Sandy Olson did a very good job of portaying innocence. Everyone found it a little strange that she'd been seeing Danny on-again, off-again for a year and still hadn't given it up. They wrote it off as her strange Australian ways, her religious convictions to remain pure.
They didn't know about the way she feverish ran her hands through Betty Rizzo's closely chopped brunette mop in her bed late at night.
Her parents were glad she had a friend, and thought nothing of the fact that they stayed locked in her room for hours; after all, they were teenage girls. They had boys to gossip about and cigarettes to pretend not to smoke and records of Elvis to giggle over.
They weren't aware of the way she traced her tongue down Rizzo's throat, searching madly for the spot that gave the girl chills all over her body.
Danny was frustrated with Sandy's goody-two-shoes attitude and refusal to let him have her way with him. He sat at home late at night concocting his next scheme to slip his hand up her skirt, over the thighs the brunette's head rested lazily on after their quiet, midnight dance. But he didn't know that.
No one knew, save the two giggling girls and the teddy bear that sat in a chair in the corner of Sandy's room. And that was how they liked it.