor outside.
"It ain't fucking fair!" Rufus Bray was exclaiming loudly, resentfully. "How come we gotta work our balls off while she don't do nothing but show off her tits to the boss?"
"F-fuckin' right!" Toby Turetsky echoed. "Ain't fuckin' fair!"
"And blondeie's getting paid just as much as we are to strut 'round showing off her bod! Shit, man, I ain't gonna ... "
"Well, who cares about them?" Tracey shrugged as she turned onto Main Street. "They're just a couple ugly creeps. It's sure not my fault they're too dumb to help with taking inventory!"
She tossed her silky shoulder-length hair back from her face, putting the boys out of her mind as she steered the car through the tangle of holiday traffic which clogged the narrow small-town street. Overweight businessmen with pale-fleshed bellies sagging above their tartan-plaid swim trunks ... elegant city matrons in high-heeled sandals and expensive beach costumes and Jacqueline Kennedy sunglasses ... squalling kids with sunburns and inflated inner tubes and dribbling popsicles ... poodles on sequined leashes snarling at sniffing local stray mutts ... Tracey saw all this without really seeing it, for it was just exactly the same scene she'd witnessed every summer for as long as she could remember. Besides, her attention was focused on four sun-gilded young bodies lounging against a new-model Mercedes sports-car parked outside the Dairy Queen.
Colin Highsmith! And his pretty sister, Cressida in a skimpy black string bikini unbelievably ... and another extremely handsome blonde youth with an Irish wolfhound panting at his feet ... and a large-breasted redhead in a bikini only a shade less revealing than svelte Cressida's. The Aronson girl was staring at the attractive quartet so intently that she stalled the Rambler. None of them noticed her, but she got a good view of the over-developed auburn-haired girl fictitiously snatching at Colin's "Mr. Misty" crushed ice beverage, then kissing him on both cheeks like a mademoiselle in a French film when he finally laughed and gave her a sip.
All at once, Tracey Aronson's happy mood dissolved, leaving a black cloud of despondency in its place. Compared to that self-assured auburn-haired boarding school coed, she'd been a gauche and gawky small town simpleton when Colin had come into the boat yard this morning. How had she ever been crazy enough to consider herself the equal of these privileged private school butterflies, these cultured, high-class creatures who'd lounged on yachts in the Mediterranean and Acapulco and Nassau instead of scraping paint off the same ships here in Birch Bay for $2.75 an hour. She was a Nothing, a dun-gray moth, dull and tongue-tied and unattractive ... undesirable...
Traffic began to inch forward again, but instead of continuing on the congested county highway which led her directly home, she swung off onto Ridge Roadway. The only vehicles on this narrow drive wending its way along the coast from villa to villa were elegant limousines and sports-cars, some chauffer-driven, and the occasional delivery van or telegram boy's motorcycle. It was a dead-end stretch of concrete leading only to private seaside mansions like the Highsmiths house and to abandoned villas like Old Lady Douse's place.
"A nice cool swim," the young blonde muttered to herself. "That ought to cure the blues..."
But how could any normal sixteen year-old girl be in good spirits when she faced the prospect of a dateless Friday night? Robbie Runions' class ring hidden under her underwear in the top drawer of her bureau along with her dairy and a copy of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About SEX was no consolation; he was just a dumb kid compared to cool guys like Colin Highsmith, and she'd just as soon watch some boring television program with Clara Pringle-who was pretty boring, too, with her chatter about her job at the Baptist Church Bible School-as answer his corny letter promising eternal fidelity.
"Damn!" Tracey's thonged foot sank all the way to the floor in a vain effort to accelerate the aged automobile. The reverberating echo of the forbidden word made her feel better. "Goddamn everything!"
The dashboard needle crept up to 40 mph, 50 mph, 60 mph. That was as far as she dared tax the tired Rambler, but it was good enough. A cool wind whipped through her shoulder-length curls as she hurtled down the highway, dispersing some of the wildly exhilarated energy which boiled inside her, and as vitality vibrated through her veins she began to sing at the top of her lungs. "Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen!"-a current oldie-but-goodie chart-topper on the In Crowd's favorite Kalamazoo radio station.
What a weird mood she was in this evening! She screeched the car to a halt underneath a twisted oak just on the outskirts of the Douse's property, then vaulted the gate and ran down the rickety wooden staircase two-at-a-time, leaving her bikini behind in the back seat. Why not go skinny-dipping?
And indeed, it felt delightfully wicked to dive into the cool water without a strip of clothing binding her healthy young body. Feeling like a mermaid, she headed for the rocks where she and Robbie had made out at a strong crawl...