Chapter 5
As the bus climbed through the foothills, the warm air of the Coastal Plain grew cooler. Sandra poked her head from the window and sniffed, already catching the scent of pine.
She tingled at the sensation. It was wonderful. Ten weeks away from the city, away from Bobby, away from the dull life of college, away from the anxiety of an uncertain future on the stage.
At last, the bus passed through the cool green of Idylwild and rolled even higher, into thicker forest, passing under a gate constructed of rough logs. A sign hung across the road read-TREACHER FOUNDATION CAMP FOR GIRLS.
They pulled to a halt before a large log building which, Sandra was to learn, was the only permanent building in the camp. Its vast room provided space for the administrative offices, recreation hall, mess hall and dispensary. A dozen or so girls, all of them apparently counselors like Sandra, stood up and began hauling their luggage into the aisle.
"Brace yourselves, girls," one hard-faced redhead called to no one in particular. "It's time to go before the wicked old witch."
Sandra, close behind her, asked the question without being conscious of it. "Who?"
"The witch. Hester St. Claire. You know."
Sandra shook her head, pulling at her suitcases. "No, I don't know."
"God, I forgot! You're one of the new babies." She studied Sandra a moment. "Just keep these things"-she stuck her finger into Sandra's breast, then her thigh and then her buttocks-"out of reach, and you might be safe."
By the time Sandra stepped from the bus, the other girls, all of whom seemed to be about her age, were lined up across the porch. The head of the line was at a door marked OFFICE. Sandra looked about her. They were in the midst of a clearing more than a hundred yards across. Large tents with frame sides stood in a ring about the clearing.
One by one, the girls disappeared through the door, to emerge a few minutes later, papers in their hands. The redhead came out, passing close to Sandra, and winked. "Remember, sport, imagine footwork may save you."
Sandra frowned, puzzled, and then it was her turn to step inside. A thin teenager was behind a counter. She smiled at Sandra, pointing the way through an inner door. She put down her luggage and moved on.
The woman sat behind a rustic desk of natural wood with a highly polished top. A wooden sign had letters burned into its face that read Mrs. St. Claire, Supervisor.
She looked up, turning attractive brown eyes on Sandra, smiled as Sandra came to the desk. "Ah, you must be one of our new counselors."
"Yes-Sandra Albright."
"Of course." She stood briefly and shook hands across the desk briskly. "Welcome to the Treacher Camp. We hope you'll enjoy yourself while you lead our girls."
Sandra broke into a smile. What was so frightening about this handsome woman? Goodness, she couldn't be over thirty, and she was so friendly. "Thank you. I think I'll love it!" she exclaimed, the enthusiasm of youthful sincerity gracing her words.
"You'll learn the routine soon enough, but study this." She gave Sandra a large envelope. "Inside, you'll find all our regulations, our handbook for Treacher Girls and a schedule of events for the entire summer." She paused, and her eyes seemed to widen. "Of course, you'll report to me each morning for the day's instructions. At that time, you can tell me about problem girls, illnesses and so on."
"Thank you, Mrs. St. Claire."
The supervisor stood and came around the desk, her eyes wandering down to Sandra's feet and back again. For an instant, Sandra remembered the redhead's warning, but she quickly forgot that nonsense.
"You're prettier than most of our girls," Mrs. St. Clair said abruptly. "I trust you'll be able to last the summer without any boys swinging on your front gate.".
Sandra colored. "You won't need to worry. I've had my fill of boys for the year."
Mrs. St. Claire smiled her warmest smile of the interview as she brushed past Sandra, her elbow brushing the younger girl's stomach. "Excellent!" She was ready to open the door, but turned. "In the privacy of my office, when the others aren't around, you may call me Hester, if you like."
Sandra's color deepened for some reason, and she moved toward the door which swung open before her. She thought the supervisor was going to touch her again as she slipped past, but there was a fraction of an inch between her hip and the hand on the knob.
The buses carrying a hundred and fifty girls were to arrive at any moment, and Sandra paced the tent, nibbling on her thumbnail.
Only an hour before, Mrs. St. Claire had called her staff of counselors into the recreation hall and told them what she knew about certain problem girls-the ones who were at the camp by the grace of the courts and the Treacher Foundation. Each summer, about a dozen of these girls were sprinkled among the others in hopes that the association would save them from further trouble with the law.
Sandra looked again at her list of ten girls. She had one of the tough ones-Candace Simms. She wasn't told the nature of the girl's troubles, only that she came from the shabbiest part of Los Angeles and that her home life had been a struggle for day-to-day survival. She was to be treated with sympathy, understanding and firm guidance.
Firm guidance. She wondered what that meant.
From the sound of the girl's background, it seemed she'd need to be taken in hand, one way or another. Sandra didn't know if she had the patience or, indeed, the courage to wrestle with another girl's emotional problems...
The roar of motors came from the direction of the gate, and Sandra looked down at herself before going to the door. She wore the white shorts and T-shirt which was the standard uniform of the camp. The counselor had black piping at the necks of their T-shirts and down the outer seams of their shorts. Otherwise, everyone's uniform looked alike, the crest of the Treacher Foundation Camp for Girls emblazoned between their breasts.
She hoped her shorts were not cut too high and that her T-shirt was not overly tight. She shrugged, smiling to herself. It didn't make much difference. Except for the old watchman Mrs. St. Claire had introduced and an occasional passing ranger, there wasn't a man within half a mile of the camp.
She stepped outside into the bright, late-morning sun, shielding her eyes and reaching into her back pocket for her billed cap. She perched it carefully on her shining dark hair and moved toward the three large buses.
Already girls were boiling from the vehicles, lugging their suitcases and boxes down steps into the sun and skipping about in the dust. Mrs. St. Claire and several counselors were racing about, trying to coax the girls into line, doing their best to hold down the confusion.
Presently a hundred-and-fifty girls, all between sixteen and eighteen, were lined up in four rows, facing the supervisor and the twelve counselors, reminding Sandra of a large army facing a woefully outnumbered foe.
Mrs. St. Claire, barking her welcome with amazing speed and clarity, presently instructed the counselors to begin calling the names on their rosters. Fifteen minutes later, Sandra was surrounded by ten giggling, shouting, fidgeting girls.
She led them to their tent, hearing the commotion behind her as they went, feeling terribly self-conscious. She wondered if they were laughing at her, at the way she spoke or the way she looked or the way her shorts clung to her bottom.
Inside, she posted each girl to her bunk. There were five doubles, upper and lower, and Sandra had a single bunk just inside the door. She felt vaguely like a jail matron as she stood by her bed, watching the girls unpack their things, folding them into lockers which stood between each set of bunks.
She glanced at her list, looking up to associate each face with a name, standing by as they pulled off their city clothes and stepped into their snowy white camp uniforms.
One girl was hardly more than a child, her pretty body still budding, her hips still slim, her breasts still small with a promise of future beauty and fullness. Sandra checked the girl's name-Nola Franchetti, San Diego, just sixteen.
Another girl was a full-blown woman under her bundle of champagne blonde hair. As Sandra watched, she slipped off a plain cotton dress and tossed it on the floor. She stood in brassiere and panties, her breasts straining, her hips flaring as though she were a woman of twenty-one.
The girl picked up the white clothing from her bed and regarded it with disdain, watching the others shimmy into their new clothing. With a short laugh, she threw it on the floor.
Sandra frowned and checked her list. Of course, it was Candace Simms, the Los Angeles pepper pot. She approached the girl.
"What's wrong, Candace?" she said, keeping her voice level, yet not harsh. "Doesn't your uniform fit?"
The blonde whirled about, fastening her eyes on Sandra with a look of fear which abruptly changed to mockery. "Who knows? Who cares?" she snapped. "I'm not getting into the monkey suit."
Sandra smiled. "I'm afraid you must. We all must."
"Must we all?" Candace chirped, mocking Sandra's sweet tone. Several of the girls heard and laughed, stopping to watch the drama.
Sandra swallowed and became angry with herself when color crept up from her throat. She knew the other girl noticed, for her mocking grin spread.
"Pick up your clothing!" Sandra snapped. "All of it. Put on your uniform and hang your dress in the locker, as the others are doing."
"Make me," Candace said, her voice quiet, yet filled with a power born of a desperate way of survival.
"If necessary, we'll put you into a tent for bad girls," Sandra warned, knowing there was no such tent in the camp.
"Fine. Lead the way." The blonde stood there, her feet planted, her hands on her hips, her chin high. She still wore only panties and bra and, as Sandra stared, she wiggled her shoulders and hips. Again Sandra flushed, and again the other girls sniggered.
"Perhaps you'd care to go without eating until you learn to behave," Sandra continued, wondering of such punishment was ever meted out.
"Okay with me, sweetie," Candace laughed. She looked down at herself, patting her tummy. "I want to lose a bit of flab anyhow."
Sandra breathed deeply, feeling all eyes on her, knowing if she didn't win this test she'd be in trouble for the rest of the summer. Something occurred to her, and she bit her lip, knowing she'd be playing unfairly, but she was desperate.
"You realize, Candace, that we can arrange to have you removed from the camp ... sent back to Los Angeles." She cocked her head, watching the blonde's eyes narrow. "What would happen then?"
Sandra did not go on. None of the others knew that Candy would go back before a court and probably be sentenced to Juvenile Hall. Sandra didn't know how she had misbehaved, but under no circumstances were the other girls to learn that Candy wasn't a paying camp member, just like they.
Candace said nothing for a full minute, her eyes locked with Sandra's, her breasts heaving. At last, she knelt and picked up the clothing, clutching it as though it were something foul.
"That's better," Sandra said, her voice soft again, her nervousness fading for the moment.
"It's not over, miss high and mighty!" Candy hissed, her eyes hard. "I hate you for what you just did, and you better keep your eyes on me from now on. Don't dare forget you got a wildcat on your hands."
Sandra retreated to the door and addressed the others. "It's almost time for lunch, girls. Please go outside and line up at the mess hall in fifteen minutes. Move along now."
They skipped out, some of them looking from her to Candace and then whispering, their eyes bright, dancing with malice. Sandra wished she had never left Los Angeles. At that moment, she could have been in her apartment or working at the university library. And she could have been dating Bobby that night.
Instead, she was approaching the self-styled wildcat again, watching her pull on the T-shirt, stretching it over her healthy breasts and then shimmy into the shorts, which clung to her body even more tightly than did Sandra's.
"Candace," she said. "Tell me, do they call you Candy?"
The girl turned sullen eyes on her. "My friends do."
Sandra sighed. "I'd so hoped we could be friends. I don't know what happened to make everything so ugly."
"You're ugly!" Candy blurted. "That's a chicken trick, keeping me in line with that garbage about a one-way trip back to L.A."
"I'm sorry." Sandra decided to be frank. "I couldn't let you have the last word in front of the others. I'm your superior, whether you like it or not." She nodded toward the door. "Their parents pay so their girls will have guidance during the summer. You're here as a guest of the Treacher Foundation and you don't appreciate it one bit. You're actually a very lucky girl."
Candy snorted, going to her locker and throwing her dress inside. She slammed the metal door with a clatter, glaring back at Sandra. She began to march out, still watching Sandra with a look of hatred.
"If spending the summer in this dump is good luck, square lady, I sure as hell don't need any bad luck."
Sandra, her shoulders slumping, watched Candy march from the tent, her fully packed behind snapping back and forth angrily inside the shorts.