My oldest friend, Sally, was visiting from California and over martinis we were having fun reminiscing over “who we were then.”

My mom, who she adored, used to tell her that I would be a perfect corporate wife someday because I had a great body but was innocent of its power and therefore no threat to other wives. We always laughed about that.

But, little did I know that I was ripe for the picking.

“Do you remember the year when Mary Mattson came to Tahoe?” She did and remembered that she had felt left out of my summer plans.

Neither Sally nor I were “fast” in the vernacular of the ’60s; we were readers, sunbathers, and loved to talk about other kids in a typical 12-year-old fashion.

Mary Mattson, a classmate, was a force to be reckoned with. She was wicked smart, ran the 25-yard dash

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