Chapter 2
What was she doing? Sandra asked herself this question, time and again, all the way back to her apartment. Was she inviting Bobby to seduce her? Of course she was. But why, all of a sudden? Why this rush to lose her virginity?
Was it because school was almost over, and she was relaxing after months of frustrating challenges? Was it the warm weather? Was it because she was restless, anxious for change?
Perhaps, she thought, it was merely because she had recently passed her twenty-first birthday. This made her an adult woman and, perhaps, it was only proper that an adult woman should have an adult affair. The time for puppy love and drive-in theater petting was over.
Whatever the cause, Sandra's body was stirring as she unlocked her door and walked in ahead of Bobby. She switched on the light and pulled the drapes, conscious of a tiny twitching of muscle or nerve deeply inside her. When she walked she felt her thighs brush together lightly, and somehow this excited her still more.
She turned and glanced at Bobby, who stood rooted in the center of the crowded room, staring at her as though she had lured him to the end of a one-way plank aboard a pirate ship.
Usually at this point, the woman said something about slipping into a more comfortable outfit, she thought, but she had gone through that routine before they went out. Instead, she waved awkwardly toward the kitchen. "There's beer in the refrigerator."
He left her, and she heard him open the door. There was the clatter of the can on the sink, and then the snap as he pulled off the tab top. He came back with a glass for her while he sucked the foam from the top of a can.
Walking stiffly, he sat down at her desk and placed the can before him. He studied it a minute and then, without raising his eyes, muttered, "How come you're acting so funny tonight?"
Although Sandra had asked herself the same question, it angered her when it came from him. "How in heaven's name do you expect me to act?" she snapped. "Like your sister?"
"Aw, golly, Sand-"
"And you can stop that juvenile 'aw, golly' talk this instant," she continued, her voice snapping at him. She folded her arms, pacing the room, her fingers drumming on her elbows. "You're a senior in college and still talking like a junior high school boy. Why don't you grow up, Bobby Williamson?"
He was silent for several minutes, at first watching her pace and then studying his beer can again. His eyes were half closed and his mouth pulled down as that he looked like a sullen little boy. How, she wondered, did a woman explain her frustration to a man? How did she goad him into action without playing the role of an on-the-make tart?
She stood behind his chair, draping her arms over his shoulders, leaning down to rest her chin against his hair. "I'm sorry about the tantrum, honey. I guess it's the heat, or worrying about my last final, or wondering about the summer. Whatever it is, I've no right to be so bitchy."
He reached up and placed his hand against the side of her neck. Then she leaned closer, letting her breasts touch his shoulders and flatten their warmth against him. Seemingly without purpose, her hands twisted against his chest, thrusting inside his shirt and whispering against his skin.
"Sandy," he said, his voice surprisingly quiet.
"Yes?" She waited.
"I ... I think it might be a good idea for me to go." He shuddered. "If I don't get out of here fast..."
She stiffened and pulled away, jerking her hands free. "Perhaps that's the best idea you've had all night." Her voice was like shattering ice crystals. "Why don't you run home to mother? Then you can cry yourself to sleep in your own little bed."
"Come on, Sandy," he pleaded. "You know how I feel about you. You're my girl!"
"Really?" She watched him get up, her head cocked and her fists on her hips. "I thought I was your twin sister. You know, the kind of person you take fishing and hiking and to stock-car races. Real buddies, that's us!"
She never saw his arm come up, but she heard and felt the slap. The sharp sting made her whole face numb for an instant, then there was only the tingling in her cheek. She put her hand to the spot, rubbing it lightly, her eyes wide, staring at him with unfamiliar awe.
Then he was close to her, putting his arm around her shoulder, removing her hand so he could examine her cheek. With small, meaningless murmurs, he kissed the place where he'd struck her, his lips moving all around the spot until he discovered her lips.
Her arms went around his neck and they clung, their lips tight and hard against one another, their breathing loud. She turned her face, breaking the kiss, but her hips were fastened against his body, jabbing at him without conscious instructions from her brain.
She pulled away then and, clutching his hand, marched to the bed and sat down, urging him down at her side. Still holding his hand, she placed it between her knees, again without thinking. It was an impulse.
His hand became alive, the fingers working, worming against her thighs. She breathed deeply and let herself fall back, her eyes closed, her breasts trembling like threatening volcanoes.
His hand worked on and suddenly she wanted to stop it. She commanded her own hand to dash to the rescue, to save her thighs from being invaded further, to halt his steady advance toward her loins.
She tried, but she could not. No, Sandra, she whispered urgently. It's not right. You mustn't. But you led him on. You begged him to do what he's doing. It's too late...
His hand froze at the knocking and she sat up as though a gun had exploded close to her ear. They looked stupidly at one another a moment, their eyes shooting urgent messages.
"What is it?" she called at last, straightening her dress while Bobby retreated to the desk, sitting down heavily.
"It's me!" a girl's voice called. It was Wendy, a friend from down the hall. "Something came for you."
Sandra breathed deeply and blew out her cheeks while she went to the door. She opened it and Wendy handed her a scrap of paper. "Western Union called on the hall phone while you were out. I told them I was you, so they'd leave the message; I hope you doh't mind. It's all there." She leaned past Sandra and saw Bobby, waggling her fingers.
Bobby, who had met her several times during the year, waggled back.
"That's fine," Sandra said, clutching the paper, her heart rising in her throat. "Thanks a lot."
"Sure, sweetie," Wendy called, retreating down the hall. "And congratulations. It's good news at last."
Sandra closed the door and leaned against it, half afraid to read the message. She gazed at Bobby, not really seeing him, yet thankful that Wendy had come in time. Then she unfolded the paper and read it.
Treacher Foundation Camp for Girls has last-minute opening for counselor due to illness. If interested please call Los Angeles office prepared to report for duties at San Jacinto Mountains campsite Monday morning, June 20.
Hester St. Claire, Supervisor
Sandra closed her eyes for a moment, hugging the message to her breast. She swallowed rapidly.
"So you got a job after all!" Bobby's voice was low, morose, defeated. She opened her eyes and looked at him. "Now you won't need me for the rest of the summer. You'll be going off some place."
"I will be leaving town," she breathed.
"And I'll be the forgotten man."
"Bobby, you know that's nonsense!" But as she said the words, her eyes danced, and she had a hunch Bobby was right.
Candy Simms dragged on the cigarette, letting the smoke penetrate deeply into her lungs. She held it there for the better part of a minute and then let it trail through her nose.
She could feel the abrupt sharpening of her senses, the strange prickling sensation passing across the top of her head as though she were being blessed with a sudden bonanza of brains and perception.
Other senses were heightened, too. Pot, she told herself, stimulated a great deal more than a girl's ability to figure long division in her head. She was conscious of herself as a woman, conscious of her body.
She placed the cigarette on the tin ashtray which had Sportsman's Tap Room printed across its bottom in stained white letters. Then she knelt beside her canvas cot and pulled one of the cardboard boxes from under it. She rummaged among the clothing and found the bathing suit.
She took it across the tiny room to the large chipped mirror nailed to the wall. She stood before the glass, peering at herself through heavy printing which advertised a central Los Angeles brewery.
She saw a spectacularly pretty teen-ager standing under a mass of fluffy, champagne blonde hair. She had a pouty face with provocative eyes and mouth and a figure which was the object of a great deal of attention because of its extravagant curves, dips and peaks.
"Let's face it, Candy honey," she murmured, winking at her naked body. "You got it where it does the most good."
She giggled, enjoying the cigarette immensely, and ran her hands the length of her body. Her fingers roamed over her high, pointed breasts, loving their responsive tingle. She could almost join her fingers around her middle, so tiny was her waist. She had the hips of a woman and, she boasted to the mirror, she knew how to use them. Her legs were the legs of an athlete, of a strong girl who could outrun or outfight most of the boys at high school.
Again she snickered. It was lucky she was fast and tough. Depending on her mood, she had either had to outrun or outright almost every boy in her class. Some, of course, she did not run away from and, if she fought them, it was only a feeble fight designed to heighten their desire for the conquest.
She dropped a piece of the tiny red bikini to the floor and shimmied into the bottom half, tugging it up over her thighs and settling it between her legs and over her saucy bottom. Then she put on the top, stretching it carefully over the dart-like tips of her breasts, loving the way her proud twins bulged above and below the thin band of cloth.
She was inspecting herself, turning this way and that to glory in her own profile, when she saw the movement behind her. Immediately, she thought of the cigarette on the battered table and whirled.
Her father stood in the doorway, his eyes darting from her to the cigarette. He wore heavy work-shoes, a greasy pair of khaki pants and a sleeveless undershirt with yellow stains down its front. His stomach rolled over the top of the trousers and his sagging belly had long since snapped off the top buttons.
He held a can of beer in his hand and, as Candy watched, ready to jump like a cat, he belched. She could smell the yeasty belch. She could smell him.
He moved at last and, although Candy was faster, he was closer to the table. His fingers closed over the cigarette an instant ahead of hers. At the same time, one of his shoes came down on her bare foot, and the beer can slammed on the table, pinning her reaching hand.
He pressed with shoe and beer can, making her wince. He grinned so that the gaps from missing teeth showed in his mouth. "Hidin' the stuff from your old dad again, you little snot-nose!" he barked, his face close to hers, his weight hurting her.
"Get your crummy hand off that cigarette," she snarled back at him. "You got no right at all ... "
"Who's got no right?" He laughed and put the cigarette between his puffy lips. The smell of stale beer and dried perspiration was like acid fumes to her nose, and she made a face. "What's the matter, missy? Ain't you a family girl, the way your maw always wanted?"
She watched him inhale, and the precious cigarette shrank by a quarter of an inch. "Gimme that!" she cried, reaching.
He held it behind him, making her fall against him. She hated it when her body touched his. He put the thing back in his mouth and placed his hand on her breast, shoving her so that she lurched back against the table, her hand and foot still pinned.
He looked down at her body, and something was kindled deep in his small eyes. "Why, you look like a cheap whore!" he blurted. "You goin' some place to sell it tonight?"
"None of your business!"
"I'm your father!" he shouted, his face close to hers. She could see the bristles on his chin, black and ugly against the pasty skin. "If your mother was here, she'd warm your little ass good." At that he snickered, obviously enjoying the pot. "But your mother ain't here, is she, Miss Boobs?"
He reached behind her, sinking his fingers into her buttocks and pulling her against him. His breath rattled in his throat, and he leered. "Maybe you ought to give your father a sample before you put it on the market."
"Get your slimy paws off me!" she cried, trying to twist away.
She half-turned her body, and his arm slid up across her breasts, pulling at them until the bikini-bra slipped down, letting them ride high, free and naked to his gaze. She watched his dirty fingernails nip at the end of a nipple, and a shudder of revulsion went through her, stronger even than the pain from his foot or the beer can.
In a lightning movement, she dipped her chin and caught one of the fingers between her teeth, biting hard, tasting blood immediately.
He screamed and jerked his body away from her, freeing her hand and foot. But she held on, grinding to the bone, feeling the blood begin to run down her chin. She hoped she wouldn't be sick.
He jerked away from the door, and the cigarette dropped to the floor and so she let go. He stumbled backward across the room, lurching heavily onto the cot, snapping its wooden legs. Everything went to the floor in a heap, and her things in the boxes under the cot were scattered.
Candy stooped, snatched up the cigarette and ran, scampering through the kitchen and out the screen door. It didn't slam behind her until she was halfway down the long flight of steps to the street. At the bottom she stopped, placing the cigarette to her lips and drawing on it. Never had she needed pot so badly.
She heard the car then, its tires squealing as it slammed around the corner. She remembered and, looking down at herself, she tugged the bikini up over her breasts, stuffing them in as best she could. She dragged again on the cigarette, and her fingers burned, so she dropped it into the gutter just as the car pulled up.
She jerked open the rear door of the battered fifteen-year-old Chewy, and leaped into the back seat. As they roared away from the curb, she looked up the flight of stairs to the screen door. Her father's silhouette was against the light, his beer belly giving him the shape of an egg.