He and Susie started packing for Cloverleaf Ranch the next day. It would be good to get away from all the hippies, beer, and pot for a while. Their property had become like the Woodstock film playing in an endless loop, with music blasting all the time, drifters coming and going through the mud, drug paraphernalia piled on the coffee table, and clinking piles of beer bottles accumulating in the driveway. Susie had been spending most of her time at the McAuliffes’ house, no doubt intimidated by all the strangers around. Julie was living in her tree house again, which collected a random assortment of young beatniks in various stages of torpor. She was too old now for summer camp, and sarcastically wished her younger siblings a good time roasting marshmallows.
Marge drove them about an hour up highway 101 to Santa Rosa, where Cloverleaf Ranch was tucked in the golden, rolling hills off the old main road. Marty had stayed there a couple times before (when their family had money), so he knew what to expect. The front of the place looked pretty standard, with a ranch house, barn, and corral. When you walked past those, however, it was like entering a Hollywood movie set of an old Western town. The buildings were all authentic in appearance, laid out in a rough circle with false fronts and boardwalks. Kids could choose which building they wanted to sleep in: the blacksmith, livery stable, barber shop, hotel, and so on. The saloon had pop machines instead of beer, and a large dining hall was referred to as “the chuck wagon.” Even Slim Pickens, the well-known cowboy actor, made an appearance on Opening Day, to lend a mite of frontier flavor to the scene. Altogether, Marty thought it was pretty cool, because that year he would be staying in the most prestigious building: the so-called “Photo Shop.” Only four of the most senior boys could sleep there, and it had a commanding view of the rest of the camp from its porch. Susie would lodge with six other girls in the pink Dress Maker’s shop, which reminded her older brother of Barbie’s dream house.
Like any summer camp, there were tons of activities to keep the campers from getting into mischief. Horses were a big focus, and formal classes were held for a riding competition that would be held at the end of the cycle. Marty was happy to see that Blossom, a mellow roan mare he had befriended a couple years before, was still one of the mounts available. He chose her as his steed right away, and flattered himself by thinking she remembered him. He spent the first day signing up for all the best events and amenities, having learned from years before when he got stuck in the arts & crafts class making lanyards. This year, he was going to do all the best stuff: sailing, archery, sharpshooting, and country riding! Susie made a bunch of friends immediately, and they fluttered around the grounds with the silly nervousness of a flock of pigeons.
When Marty wasn’t shooting holes in paper targets, trying not to drown, or riding a heavily medicated mare, he practiced being studiously unambitious; just hanging out on the porch of the Photo Shop. There were lots of cute chicks his age in camp that year, and he wanted to be seen as much as to see what was going on. He reminded himself he could be anyone he wanted to be. He temporarily took a vacation from being a grubby forest hippie. With his new haircut and western shirt, he studiously projected an air of familiarity and slight boredom with the proceedings. One of the corny camp traditions was a nightly campfire, where overly cheerful counselors tried to lead everyone in sing-alongs and passed around graham crackers for s’mores. The campers could sit anywhere, but naturally there was a strict hierarchy, with the youngest kids in front, roasting marshmallows (what else), the giggling girls and rowdy boys in the center, and the teenagers slouched furthest away from the scene, trying to appear too cool for a campfire.
Every night there was a group of the same pretty young fillies bunched right across from where Marty sat with Sam and Charlie, his camp buddies from the Photo Shop. He was grinning at the winsome lasses like some kind of natural born fool, and they were smiling back at him, too, until Charlie poked him with his elbow and kindly informed him, “I think they like you, dumb ass.” Marty was astonished at first. Me? The object of a girl’s attention? That was a new experience, because all through middle school he’d never considered himself very attractive. But there they were, eager for social interaction, and close enough that he could talk to them if he wanted to! There was a slender one with fire in her eyes – literally – as she was reflecting the firelight in his direction. He thought she was pretty enough to be a model, and she was staring right back at him!
Marty’s heart was galloping like a wild stallion, and his palms were sweaty, even though he was far away from the fire. The flame-eyed maiden was being teased by her friends, but she tossed her head and turned towards Marty once again, deliberately putting her chin on her hand and branding him with her hot gaze as if to say, “Well, Cowboy, what are you going to do now?”
In the nonplussed manner of awkward adolescent boys all over the world, Marty laughed it off and wrestled with Charlie, who was making smooching noises behind his back. The moment passed, and when the last marshmallow had been roasted, and the annoying counselors started strumming the chords for Kumbaya, it was time for the young stallions to make their exit. Their copious coolness required that they had to be the last to arrive and the first to leave. As soon as they sauntered out, the fillies across the way followed, and the slender one with long brown hair and big eyes was near enough that Marty could have shook hands with her, and he felt stupid for thinking of such a thing. Her friends took the initiative and crowded around them like hostlers at a roundup, driving them through the gate of the corral, until they were pushed right next to each other and he had to say something.
“Um, hi – I’m Marty.” He resisted the urge to offer his hand, thrusting it deep into his back pocket to wipe off the sticky residue of marshmallows.
“I’m Lisa,” she said demurely, and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.” Marty couldn’t take his eyes off her enormous eyes, which were like deep, dark pools into which he had happily fallen overboard without a life jacket. Somehow he remembered to shake her hand – too quickly it seemed.
“She likes you!” That was her loud mouthed friend, Cathy. Lisa’ friends were tittering like chickadees, and Marty’s pals guffawed, but the two young dreamers were oblivious to their childish taunts. Marty imagined there was a connection between him and Lisa that transcended the nervousness and gaiety of the moment, and he savored it the newness of the feeling. No girl had ever looked at him the way she was looking at him at that moment, and he liked it very much! There’s something about the admiring gaze of a pretty girl that makes a boy feel like a man, he reckoned. (I gotta stop reading those Westerns.)
As they walked across the camp together, in the general direction of nowhere in particular, their courtesans and mockers awkwardly dropped away one by one, as they realized they were impertinent and being completely ignored. Alone, they engaged in small talk about where they lived, and Marty learned her family was from a wealthy suburb south of San Francisco. She was amazed to hear he lived in an actual redwood forest, and hung on his every word as if he was the most interesting person in the world. Marty was very impressed with Lisa, too, and after 50 paces they both relaxed and started acting like people who weren’t trying to act like something they weren’t. He really liked this girl, and what’s more, he managed to tell her so without the slightest trace of nervousness. She said she liked him, too, and then they nearly bumped into the railing of the Photo Shop. The guys loitering in the chairs on the porch did their best to act as if the roof was the most interesting thing in camp.
“Well, I’ll see you around,” was all Marty could think to say, and immediately felt stupid.
“I look forward to it,” Lisa replied sincerely, then giggled and and offered her hand again. When their hands met, her fingers caressed his palm surreptitiously, in a way that the others couldn’t see. She smiled a secret smile, then spun on her heel and returned to her merry retinue of ladies in waiting, who folded in upon her, anxious to hear every detail. Marty glided up the stairs to the porch like a stately prince, feeling the envious stares of the peons who wished they were him. Lisa turned and looked over her shoulder one last time, and he waved foolishly.
“Sweet dreams, lover boy,” Charlie heckled from the shadows, and the spell was broken. A popular tune by Steve Miller Band crooned on the radio:
