Sandy’s gaze travels to the top story of Hamilton Hall. I ease toward the path, but her hand snakes out and grabs my wrist. Her grip is steel.
“I’ve got to go,” I wheedle.
“I need the key,” she says, still staring at the building. “Give it to me.”
“I . . . Sandy . . .” My blood thrums. How does she know that there is a key, much less that it’s in my possession?
She swivels her head to face me. Her eyes are as vacant as the dusty third-floor windows behind us.
“Sandy?” I say.
Nothing. It’s as if she isn’t really there—except she’s still holding my wrist.
My head. My ribs. That pressure, like a wending, outstretched tentacle, probing and probing . . .
My hand, the one not locked in Sandy’s grasp, slips into my satchel.
Sandy holds herself perfectly still.
I pull out the key, but not the dove. The dove is not for Sandy, and though the need pressing in on me is unbearable, I find enough strength—and no more—to manage this small rebellion.
Sandy’s eyes flicker, and she snatches the key with the swiftness of a cat pouncing on a songbird. I tug at my wrist. “Can I go now? I really have to get to class.”
“Of course,” she says, releasing me so abruptly that I stumble backward. She laughs, revealing the tips of her incisors. They’re small and pointed.
n Friday, Mitchell takes me to the Varsity diner after school. He lends me his jacket, and we ride his motorcycle. I sit behind him, my arms around his waist, my thighs squeezing his legs.
It is unbelievably sexy.
He is unbelievably sexy.
His motorcycle—this purring, rumbling beast—is unbelievably sexy as well.
“I want a motorcycle,” I say in the Varsity parking lot. Mitchell cuts the engine, and I climb off and remove my helmet. I shake out my hair.
“So get one,” Mitchell says.
“Riiiiight. My grandmother would kill me. She’d kill me if she knew I even rode on the back of one.” I hand Mitchell my helmet. “I told her we were taking the bus.”
He laughs, and since nothing I said was all that funny, I decide it’s just because he likes me. Which is lovely, since I like him too.
We go inside and sit in one of the red-checkered booths. I order a cheeseburger and fries; he orders a hot dog. When the waitress brings our food, she lays two paper Varsity hats on the table, the kind you puff into shape by pushing against the middle. We both put them on, and we resemble sailors. Or Varsity fry cooks.
Mitchell grins. “That’s a good look for you,” he says. “I approve.”
I tilt my hat more jauntily. “Why, thank you.”
“I like a girl who’s not afraid of hat-head.”
“Oh yeah? What about helmet-head?”
He winces. He makes a thumbs-down sign.
“Hey!” I swat him. “You’re the one who made me wear it!”
He leans forward seriously. “Bliss. At work and at play, let safety lead the way.”
“Of course,” I say. “Silly me.”
“Danger never takes a vacation.”
“That’s right. Expect the unexpected.”
“And never, never—”
“Yes?”
He wags his finger. “Check a gas tank with a lighted flare.”
A laugh snorts out. “Good to know,” I say, popping a french fry into my mouth.
We talk about random stuff, like how Lacy McConnell got a cherry-red MG convertible for her birthday. Mitchell tells me that after midnight she and her friends go drag racing, two girls in the front and three or more in the back.
“Without helmets?” I say.
“I know,” he says. “Shocking.”
Sarah Lynn is friends with Lacy. In my mind’s eye I see her perched on the back of the convertible, her face in the wind and her pale hair blowing out behind her. In the moonlight, it would probably look silver.
“I bet they have fun,” I say.
He shrugs. “There’s more to life than convertibles.”
“And that would be . . . motorcycles?”
“Smart-ass.”
“What, then?”
Between bites of hot dog, he tells me. Most of it we’ve touched on before: how kids at Crestview don’t know how good they have it, how most of them don’t even seem to realize a war is going on. It’s a continuation of our “little boxes” conversation, only this time he pushes further, informing me that his dad has been missing in action since 1966.
I put down my cheeseburger. “Since sixty-six? Mitchell . . . that’s three years.”
He holds my gaze to indicate that, yes, he’s done the math.
“Oh, Mitchell,” I say. “That’s awful. I’m so, so sorry.” I want to ask more—Where is he? Where did he go missing?—but I’m smart enough not to. It’s like when I can’t find my purse, and Grandmother says, “Well, where did you leave it?” If I knew, it wouldn’t be lost.
Only a dad is . . .
Yeah. Way different from a purse.
I let out a pent-up breath and tell Mitchell about my own dad being a deserter, and how I haven’t heard from him or Mom in months.
“Don’t they have phones in Canada?” he asks.
“I’m sure they do,” I say.
“Then—do you think something happened to them?”
I raise my eyebrows. “My dad always said the enemy could be anyone, but I hardly think that applies to Canadians. He and Mom are probably off in the Canadian wilderness, roasting marshmallows and playing folk songs.”
“While you’re stuck conjugating verbs at a fancy-dancy prep school.”
“Well . . . it’s not so bad.”
He smiles. He reaches across the table and takes my hands.
There’s a jangling at the door. Still holding my hands, Mitchell glances up and calls, “Lawrence! Hey, bro!”
Lawrence smiles and ambles over. “Hey, Mitch.”
Mitchell releases one of my hands to slap Lawrence’s outstretched palm, but he keeps a firm grip on the other. Even in front of Lawrence he does this, which makes our couplehood public. Which makes me all kinds of happy.
“Lawrence, you know Bliss, right?” Mitchell says.
“Sure, sure,” Lawrence says, and the way he looks at me without really looking at me tells me that he remembers that day in the stairwell. I wonder, suddenly, if Sarah Lynn remembers. Does she realize I’m the girl who saw them?
“How you kids doing?” Lawrence says.
“A-okay,” Mitchell says. “Right, Bliss?”
“Um . . .,” I say. With Lawrence right in front of me, I notice several things that I haven’t noted before. One: He is insanely handsome, even more handsome than I’d realized. Two: His palms are pink. Three: The only other black people in the Varsity are the fry cooks in their paper hats, back behind the counter.
This last fact didn’t register until this very second. Have I gotten so used to life in the South that it seems normal for all the customers to be white and the help to be black?
“Bliss?” Mitchell says.
“Huh?” He and Lawrence are both apparently waiting for me to say something. “Oh. We’re good.” I sit up straight. “I’m good!”
Lawrence actually meets my eyes. He seems amused. “That’s good.”
“It’s good to be good,” Mitchell contributes.
I blush. I have the craziest urge to bring up Flying V, Daisy, and Clementine to prove I have black friends too.
“All right, stay cool,” Lawrence tells us. “Time to get some grub.”
“Later, bro,” Mitchell says.
I wait until Lawrence is at the counter, then say, “He seems nice.”
“He is,” Mitchell says, his jaw tightening. “He’s a great guy.”
“Um . . . I agree. That’s why I said he seems nice. I mean, I don’t really know him, but—” I break off. I glance around the restaurant, then lean forward. “I think he and Sarah Lynn Lancaster might . . .
you know, have a thing.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes.
“You know who Sarah Lynn is, right?” I say.
“Of course.” His expression grows guarded, and he lowers his voice. “But how do you know about them?”
“You know too?”
“Be quiet. Only because I’m his best friend—or more like his only friend.”
“What do you mean? Lawrence has tons of friends.” Quoting Thelma, I add, “Everyone adores Lawrence.”
“Sure, at school. At football games. But do they bring him home for dinner? Do they borrow his Speed Stick in the locker room?” He lets go of my hand and shoves a fry into his mouth. “No way. He might have colored germs, you never know.”
I miss Mitchell’s hand. I feel like he’s punishing me for something I didn’t do. “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “And not everyone feels that way. Sarah Lynn, for example.”
I think about how Sarah Lynn pushed Lawrence away, and frown. “Well . . . maybe, I mean. I don’t really know.”
Mitchell exhales. “Sarah Lynn’s a good girl. But her dad’s a bastard.”
“How come?”
“How come? Because he was born and bred in this fine city, where ‘niggers’ are tolerated as long as they know their place. And their place is bowing and scraping, not dating their lily-white daughters.”
I trace a scar on the table. It’s not that I don’t sympathize. It’s just that we were having such fun before.
“You don’t know that,” I say.
“Bliss.” He waits until I lift my eyes. “Her dad’s a Klansman.”
Shock pulls at my features.
Oh, I think numbly. That would explain why she’d want to hide their relationship, I guess.
Mitchell watches my face. “Uh-huh. I told Lawrence he’s an idiot.”
“But . . .” I recall how Lawrence’s lips brushed Sarah Lynn’s. I remember how Sarah Lynn looked at him in the hall, her gaze a warning, but also more.
“No girl’s worth that kind of risk,” he says, reading my mind. “No offense.”
“None taken,” I lie. Sarah Lynn might be, I think. I dip a french fry into my ketchup and push the ketchup around. I might be.
“I think your grandmother’s here,” Mitchell says, looking out the wide window. A white Cadillac pulls up, and I stand.
“Well, bye,” I say stiffly.
“Stay,” he says. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
I shake my head. “Like she wouldn’t notice a motorcycle roaring up the drive? Anyway, I’ve got plans.”
“You do? Doing what?”
I could keep it a mystery. It would serve him right. But I’m tired all of a sudden, and not in the mood for games. So I say, “I’m spending the night with a friend.”
“Who?”
“Why? Are you going to stage a panty raid?” I say it with an utter lack of playfulness, and it throws him.
“Are you mad?” he says. He leans back in the booth. “I don’t want the guy to get himself lynched. Is that so hard to understand?”
“Not at all,” I reply.
“Lawrence doesn’t have it easy. He’s . . .”
I wait.
“He’s different,” he says. “Christ, I thought you of all people would understand.”
I stop making designs in my ketchup. I release my french fry, and a splat of red splashes my white blouse. Great. But I leave it and say, “Sandy Lear. That’s who I’m spending the night with.”
His expression changes. “Sandy Lear? For real?”
“For real. So yeah, I get it about being different. I’m not quite as shallow as you think.”
“What? Bliss, I never thought you were shallow.” He gives me a long, charged look, and my resistance weakens.
“Sandy’s an odd duck,” Mitchell says, shaking his head. “But . . . so what, right? That’s great that you’re her friend.”
I blink. Truthfully, I’m no longer sure I want to be her friend. If I had an easy way of getting out of our sleepover, I would.
“That’s what I like best about you,” he says. “You don’t care what other people think.”
“I care what you think,” I say.
“Well, of course.” He rises to his feet and hugs me. But the way he sighs, when at last he pulls away, tells me he won’t be cruising by Sandy’s for a late-night flirtation. There will be no panty raids tonight.
he moment I step into Sandy’s house, I want to turn and leave. If she hadn’t extended the invitation before the pep rally, I wouldn’t have accepted. But here I am—and Mitchell thinks it’s great.
I suppose I should make the best of it.
But her house smells, in an animal sort of way. And it’s incredibly messy, with stacks of magazines and books on every available surface. Also, dirty dishes. And old yogurt containers, lots of yogurt containers. It’s gross, though as I follow Sandy down the dank hall, I remind myself that it’s not as gross as some places. The pigeon coop on the commune, for example, with its rivers of bird poo and clumps of feathers. Nothing could be as gross as that pigeon coop.
“So . . . here’s my room,” Sandy says, pushing open a flimsy particleboard door. She bites her lower lip, and I go in.
“Oh,” I say. The animal smell is far stronger, and I sneeze three times in a row. Clots of yellow fur drift lazily in the stirred-up air.
“You . . . have a cat?” I venture.
Sandy beams, and I notice about a dozen cat figurines on her dresser, plus twenty or so more arranged on her bookshelf. Porcelain ones, ones made of stone, a gleaming gold one with a jeweled collar. The gold one has a regal bearing and a haughty expression. It looks Egyptian.
“Ah,” I say. “You have a lot of cats.”
“But only one that’s flesh and blood—at least, so far.” Sandy walks to her bed, crouches, and rubs her fingers together. “Here, Regular. Here, girl.”
“‘Regular’?” I say.
“I got her when I was ten. She’s my best friend in the world.” She looks up. “Except for you, of course.”
Her tone is oily and gives me the heebie-jeebies. I slip off my coat and drop it, as well as my overnight bag, on the floor, and dust puffs up from the carpet. From the looks of it, she hasn’t vacuumed in eons. Where the carpet meets the wall, there are dust balls clustered like marbles.
“Regular, don’t be shy,” Sandy coaxes. She knee-walks closer to the bed, sticks her head beneath the dust ruffle, and reaches her arm in deep. Her butt sways as she fishes around. Regular meows.
“Gotcha!” Sandy cries, and Regular’s meow jumps an octave higher.
Sandy backs out, still on her knees. She tugs at a bedraggled butterscotch cat who resists every step of the way.
“Sandy, just leave her,” I say. “She obviously doesn’t want to come out.”
“She does so. She wants to meet you, don’t you, Regular?” With a yank that makes me wince, she unhooks Regular from the carpet. She lifts one of Regular’s paws and makes her wave. “Say hi to Bliss, Regular.” She raises her voice to a falsetto. “Hi, Bliss.”
I give a pained smile.
“Aren’t you going to say hi back?” Sandy says.
“Hi, Regular,” I say.
Sandy thrusts Regular at me, and reluctantly I accept her. I can feel her heart racing.
“It’s okay,” I say soothingly. “You’re okay.”
Regular is a squirming mass of mange, and I’m afraid I’m going to drop her. So I lower myself to the floor—gross—and hold Regular in my lap. I keep my hands firmly on her, rubbing circles into her matted fur. Eventually she stops trying to escape, though her ears stay cocked back.
“You’re good with her,” Sandy notes.
I shrug. “I like animals—except for birds. Well, pigeons. I’m not such a pigeon fan.” I keep petting, and a wheezy purr starts up in Regular’s chest. I feel the jutting-out of her ribs.
“She’s so skinny,” I say. “Don’t you feed her?”
“Ha, ha,” S
andy says. “Of course I feed her.”
“Seriously, Sandy, if you put her in a tub of water, she’d be nothing but bones.” On the commune once, I saw a raccoon waddle into the creek all big and bushy, then waddle out a drowned rat, at least three times smaller than when his fur was fluffed out.
“Well, I’m not going to put her in a tub of water,” Sandy says. “Why would I put her in a tub of water?”
“Relax,” I say. “But for real, there might be something wrong with her. Do you think she has worms?”
“She doesn’t have worms,” Sandy says.
“Are you sure? Have you taken her to the vet?”
“Um, yeah. He said it was, um, a digestive disorder.”
“Oh. Do you have medicine for her?”
“Yeah,” she says. She bends down and grabs Regular. “Hey, watch this.” She crosses the room and puts her in the closet. She closes the door.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Sandy. You just put your cat in the closet.”
“I know. She likes it.”
Regular claws the wood and meows.
“She wants out,” I say.
“Re-gu-lar!” Sandy calls, keeping her eyes on my face. “Where are you, sweetie?”
Regular thumps against the door.
“I hear you, but I can’t find you! Are you lost?”
Regular yowls.
“Come on, Sandy. It’s not funny.” I get to my feet.
Sandy opens the closet door before I can get there, and Regular dashes out.
“Regular!” Sandy cries, scooping her up. “What were you doing in the closet, you bad cat?”
Regular purrs manically, her claws extending and retracting against Sandy’s shirt.
“What if I didn’t find you?” Sandy murmurs. “What if you were stuck in there forever?” She gazes at me, her face half hidden by Regular’s body.
“You’re sick,” I say. And then I sniff suspiciously, because a horrible odor emanates from the open closet. It’s worse and more particular than the cat smell already in the air.
“It’s a game,” Sandy says reproachfully. “She likes it, don’t you, Regular?” She points Regular’s triangular face at me and switches to her cat voice. “Yes.”