“You go tell him he can go to hell,” she said. “You tell Bill Piersall I wouldn’t spit on him if he was dying of thirst. You tell him—”
“You mean you’re not going with him?”
“You’re almost as clever as you are handsome,” she told him. “No, I’m not going with Bill Piersall. Not even to a dog show. Not to a funeral. Not even to his own.”
“But—”
“Bill Piersall,” she said firmly, “can go to hell.”
She looked at Jim. He was shifting his weight from one foot to another while he shifted his wad of chewing gum from one side of his mouth to the other. She wondered if he was testing his coordination or something.
“That means you want to go out with me,” he said.
“Huh?”
“I guess it’s okay then,” he said. “I mean, if Bill was mistaken, what the hell? I mean, we can go out for a ride and park somewhere, and—”
“I’m not going out with you,” she said.
“But—”
“Jim,” she said, “I don’t even like you.”
He stood there with a stupid half-grin on his face until she closed the door. She went back to the living room, sat down once more on the flowered couch. Her father asked her if anything had gone wrong, and she told him nothing had. He went back to his newspaper and she put the television on.
There was nothing good on television. She sat in front of the set for an hour, hardly noticing the program, thinking instead about what Jim had told her. Except for the one small moment of triumph when she had insulted him rather magnificently, the little interlude in the doorway had not gone exactly as she had wished. The word about Bill, for example, was not the most exhilarating news in the world.
So Bill thought she belonged to him, did he? She had let herself belong to him, for a few small moments in a small bed of rumpled leaves, but that had been when she was sure she would never be seeing the bright lights of Antrim again. That had been as much a joke as anything else, and the fact that she had had a certain amount of fun with Bill had been nothing but an extra kick.
But now he thought he owned her. Now, evidently, he had taken the tumble to heart and wanted her for his one and only, to tumble when he so desired. Well, he was due for a rude awakening. He could hop on his noisy hotrod and take a fast trip to hell for himself. She never wanted to see him again.
At nine-thirty she kissed her father and mother goodnight and went upstairs. She flicked on the radio, but the usual diet of rock-and-roll seemed pale in comparison with the subtle jazz Craig had played for her. The rock-and-roll was Danny’s speed, or Bill’s, or Jim Bregger’s. Once it had been hers, but now she was swinging at a fast tempo. Now it took something a little more complex to get to her.
She sat on the edge of her bed, trying to find a good radio station somewhere on the band. The best she could do was hillbilly music, which was not a significant improvement over the rock-and-roll. She turned off the radio and listened to the silence.
It was golden.
Bedtime, the thought. Little girl, you’ve had a busy day. You emptied your savings account, gotten banged in the bushes, met a guy who swept you off both feet at once, and came home with your suitcase between your legs.
Which is plenty for one day.
Besides, she thought, she had to be fresh and wide awake tomorrow. Tomorrow Craig was coming for her, and she had an idea the evening would turn out to be one blazing hell of a time. A good night’s sleep would not hurt.
She went to the bathroom, washed her face, brushed her teeth. Back in her own room, she undressed slowly, hanging her clothes in the closet. She closed the closet door and looked at herself in the mirror. She was still wearing her bra and panties, her shoes and socks.
She kicked off the shoes, rolled down the socks. She reached behind her, forcing her breasts into sharp relief as she drew her shoulders back. She unhooked her bra and dropped it to the floor.
Her breasts were large and perfectly formed. She studied them, remembering the way Craig had looked at them. But he had not really seen them, not as she was seeing them now. He had not put his hands on them and touched them and traced little circles around the ruby tips.
She sighed. She looked at herself, at her own hands gripping her own breasts, and in her mind they turned to Craig’s hands, strong and possessive upon her. She toyed with her nipples until they stood erect and stiff, and she hefted the weight of her breasts, pleased with their perfectly formed fullness. Craig Jeffers, she knew, would like them. Craig would take off her bra to caress them, and Craig would lower his face to kiss them, and—
She shoved her panties down over her hips, past her thighs, until they lay bunched around her ankles. She stepped out of them and looked at herself, completely nude, needing only a man to make the picture complete — a big nude man, like Craig.
Her hands left her breasts and moved downward. She touched herself and her hands thrilled her. Tomorrow, a voice sang in her ear. Tomorrow night, in Craig’s house, in Craig’s bedroom and in Craig’s arms.
She tossed for an hour before she fell asleep. For an hour her hands were Craig’s hands, touching and fondling and exciting... Finally, she slept.
No one woke her in the morning for Saturday was a day of rest and on Saturday she had the right to get up when she wished. She awoke a few minutes after nine but she did not get up just then. Instead she remained snug in her warm bed for almost a full hour, finally emerging from beneath the covers at a quarter to ten. She yawned and stretched like a fat cat before an open fire, feeling the tingling in her body as her arms and legs came to life and prepared for a new day. She hurried down the hall to the bathroom, showered and brushed her teeth, then returned to her room and dressed.
It was a day to do nothing in and accordingly she dressed in an old pair of dungarees and one of her brother’s discarded flannel shirts. She rubber-banded her soft brown hair into a pony tail, put socks and saddle shoes on her feet, and went downstairs for breakfast. Her father was at the drugstore and Link had gone off somewhere with a football under his arm, but her mother was still in the kitchen. She scrambled a pair of eggs for April and poured her a glass of milk.
“Could I have coffee, Mom?”
“I didn’t know you liked it. Something new?”
“Not new,” she said a little defensively. “I just think I’m old enough to drink coffee. That’s all.”
Mrs. North smiled. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black, please.”
The coffee did not taste very good, and she wished she had taken it with cream and sugar. Still, this was the best way to get used to it. And once she was used to it she would probably learn to like it, the way everybody else did.
“Did you have any trouble with that Bregger boy, April?”
“No trouble,” she said. “I just told him I wouldn’t go out with him.”
“That’s the right way, April. Have you a date tonight?”
She only hesitated for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Mom, I do.”
“With anybody I know?”
“I don’t think you know him.”
“Oh? Who is he, then?”
“Craig Jeffers.”
Mrs. North pursed her lips thoughtfully. “No,” she said, “I don’t believe I do. He a boy in your class, April?”
“No, he’s not.”
“From Antrim?”
“No,” she said. Then, “From Xenia.” It was not true but it was as close as she could come to the truth. If she told her mother that Craig lived in a big modern house in the middle of the woods, the woman would think she was out of her mind. “From Xenia,” she repeated lamely. “I met him a few days ago.”
“A high-school boy?”
“No,” she said. “No, he’s older, Mom. A few years older than I am.”