Bliss

  She grabs my arm. “Wait,” she says. “We need to nail down our plans. I know you’re going to the dance with your boyfriend, but you and I could meet before. Or after, if that’s better. But I think before, so we don’t feel rushed.”

  So we don’t feel rushed? Just what is it she imagines us doing? No—don’t even think about it.

  I’ve got to stop avoiding the issue. I’ve got to tell her it’s not going to happen, not at the dance or any other time.

  “I . . .” I gulp. “Sandy, I really don’t think—”

  “It should be a perfect night,” she says, deliberately cutting me off. Her eyes are flat and hard. “I would hate for it not to be.”

  Is she threatening me? I think she’s threatening me. It scares the daylights out of me, and I jerk free and escape to the gym.

  he banner for the freshman float reads FLUSH THE UPPERCLASSMEN, and the girls on the committee are building a giant toilet that sends out sprays of confetti when the handle is pushed. Sarah Lynn, as freshman Snow Princess, will perch on the toilet and wave, and every so often she’ll fling rolls of actual toilet paper into the wildly cheering crowd.

  “Is that golden, or what?” Thelma crows.

  “What does a toilet have to do with winter?” I ask.

  She blinks. “I don’t get what you’re asking.”

  “Well . . . it’s for the dance, right? And the theme is ‘snow’?”

  She puts her hands on my shoulders. She’s very stern. “We don’t have time for Being a Teenager 101, not today. So I’m only going to say this once: We have to make a throne, but instead of some boring throne, we’re making a toilet. Because a toilet is a throne. Got it?”

  Actually, that’s pretty clever. Funny, too. Omigosh, Thelma made a funny.

  “Got it,” I say.

  She drags me to the base of the float, where DeeDee and Jolene are smoothing strips of papier-mâché over chicken wire. “Good,” she says. “Now get busy.”

  Jolene pushes her hair out of her face. She smiles at me, and I smile back and kneel beside her. I dip a strip of newspaper into a pan of paste.

  “Like this?” I say, patting the strip over a patch of exposed wire.

  “Perfect,” she says.

  “If we can finish this part today, then tomorrow we can paint it, and that’ll give it time to dry before we add the final touches,” DeeDee says.

  I glop and slop, and as I do, I take in the details of this work of art we’re creating. It’s the size of a sofa, and it’s constructed from plywood and chicken wire. The float committee has plastered papier-mâché over about three-fourths of it. I can imagine it painted a bright, glossy white, being pulled majestically across the football field.

  Thelma squeals, and I lift my head. A splodge of paste drizzles down her neck.

  “Oh, DeeDee, you are in trouble,” she says.

  DeeDee smirks, and Thelma flings a wet strip of paper. It slaps onto DeeDee’s chest.

  “Hey!” DeeDee cries.

  “We are so out of here,” Jolene says. She stands and pulls me to my feet.

  “The darker side of female bonding,” I say, giggling. “What’s next? Itching powder? Pillow fights?”

  Jolene leads me to the end of the float, where there’s another pan of paste. We kneel and start plastering, and as we work, we chat. Jolene has Ms. Phillips for English too, so we talk about how sometimes she’s too strict and sometimes not strict enough, like when the football players act stupid and Ms. Phillips just laughs.

  It’s fun, and the next day I go again. I know Thelma appreciates my help, because the sophomore, junior, and senior floats are all further along than ours. The juniors’ throne is especially impressive, done in the medieval style of King Arthur’s court.

  “Do you think we’ll get it done in time?” I ask, near the end of our lunch period.

  “We better,” Jolene says. “Thelma and I stayed late yesterday afternoon, didn’t we, Thelma?”

  “All for the cause,” Thelma says. She gestures with her chin. “Go check out the tank. It’s totally far-out.”

  I stand up, careful not to upset the pan, and walk to the back of the float. It’s painted the same color as the seat, and I can no longer tell that it’s just plywood and chicken wire. On the top, near the edge, is an oversize silver handle. Maybe aluminum foil?

  I return to Thelma and Jolene. “It looks great.”

  “We had to give up the idea of spraying out confetti,” Thelma says. “Too complicated. But she can still toss rolls of toilet paper.”

  “Hmm,” I say, considering. “What about putting a plunger on the float? It could be, like, a royal scepter or whatever you call it. Sarah Lynn could hold it.”

  Thelma lights up. “Yeah! We could make a giant one out of a broomstick and, I don’t know, a plastic bowl or something.” She hops to her feet and pulls Jolene and DeeDee up too. “Let’s go find a janitor and see if he’s got anything.”

  “What about me?” I ask.

  “Paint!” she calls over her shoulder.

  I blink. Then I squat and pick up Jolene’s abandoned brush. As I dip it into the can, someone clears her throat.

  “You’re going to make me hold a plunger? Gee, thanks.”

  I turn and see Sarah Lynn. Heather and Melissa aren’t far behind, clanging down the metal bleachers to reach the floor of the gym.

  “Hey, anything for the cause,” I say, stealing Thelma’s line. I smile. “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to see how the float was coming. I would have helped build it, but they’re keeping us busy with all these stupid practices.”

  “You have to practice to be a Snow Princess?”

  “I know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “How hard can it be to sit on a giant throne? And then, right before the Snow Queen is announced, we all have to stand up at the exact same time. I guess they’re worried we’ll mess up, and wouldn’t that be a tragedy?”

  “Guess that’s the price you pay for being so fabulous,” I say. “Alas.”

  She shoves me, and I tip over.

  “Hey!” I protest, giggling.

  She scopes out the giant toilet. “The float looks terrific. Y’all have really worked hard.”

  “Today’s only my second day,” I say. “Thelma and the others, though, for sure.”

  She glances around the gym, then squats so that she and I are at the same level. She swallows nervously. “Um, hey. I have a favor to ask you.”

  “You do?”

  “It’s about . . . the dance. And who’s going to be my escort.”

  My heart beats faster. I have an inkling where this is headed.

  “A few guys asked me, but I told them all no, and now I’m stuck. Because who I really want to go with is . . .”

  She can’t seem to speak his name, so I do it for her.

  “Lawrence,” I say.

  She nods. She’s grown pale, though. I get the sense that she wants to trust me, yet it’s an awfully new thing for her.

  “I saw you guys once, in the stairwell,” I say.

  “I know. I pushed him away—I was such a jerk.”

  “You were scared,” I say.

  She tries to smile. Her eyes show her shame.

  I lightly touch her forearm. “Sarah Lynn, it’s okay. I think it’s great about you two. I do.”

  “You don’t know how much that means to me,” she says shakily.

  “Oh, maybe I do. So what’s the favor?”

  “Well . . . do you think . . .” She wraps her arms around her ribs. “Never mind, it’s crazy.”

  “What is? Just say it.”

  She blows out a breath of air, then says the next bit in a dash. “I was wondering if we could switch dates.”

  I laugh, because I suspected this was coming. “You want to borrow Mitchell,” I say.

  My response encourages her.

  “Just until we get to the dance,” she says. “Mitchell could pick me up at my house and shake my daddy’s hand, and you and Lawrence
could meet us here. Or Lawrence would be happy to pick you up at your grandmother’s house. Whatever you want.”

  While Grandmother doesn’t have a white cloak and hood stashed in her closet, I don’t think she’s ready for me to have a date with a black boy.

  “No,” I say. “Meeting here is better.”

  “You mean you’ll do it?”

  “Well, I need to check with Mitchell first.”

  “Lawrence already did. He’s in if you are.”

  “Okay, then,” I say. “There’s your answer.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I’m engulfed in a hug so exuberant it makes me stumble. When Sarah Lynn releases me, she’s beaming.

  “You’re the best,” she says. “And no one will have to know, I swear, because at the dance, it’ll just be like we’re mingling. People don’t only dance with their own dates, right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  “The only time it’ll really matter is during the crowning of the Snow Queen, because Mitchell will have to be by my side. That won’t hurt your feelings, will it?”

  “No.” I bite my lip, because I’ve just thought of something. “But . . . my friends will notice. I mean, I agree with you about the dance itself—nobody’s going to keep track. But my friends will think it’s weird if Mitchell’s out there as your escort.”

  Sarah Lynn’s face falls. In her eyes, I see her dreams swirling down the giant toilet.

  “We could tell them,” I suggest hesitantly.

  “Who all knows that Mitchell’s your date?” she asks.

  “Thelma, DeeDee, and Jolene.” And Sandy, but she won’t be at the dance. “I think they could keep the secret, though. I really do.”

  “Even Thelma?”

  “If I tell her how important it is. Thelma loves being important.”

  Sarah Lynn is torn. She really wants this to happen.

  “Heads up,” I say, jerking my chin at Melissa and Heather, who are strolling across the gym.

  “Sarah Lynn!” Melissa calls. “What’s taking you so long?”

  “Just a sec!” Sarah Lynn says. She turns to me and speaks fast and low. “All right, let’s do it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  She grins, and I can tell she’s petrified and happy, both. Then she lopes over to Melissa and Heather, neither of whom say hello or even look at me. But I don’t care. Jolene, DeeDee, and Thelma materialize, and I realize they’ve been hanging back on purpose, giving me and Sarah Lynn space. Their expressions are bewildered.

  “Did Sarah Lynn just hug you?” Jolene asks.

  “Um . . . yeah?”

  “Why?” DeeDee demands.

  “I’ll tell you soon. Not here.”

  Thelma gazes across the gym at Sarah Lynn, and then she looks at me as if she’s no longer sure who I am. I smile to show her I’m the same old me, but I don’t think either of us believes it.

  return to work on the float after my last class gets out. I stay late with the girls, and we get the entire toilet painted.

  “It’s looking good,” Thelma says.

  “Real good,” DeeDee says seductively, flipping her red hair as if she’s a vampy lounge singer. It cracks us up, because by now we’re giddy and punch drunk. We’re also sweaty and paint-speckled and proud, because although we still have lots to do, we’re in fine shape for Friday.

  I’m one of the last to leave, and I go sit outside the gym to wait for Grandmother. I rest my back against the wall and draw my knees up. I tilt my face to the setting sun.

  “Hey, Toilet Girl,” someone says, and I open my eyes to see Mitchell smiling down at me.

  “Toilet Girl?” I say. “That’s what I am to you?”

  “Well, if the name fits . . .”

  I swat him, and he grins. He sits at my feet and rests his head on my knees.

  “You cool with helping out Lawrence and Sarah Lynn?” he asks.

  My hand moves to his hair, which is soft. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

  “We’ll be together once we’re at the dance,” he says.

  “We better be.”

  He nudges my hand with his head, angling for more petting. I oblige, and he makes a contented rumbly sound.

  “You have pretty eyelashes,” I tell him.

  “Hmm,” he says. “You have pretty everything.” He stretches forward, propping himself up with his arm, and brushes his lips against mine.

  Our first kiss. In front of the gym. With Grandmother about to pull up any minute.

  Oh, this wonderful boy.

  He pulls back, and I feel like a lovely, warm noodle—loopy and yielding. I can’t stop smiling.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” he says.

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “I’m glad you’re glad.”

  “And I’m glad you’re glad I’m glad,” I say, giggling. I stroke his cheek. “Only . . . and I hate to bring it up, I do . . .”

  His eyebrows pull together, and I almost feel bad for teasing him.

  “What?” he says worriedly.

  “Well . . . does this mean you’re a toilet licker?”

  He pushes me hard enough that I fall over. “You’re comparing my kiss to licking a toilet?”

  “Not at all,” I say, laughing as he pulls me upright. “You did good. Real good.”

  veryone has dance fever. Streamers appear on lockers, banners stretch across classrooms, and the Decorating Committee goes hog wild transforming the gym into a winter wonderland. The four class thrones reside in the corners, connected by a forest of shiny aluminum trees. Silver icicles dangle on the branches. A long refreshment table appears, draped with a rich red cloth. Delicate paper snowflakes are strung from the ceiling.

  The members of the Decorating Committee are in a frenzy trying to make everything perfect, and one girl almost comes to blows with Thelma when Thelma refuses to loan out her staple gun.

  “Get your own!” Thelma says, clutching hers to her chest.

  “I just need it for a second,” the Decorating Committee girl says. “Just for one second!”

  “No!”

  The girl grabs it, and Thelma gives a mighty yank. They both go sprawling.

  Even Sandy seems to burn with unusual zeal. When I glimpse her in the halls, her face ravaged by that terrible scratch, the expression in her eyes makes me think she’s lost in her own world. I don’t know what’s going on with her—and I don’t want to know. Thursday morning I spot her by my locker, scanning the halls with those blazing eyes, and I hide in an empty classroom until she’s gone. That afternoon she calls to me as I’m hurrying to the gym, but instead of stopping, I give her an overly friendly wave.

  “Oh, hey there!” I call, as if that’s all she’s after.

  “Hold up!” she says, huffing toward me.

  “Hmm?” I furrow my brow as if I can’t make out her words. “I’ve got to run—but listen, I’ll be working on the float all afternoon. Come talk to me there!”

  I know she won’t, or I wouldn’t have made the offer.

  But on Friday, the day of the dance, she tracks me down out on the quad with the girls. DeeDee has just informed me that I’m supposed to wear an actual floor-length gown, and I’m freaking. Why didn’t anyone teach me about winter dances on the commune? Why didn’t Mom ever hawk her hemp weavings for a shiny frock, size four?

  I don’t notice Sandy till she’s almost on top of me, and by then, it’s too late to flee.

  “Finally!” she says, breathing heavily. Her cut has scabbed over, but the skin around it is red and swollen. She glances at the girls and pulls me a few feet away. “I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve seen you. You’re not avoiding me, are you?”

  “Ha, ha,” I say weakly. I don’t want to talk about this. I want to talk about dresses.

  Sandy eyeballs DeeDee, who’s openly staring, then drops her voice. “I have so much to tell you. So many good things are happening—and just think
, you’re going to be a part of it!”

  Her assumption makes my stomach twist, but I need very much for her not to notice. So I give her what I hope is a blank look, polite but uncomprehending.

  “Don’t play games with me,” she says. “You ran away last time we talked. You think I didn’t notice?” Then she goes pale, the color draining so rapidly from her flesh that I think she might faint.

  “Sandy? Are you okay?”

  “Head rush. Whoa.” She sways a little.

  “I think you should sit down,” I tell her. “No, actually I think you should go see the nurse—like, right away.”

  “I’m fine. Low blood sugar, that’s all. I’m . . . on a diet.”

  “You are?”

  “Not important. What’s important”—she leans in so that I can feel her hot breath on my ear—“is that you’re present for the assimilation.”

  “The assimilation?” This time I’m telling the truth when I say, “Sandy, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Bliss?” Jolene calls. “Are you ready to go?”

  “I’m coming,” I say, but Sandy steps into my path.

  “Tonight at nine, because nine is the auspicious number of the cat.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Just tell me you’ll be there,” she says impatiently.

  My heart pounds. Sandy’s eyes are glassy, and I’m not positive she’s in there. The auspicious number of the cat?

  “I’m going to class now,” I say.

  “Wait—I have more to tell you. I’ll bring Regular tonight too, because I found a new home for her. Isn’t that great?”

  “Um, sure,” I manage.

  “Don’t you want to know where?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond, but says triumphantly, “Here.”

  “Here?” I repeat. I’m getting that light-headed feeling. “What do you mean, here?”

  “The room you gave me the key to. I’ve made it really special.”

  “No,” I say numbly.

  “You’ll come at nine,” she says, gazing at me with a not-there look that tells me I’m right to be scared. Her hand rises and comes toward me. I realize she’s going to stroke my cheek, and I step back. In a heartbeat, her fingers grasp my wrist.