“Sure,” Mitch said. “Might as well take it. Only I don’t like to drive at night very well. Not in a strange city.”
“Can Jake drive? He’s a peach on the roads. Careful as anything.”
Mitch hesitated. Then she agreed.
Leda pulled her sweater up over her head and loosened her bra. “Scratch my back, will you, kid?” she said. “God, I’m tired.” She flopped on the bed, face down.
Timidly Mitch’s hands reached over and rubbed her shoulders, and with her eyes fixed half shyly on Leda’s body, she recalled doing this before—a hundred times—but never so fearfully as now with Leda.
“Ummm. That’s nice. Your hands are wonderful.” For long minutes Leda let them run up and down her back. Susan Mitchell was an enigma. There was strength and force and power in her, queerly harnessed and checked, Leda thought. If it should be released, she would be stronger. Masterful. There had been a hint of this in her look that first day. It was the kind of look that an old acquaintance gives another, in a crowd where no one is aware that the two have known each other a long time. Leda balked at her own thoughts. This tall child was naïve and uncomplicated, she scoffed inwardly, and there was no reason to be wary. Suddenly, on an impulse, Leda rolled over and lay with her breasts pushed up toward Mitch’s hands. The girl jerked her hands away quickly and stood up.
“F-f-feel better?” She forced the words out.
Leda stretched luxuriously. “Mitch, honey,” she said, “look in the left closet and see if my yellow blouse is there. The one with the buttons down the back.”
Mitch turned toward the door to the closet and opened it, grateful for this sanctum. She stood there moving the hangers down the rack. I used to think you just had to lie there and that was it.
“See it, honey?”
“No,” Mitch answered, not looking at the color of the clothes. “I don’t see anything at all.”
Bud Roberts was a straight, narrow boy with a long nose and a square jaw. A cigarette hung loosely from his mouth, and as they rode along in the back of Mitch’s car, he held his hands firmly, cracking his knuckles in regular, even movements. Mitch sat beside him, smoothing her skirt and glancing up at him now and then, searching frantically for something to say. The radio blared forth from the front seat, where Leda leaned blissfully on Jake’s shoulder.
“I love to ride along like this,” Mitch managed to say. “It’s so cool and everything,” she added.
They turned down a dirt road and drove fast around the sharp corners and Mitch fell against Bud Roberts. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away.
He had not said anything beyond “Hi” since they started on their evening. He had simply said, “Hi,” and then they had climbed into the car and he had not said another word. Mitch tried to pretend that the silence was natural and she hummed a bit from one of the songs the Tri Eps had sung at dinner. The radio was noisy and she could not hear her own humming, but it made her feel better. She thought of Leda and how beautiful she was, and she felt a warm glow in her stomach when she remembered the way Leda had turned on her back that afternoon, and how lovely she had been. At her feet, in the car, the beer bottles rattled and she remembered how she hated the taste of beer. A slow panic mounted inside her as she imagined the hours ahead with the beer and the boy who did not talk. The panic was edged with anger and resentment.
When the car stopped and Jake called, “All out!” she was sick inside where a drummer beat fast against her breast, and dull loneliness gnawed there.
Bud Roberts caught the blanket that Jake tossed at him.
“We’re going on up ahead,” he said, and Leda called out, “See you later, Mitch.”‘
Mitch stood there while Bud spread the blanket a few feet from the car. He was whistling now, but there was no tune—just whistling with no order to the notes. Walking back to the car, he picked up the sack from the back seat and set it down by the blanket. Then he took a bottle opener from his shirt pocket and sat down.
“Like beer?” he said.
“Not too well. I’m not used to it.”
With a flip of his wrist, he sprung the cap and the white foam bubbled out toward the top of the bottle. He held it up to Mitch and said, “Here.” He opened another for himself and took a long swig.
Mitch sat down beside him and tasted the cold beer mincingly. It tasted bitter and sour. She coughed and said, “I haven’t had any in a long time.” Bud grunted and drank some more. He finished and reached for another bottle. “Through?” he asked, and Mitch shook her head. She sat quietly, wishing that Leda had not gone off with Jake, indignant that they had left her alone with Bud.
The silence was nervous and anticipating. After a while he reached over and pulled her down beside him there on the blanket. His mouth came on hers and she could feel the roughness of his beard. At first she tried to push him back and she struggled desperately. Then she let him kiss her. Ever been kissed—hard?
“You’re a cold baby,” Bud Roberts muttered in her ear. “That’s all right. I like them cold.”
“Leave me alone,” Mitch said. “Will you leave me alone?”
He sat up and reached for the full bottle of beer that was Mitch’s. He handed it to her and watched her swallow. In the darkness he could not see the tears that stung her eyes from the harsh taste of the beer. He waited and she took another swallow. She did not want to kiss him.
“Cigarette?” he said, passing her the pack.
She took one from him and let him light it. It would pass time. The smoke tickled her nose and she began to sneeze. Bud drank more beer and whistled nonchalantly, watching her as he handed her another bottle. The taste was like water now.
“Think you’re going to like smoking?” Bud said, grinning at her.
The end of her cigarette was wet and soggy and she stubbed it out on the ground. She said, “I’ve smoked before.”
He laughed and pulled her down again, and for another long minute she lay there impassively while his mouth pressed against hers, wet and hard.
“Take your coat off,” he said.
“I will not!”
“Get it off. What’s the matter? Rule against taking your coat off? I’m not going to undress you.”‘
His hands worked on the buttons, and in a moment he was helping her out of it. The beer made her head swim and she did not care. He put her coat beside his own, and then he opened more beer, passing her another. It was smooth going down and she was grateful that he had not pushed her back again.
“How old are you?” he said.
“Seventeen.”
“Jail bait, huh?” He laughed and reached over to touch her arm.
“What does that mean?”
“Means I’m not supposed to do this,” he said, his hand patting her below the stomach.
She moved away. “Stop it, will you? Please!”
“That’s just what I was explaining.” He laughed again. “That I’d have to stop. Don’t be so jumpy. You’re doing a regular dance over there. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Don’t touch me, then,” she told him.
“Don’t worry so much, baby.… Tell me, how do you like rooming with Leda?”
She was glad that he was going to talk. She felt better and less restless as he lay back, his arms behind his head, his legs crossed lazily.
“I