you.”
Sarah stood rigidly at the door, her features running the gamut between indignant anger and alarm, tension forcing her hands to tremble. She stepped back into the room, permitting Vicky to enter.
“Not here,” Vicky said. “My room.”
“Why your room?”
Vicky, smiling still, said, “I have something you simply must see, dear. Come along now, it won’t take but just a minute.” She led the way along the halls, circled the stairwell and opened the door to her room. “Please come in,” she said, thinking of the spider and the fly. She stood back as Sarah entered, nearly laughing out loud as Sarah gaped at Mark Spitz across the room. The prize ribbons with the gold medals had been strategically pinned to his swimsuit.
Sarah turned to her, tight-lipped with annoyance. “Well?”
“Please,” Vicky said, closing the door. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“I won’t be staying that long,” Sarah spat back. She crossed her arms across her chest, sternly upright in the center of the room.
Vicky was growing impatient. “It may take longer than you think.”
Sarah faltered, unused no doubt to being spoken to in such a manner. She moved rigidly to sit on a striped chair, her back arched like a strung bow. She glared up at Vicky. “What do you want to show me?”
“Oh, yes,” Vicky said lightly, as if she’d forgotten the reason for the visit. She slipped a long, rolled tube from the upper shelf of her closet and moved to stand before Sarah. Holding the ends of the roll, she said, “Unroll this.”
Sarah reached out, clasped the roll with both hands and held it as Vicky backed away—her eyes widening with horror as, inch-by-inch, the poster was revealed.
The blow-up was grainy, but unmistakably a photo of Sarah. It showed her seated, peering intently at the extended centerfold of one of Vicky’s old Playgirl magazines, holding it upright before the light from above the medicine chest. The photo of the male nude centerfold that she was ogling was hidden from the camera, but Playgirl ’s cover was clearly visible. From the look on Sarah’s face, it was obvious that her awe did not stem from the aesthetic placement of the staples.
Chapter 8
“ No!” Sarah cried.
Vicky stood quietly aside, watching Sarah’s face as she struggled, fingers curled to gnarled fists, wrinkling the poster before wrenching it apart, tearing it in two with a dry, zipping sound.
“That’s all right, dear,” Vicky said softly. “I have other copies. I had them flown in from New York just for the occasion.”
Sarah threw her hands outward, tears of anger and frustration pushing forth, unable to speak. Her face flushed beneath her powder, lips twitching as if struggling to open, but unable to spew out the words that were beginning to strangle her. “ Why? ” she finally cried. She brought her fists to her knees, pressing downward “Why are you doing this to me? I’ve never harmed you. Why do you hate me so?” Tears gushed forth, and she lowered her face to her hands, shoulders shaking in spasms.
Vicky looked away, ashamed more of herself than for Sarah. Then, again, anger at Sarah surged up in her. “I don’t hate you,” she said firmly. “None of this should have been necessary. Do you think I’m proud of this? You forced me into this, meddling in my affairs. You, and your damned petition! Where do you…”
“ My petition?” Sarah cried. Her head snapped up to glare at Vicky with eyes red and pained. “It’s not mypetition! I didn’t write it, I didn’t even sign it! I don’t sneak around people’s backs!” I told you what I thought of your Blueboy to your face!” Her words came out in a torrent, unplanned. She was telling the truth . Vicky was speechless. It had never occurred to her that someone else might have started the petition. “But you said you’d find a way to make me leave,” she said, finally.
“Of course,” Sarah spat. “I was angry. Have you never made angry
Sarah stood rigidly at the door, her features running the gamut between indignant anger and alarm, tension forcing her hands to tremble. She stepped back into the room, permitting Vicky to enter.
“Not here,” Vicky said. “My room.”
“Why your room?”
Vicky, smiling still, said, “I have something you simply must see, dear. Come along now, it won’t take but just a minute.” She led the way along the halls, circled the stairwell and opened the door to her room. “Please come in,” she said, thinking of the spider and the fly. She stood back as Sarah entered, nearly laughing out loud as Sarah gaped at Mark Spitz across the room. The prize ribbons with the gold medals had been strategically pinned to his swimsuit.
Sarah turned to her, tight-lipped with annoyance. “Well?”
“Please,” Vicky said, closing the door. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“I won’t be staying that long,” Sarah spat back. She crossed her arms across her chest, sternly upright in the center of the room.
Vicky was growing impatient. “It may take longer than you think.”
Sarah faltered, unused no doubt to being spoken to in such a manner. She moved rigidly to sit on a striped chair, her back arched like a strung bow. She glared up at Vicky. “What do you want to show me?”
“Oh, yes,” Vicky said lightly, as if she’d forgotten the reason for the visit. She slipped a long, rolled tube from the upper shelf of her closet and moved to stand before Sarah. Holding the ends of the roll, she said, “Unroll this.”
Sarah reached out, clasped the roll with both hands and held it as Vicky backed away—her eyes widening with horror as, inch-by-inch, the poster was revealed.
The blow-up was grainy, but unmistakably a photo of Sarah. It showed her seated, peering intently at the extended centerfold of one of Vicky’s old Playgirl magazines, holding it upright before the light from above the medicine chest. The photo of the male nude centerfold that she was ogling was hidden from the camera, but Playgirl ’s cover was clearly visible. From the look on Sarah’s face, it was obvious that her awe did not stem from the aesthetic placement of the staples.
Chapter 8
“ No!” Sarah cried.
Vicky stood quietly aside, watching Sarah’s face as she struggled, fingers curled to gnarled fists, wrinkling the poster before wrenching it apart, tearing it in two with a dry, zipping sound.
“That’s all right, dear,” Vicky said softly. “I have other copies. I had them flown in from New York just for the occasion.”
Sarah threw her hands outward, tears of anger and frustration pushing forth, unable to speak. Her face flushed beneath her powder, lips twitching as if struggling to open, but unable to spew out the words that were beginning to strangle her. “ Why? ” she finally cried. She brought her fists to her knees, pressing downward “Why are you doing this to me? I’ve never harmed you. Why do you hate me so?” Tears gushed forth, and she lowered her face to her hands, shoulders shaking in spasms.
Vicky looked away, ashamed more of herself than for Sarah. Then, again, anger at Sarah surged up in her. “I don’t hate you,” she said firmly. “None of this should have been necessary. Do you think I’m proud of this? You forced me into this, meddling in my affairs. You, and your damned petition! Where do you…”
“ My petition?” Sarah cried. Her head snapped up to glare at Vicky with eyes red and pained. “It’s not mypetition! I didn’t write it, I didn’t even sign it! I don’t sneak around people’s backs!” I told you what I thought of your Blueboy to your face!” Her words came out in a torrent, unplanned. She was telling the truth . Vicky was speechless. It had never occurred to her that someone else might have started the petition. “But you said you’d find a way to make me leave,” she said, finally.
“Of course,” Sarah spat. “I was angry. Have you never made angry
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