“At L’Evier we keep an extremely strict policy of hard work and complete obedience. You girls are here to learn to become pillars of society, gracious and respectful. A list of rules will be posted in your room, along with your daily uniform. Weekends you may wear your own clothes, however”—another steely look at my T-shirt—“I do expect a certain amount of decorum. No short shorts, torn jeans, or tops worn with no brassiere. L’Evier girls have an image to maintain, so kindly always be sure to uphold our rules or you’ll risk immediate expulsion. Remember our motto: ‘Girls of Quality—Women of Status.’” A long pause to allow us to absorb her words … then, “That will be all for now. Mr. Lindstrom will show you to your quarters.”
Quarters? I really have stepped into a Charles Dickens world.
Mr. Lindstrom struggles to retrieve our luggage from the trunk of the old Mercedes he’d driven from the airport. I help him. Liz doesn’t. I get the impression she’s a bit of a bitch. But I still want to hear everything she has to say about sex.
Does it hurt?
Is it fun?
How do you not get pregnant?
Hmm … I guess she’ll have no answer to that question.
We enter the building, dragging our suitcases behind us since Mr. Lindstrom has now given up. It seems we’ve been allotted different rooms. Liz is on the first floor, I am on the second. Mr. Lindstrom huffs and puffs all the way to my room, then does a quick vanish.
I fling open the door and there, sitting cross-legged on her bed, is my roommate, a short girl with small blue eyes set in a round face, cascades of the most glorious curly golden hair, very pale skin, and extremely well-developed breasts.
Being more or less flat-chested, I am immediately jealous.
“You must be the new girl,” she says, lighting up a cigarette, which I’m sure is not allowed.
“Lucky Saint,” I reply, standing awkwardly in the doorway.
“What the hell kind of name is that?” she demands, blowing a stream of smoke in my direction.
“And you are?” I say, determined not to let her get to me.
“Olympia Stanislopoulos,” she drawls, flicking ash on the carpet. “Welcome to the house of horrors.”
Oh my God! This place totally sucks.
CHAPTER FOUR
At first Olympia is not exactly friendly, more wary and inclined to ignore me once she discovers I am a year younger than her. We’re in the same grade, which probably pisses her off, because as far as schoolwork goes, I’m smarter, too. I have learned something along the way. I speak three languages and I’m a whiz with numbers. I wish I was sharing a room with the infamous Liz. I desperately need some juicy sex education, and she’s just the girl to give it to me.
After my fifteenth birthday—celebrated with one candle on a cupcake—and a brief phone call from Daddy Gino, Olympia starts to warm up to me. After all, she’s got no choice since we are sleeping in the same room. She tells me about her father, Greek shipping billionaire Dimitri Stanislopoulos, divorced from her mom, an American socialite.
“They both like totally spoil the hell outta me,” Olympia reveals with an entitled tilt of her head. “It’s kinda a one-upmanship deal for them to see who gets the most love. Daddy is desperate for me to marry some rich Greek dude with a ton of money, and Mom figures I should choose a career.”
“Doing what?” I ask innocently.
“Beats me,” Olympia responds with a casual laugh. “I’ve been thrown out of two schools, this is the third. Each time they send me farther away.”
At least you have both parents, I’m longing to say. But I don’t, ’cause I’d learned that once Olympia starts talking, it’s best not to interrupt. She’s a girl used to getting her own way.
“All I wanna do is have fun,” Olympia announces. “Boys, booze, and grass. You can join me if you like.”
“How’s that possible?” I ask. “We’re locked up here. Besides, there’s nowhere to go.”
“Wanna bet?” Olympia says, a big grin lighting up her face. “Lights out at nine-thirty. You ’n’ me out the window at nine thirty-five. You on?”
Yes. I am certainly on.
Later that evening we climb out our window, clinging on to the rampant ivy as we skim shakily down a nearby tree.
I feel excited and full of fire. This is the adventure I’ve been dreaming of.
Once we hit the ground, Olympia grabs a couple of bikes from a covered shed, and we are off.
“Where we going?” I ask, pedaling furiously, while wondering what the punishment will be if we are caught.
“There’s a village about twenty minutes away,” Olympia says. “We’re heading there.”
“Really?” I say, slightly wide-eyed, because it’s obvious Olympia has done this before.
“Yeah, really,” Olympia huffs. “Just follow me and you won’t go wrong.”
The moment we arrive at the village, Olympia acts very secure—she definitely knows her way around. After parking our bikes, we sit down at an outdoor café, whereupon Olympia orders two coffees laced with a strong liqueur from a waiter who appears to know her. Then she immediately starts flirting with a nearby table full of teenage boys.
Before long several of the boys saunter over to join us. I’m impressed: Olympia certainly knows how to make all the right moves.
None of them speak English. Interesting, because unbeknownst to any of them, I speak fluent German, Italian, and French, so I understand exactly what they’re saying. They are all lusting after Olympia, mumbling things like “Fantastic tits!” “I sure hope she screws.” “Or sucks.” “Or both.”
So it’s true. Boys only ever want one thing. And since neither of us is about to give it up, I start thinking that we should go. Not that they even notice me. Olympia and her amazing boobs are the main attraction.
“I think we should split,” I say at last, starting to feel the effects of the liqueur. I’ve only been drunk once before, and that was with Dario a couple of Christmases ago. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. I prefer being in control, not falling-down drunk.
“No way,” Olympia objects. “I’m having fun, aren’t you?”
“Actually no,” I say. “It’s not much fun being ignored, so I’m taking off.”
“Nobody’s stopping you,” Olympia says, completely unconcerned that I’ll probably get lost on my way back to the school. What a bitch!
Screw it. I grab my bike and hit the road. Like she said—nobody tries to stop me.
I do indeed get lost. And I am mortified when I have to get off my bike, stagger to the side of the road, and throw up. The good news is that I finally make it back to school and crawl under the covers, relieved to not get caught.
Olympia doesn’t make it for another three hours. She slips into bed and goes straight to sleep.
When she awakens in the morning she can’t wait to tell me what I missed. “Amaze fun,” she coos.
“Doing what?” I ask a bit crossly, thinking that maybe I should’ve stayed.
“Doing almost,” Olympia says with a smug smile.
“What’s ‘almost’?” I ask, still somewhat put out.
“Everything but,” Olympia says matter-of-factly.
I still don’t get it, until Olympia decides to explain to me in graphic detail the art of “almost.”
This turns out to be groping, kissing, playing around, cuddling, fondling, hand jobs, looking. In fact, everything but the final deed.
I finally get it. Oh my God! I have to admit that “almost” does sound like fun, and best of all—no risk of getting pregnant.
After days of instruction, Olympia decides I need to improve the way I look before our next outing. She fusses with my hair, applies my makeup, then lends me a low-cut red sweater, and a very short skirt. Next, she encourages me to stuff my bra with Kleenex until it appears that I have a modicum of cleavage.
I stare in the mirror, no longer a fifteen-year-old girl, more like an eighteen-year-old who looks as if she’s been around. I li
ke it!
I wonder what Marco would say if he saw me now.
Ah … Marco, I think dreamily. I love him, I really do.
“It’s time for another walk on the wild side,” Olympia announces, applying too much lip gloss with a flourish. “And this time do not go racing off like a frightened rabbit.”
I don’t appreciate her description of my exit. Frightened rabbit indeed! I’m a Santangelo, and Santangelos can do anything they set their mind to.
Equipped with the knowledge that “almost” is the way to go, and clad in Olympia’s clothes, we set off, using our usual escape route.
Same café. Same group of boys. Only this time they notice me, and oh yes—I notice them back.
There is one particular boy, Ursi, whom I kind of like. He has long floppy brown hair and kind of a bad-boy look. He wears a leather jacket and speaks a small amount of English.
We start talking. I like his eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes. He likes mine, and I know this because he tells me.
After a while he invites me to go for a walk.
Oh wow! Am I finally going to get that kiss I’ve been obsessing about?
“Sure,” I say, glancing at Olympia for some kind of guidance.
“Go!” she encourages. “We’ll catch up later.”
Ursi and I set off toward a nearby wooded area. He takes my hand. Exciting. We wander into the woods and after a while he stops, removes his leather jacket, and lays it on the ground.
We sit.
And here it comes …
He leans in and kisses me with full probing tongue. Suddenly I realize what all the fuss is about.
Wow! Have I been missing out! Time to start catching up and get myself a real education.
No more little Miss Innocent. I am totally ready to rock ’n’ roll!
CHAPTER FIVE
School. What can I tell you? Boring! A total waste of time. Stupid cookery classes and sewing and gymnastics—with a few math, Latin, and geography classes thrown in for fun. Did I say fun? Scrub that.
Our math teacher, Miss McGregor, is a witch on wheels. She’s around forty with badly dyed black hair and a permanent peevish expression. She hates us all. We hate her back. For some unknown reason she particularly hates me. Maybe it’s because I’ve finally found my voice and I answer back.
She’s into giving detention. I am her main target. Great! Bring it on, witch!
Sometimes I wonder if I wasn’t better off back in Bel Air with no one to talk to except Dario and a series of tutors. Then I realize that as bad as L’Evier is, at least I’m out in the real world making friends and getting kissed.
Ah … Ursi. I’ve seen him a couple of times over the last few weeks, and like Olympia warned me—he’s hot to do a lot more than merely kissing.
So far I’ve managed to stave him off, but right now I’m starting to think what the hell’s wrong with “almost”? I can experiment. I want to experiment. As long as I keep my cool and don’t go all the way, I can certainly try out a few things.
Thank God for Olympia—she’s totally awesome and she’s already taught me so much. She’s like the slightly older sister I never had.
Olympia, Liz, and I have formed an alliance. We’re the mavericks in a school full of girls too scared to disobey the rules. Liz has joined us on several of our nighttime excursions. And she’s regaled us with stories about the one night she’d had sex and ended up pregnant. We finally got all the gory details. How she was drunk on vodka stolen from her father’s study. How the boy—someone she’d only gone out with once before—had insisted that he wasn’t going to do anything, he simply wanted to get naked, lie beside her, and gently put it there without going any farther.
She was eager to experiment, so—foolish her—she’d believed him.
Naturally he’d slipped her the gold before she’d had the wits to object. And then—weeks later—sixteen and pregnant.
One fast abortion insisted on by her parents, before immediately being shipped off to L’Evier.
I feel for her. She’s way cool about it all, but deep down I know she must be hurting.
Olympia thinks it’s all a big joke. One thing about Olympia, she takes nothing seriously and who can blame her? Olympia, I discover, has led a privileged life of private planes, Greek islands, New York apartments, and so much luxury. Her father, Dimitri, the billionaire Greek ship owner, is, according to Olympia, a major womanizer.
Hey—join the daddy club, Gino, too.
We have that in common, fathers who can’t keep it in their pants.
Liz’s dad runs a major movie studio in L.A., while her mom gives great charity lunches every day. According to Liz, neither of them has much time to deal with her, hence the banishment.
Liz’s roommate at L’Evier is a beautiful Indian girl called Rashmir. She’s very quiet and calm, and would never even think about joining us on our adventures. It’s quite obvious that she does not approve of our nocturnal activities, and we can only hope that she doesn’t have a fit of “holier than thou” and give us up to the foreboding Miss Miriam. Liz insists she never would, only I’m not so sure.
Hey—whatever. It’s my new philosophy. What will be will be, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, so, like Olympia, I’m just going to have fun.
* * *
Ursi is pleased to see me. He’s always pleased to see me, and I’m loving this newfound power I have over the male sex. We meet up in our usual café.
It occurs to me that I have an actual boyfriend, while Olympia and Liz are still playing the field. I feel a bit smug about this, but neither Liz nor Olympia seems the least bit jealous.
After the usual ten minutes of light conversation, Ursi suggests we take a walk.
I’m ready. And willing.
We head for the woods. And this time I’m all set to play.
* * *
The next morning we’re in the science lab working on some useless experiment, when Olympia leans over to me and whispers, “What the hell went on last night? You didn’t get back until five A.M.”
“I know,” I reply with a secretive smile. “You’d better spank me, I’m a very bad girl.”
Olympia grins. “You catch on fast, don’t you? Little Lucky Saint has turned into a total raver. Must be some of me has rubbed off on you.”
“You think?”
“Wipe that smug expression off your face and tell me exactly what happened!”
“Almost,” I say, unable to stop grinning.
“Did you—?”
“Did I what?”
“Uh … did you touch it?”
“Let’s just say he’s a very happy boy.”
“Slut!”
“Takes one to know one.”
We exchange knowing smiles.
I have touched a boy. I have felt my power. I am ecstatic.
Now I can’t wait to see Marco again. Next time we meet he’ll recognize me as the woman I am. Experienced and sophisticated. But still a virgin.
I am saving that prize for Marco.
CHAPTER SIX
By the time my first term at L’Evier is over, I am a changed person. I am full of ambition, with dreams of maybe becoming a kickass lawyer or a world-class architect. Both professions appeal to me, although I know nothing about what it would entail to succeed at either of those jobs. It suddenly occurred to me one morning when I woke up that I want to do something powerful. I am woman. I can roar. Getting ready for summer vacation back in L.A., I pack my suitcases and stare at my image in the mirror. So much has happened in three months. I have grown up. I am no longer a fourteen-year-old girl, I am a fifteen-year-old woman. My reflection reveals a different me. With Olympia’s encouragement I have cut off my mass of black curly hair, and it’s now short and chic. My figure has developed nicely and, oh yeah, I am no longer bare-faced. Makeup is a vast improvement on the natural look.
Ha-ha! Marco is in for a big shock.
Miss Bossy does not come to fetch me. Apparently Miss Bossy got
the boot. I couldn’t be more delighted.
Liz and I fly together. We are friends. We have plans to do things in L.A. like shopping and dinner, movies and clubbing. Liz assures me she can get me an ace fake ID. Gino cannot stop me now. I’m almost eighteen—give or take three years.
I confide in Liz about my love for Marco.
“How old is he?” she asks, slurping down a bottle of orange juice to which she’s added a slug of vodka. Liz loves her booze—she buys it from a girl at school whose mom works for an airline and comes home loaded with miniatures, which her daughter promptly steals and sells.
“Dunno,” I answer vaguely. “Twenty-eight maybe. Or thirty.”
Liz wrinkles her nose. “That’s old.”
“I don’t care,” I answer recklessly. “I love him.”
“Do you think he likes you back?” Liz inquires.
I wish.
I shrug.
I eventually fall asleep.
* * *
Oh yes, dreams do come true. Marco is at the airport, waiting to meet me.
I stare at him.
He stares right through me.
Oh my God! He doesn’t even recognize me.
And then he does, because I run over, tap him on the arm, and say, “Remember me?”
“Lucky?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it’s me.
“You got it in one,” I reply, excited to see him.
“Jesus!” he exclaims, and not in an admiring way. “What’d you do to your hair?”
I give him a sexy look. “How do you like the new me?” I ask, waiting for an enthusiastic response.
“Uh … it’s certainly different,” he says, signaling a porter to take my luggage.
“Well … uh … I’m certainly different,” I say boldly. “You can call me a woman of experience.” I throw him a jaunty wink. “Know what I mean?”
Marco starts to choke. Not the reaction I’d expected.
“Let’s go,” he says at last, his voice gruff. “And you better wash some of that clown makeup off before Gino sees you, otherwise you’ll be dead meat.”
Confessions of a Wild Child Page 2
