Free Beaches by Iris Rainer Dart

see her go, and she changed the subject to Neetie or her mother or something.
    “Bertie,” Cee Cee asked as she sipped her coffee, “don’t you think John Perry is really sexy?”
    Bertie looked at her watch. “It’s late, Gee,” she said, “and you need your sleep for tomorrow night.”
    Bertie dropped Cee Cee at the cast house, made her promise she wouldn’t sit in the living room and yak because it was bad for her voice, and drove away.
    Cee Cee walked through the living room. Peggy Longworth was sitting in a chair reading An Actor Prepares by Stanislavsky, and somebody with a pillow on her face was asleep on the sofa.
    “Good night,” Peggy said as Cee Cee walked upstairs.
    She had fallen asleep almost immediately, even though she knew going to sleep too early was a mistake and now her eyes were open and it was, according to Nathan’s luminous dial, two A.M.
    John Perry. Why was he on her mind? Cee Cee turned over on her stomach. Her body ached from all the dance rehearsals. And she ached inside, too. She would miss Bertie. John Perry. Oh, yes. Him. John Perry in those tight white pants; he must own a dozen pairs. And those tight T-shirts. His arms looked so strong. If only she could fall back to sleep. Had Bertie blushed when she asked her if she thought Perry was sexy? Actually, it wasn’t even an original question. It was something she’d
    heard one of the dancers ask Marilyn Loughlin, who had laughed and said, “I don’t think he’s sexy, honey. I know he is.” What did that mean? Were Loughlin and John Perry lovers? Did they used to be lovers? Lovers. Aunt Neetie and her bookie husband. Bertie’s desperately horny mother. Shit. She was wide awake.
    Slowly and quietly she got up, dropped her pajama top to her feet and stepped out of it, and slipped a caftan on over her baby-doll pajama bottoms. No one stirred. On tiptoe, she made her way to the door at the top of the stairs and opened it. Down the long wooden staircase that led to the living room. It looked odd in the darkness. The old wicker furniture was tattered, and everything smelled of mildew. Above the sofa hung a needlepoint legend. “You ought to go to Hollywood. The walk will do you good.”
    “A walk will do me good,” Cee Cee said to herself, as if she didn’t know where she was going. As if this was just some insomniac’s way of tiring herself out so she could fall asleep after a nice walk on the beach. Marion Avenue. Was it north or south? North. She had passed it one night when she went with Richie Day to the bus to pick up his mother who was coming to visit.
    “Perry’s house,” Richie had said, pointing.
    Cee Cee had turned to look and couldn’t believe what she saw. It was a palace. A mansion maybe. Big and white and colonial. And Perry’s black Lincoln convertible parked right out in front made the house look even more elegant.
    Now the whole place was dark. Totally. Cee Cee had walked the six blocks rehearsing the words, “I hope I didn’t wake you,” and now they seemed silly. Of course she would be waking him. There wasn’t a light on anywhere. Maybe she should go back. Then why did she keep walking toward the house? She held her breath as she passed the black convertible and walked to the front door. The door knocker was heavy in her hand-but she lifted it and then let go. Just once. The sound was loud and Gee
    Gee closed her eyes. Her heart was pounding. Now was the time to go. To run. To get back to the cast house before she said or did something really schmucky. This was a good stock job, and she shouldn’t fuck it up with her crazy big mouth that Leona was always telling her about. “Steppin’ all over yourself,” she called it. Leona should talk.
    The door opened about three inches, and a sleepy-faced John Perry looked out.
    Cee Cee was too nervous to talk.
    “Cee Cee? Is that you? Come on in, kiddo.”
    Kiddo. Not even dear. Just goddamned-no-sweet-talk-for-you, Bloom-Kiddo! Well, fuck you, John Perry.