Bliss

“No more running,” she says in a voice I didn’t know she possessed. “Remember?”

  “S-sorry,” I stammer.

  “Bliss?” Jolene says with growing concern.

  Rapture takes over Sandy’s features. “And do you know why we’ll hold the ceremony there? Because, Bliss . . . it remembers Her.”

  No, I think desperately. It’s the day of my first dance. I should be chattering about makeup and shoes and accessories, not ceremonies involving dead girls.

  I’m trembling, but I lift my chin. “Sandy, I’m not meeting you tonight,” I say. “I’m not going to . . . that room. Not tonight, not ever.”

  Her eyebrows come together. I think she’s still lost in another world. “What?”

  “I’m done,” I say. “I don’t want to play anymore.”

  “You don’t want to play anymore?”

  Uh-oh. Now she’s coming back to reality.

  “That’s what I said,” I say, trying to act braver than I am.

  “But . . . you gave me the key,” she protests. “You’re part of the plan!”

  “There is no plan, Sandy.”

  “Yes, there is!” She takes quick breaths and pushes her words out so that it sounds as if she’s bleating. “I’ve got the key. I’ve got the relic. You’re to provide the offering . . . and everything will change! Everything will be perfect!”

  “No, Sandy,” I say, and I dig deep to get through to her. “Nothing is going to change, because Sarah Lynn was right. You are unnatural. Now, leave me alone.”

  There, I think. It’s out, and I couldn’t have dug any deeper. Indeed, perhaps I dug too deep, because Sandy’s expression alarms me. Her mouth hangs open, and her brow is furrowed. But her one good eye seems possessed by a different owner, and it burns with malice.

  I turn and walk shakily back to the others, scared to the bone that it’s not over yet.

  hen I get home, I ban Sandy from my thoughts and fix my mind resolutely on the challenge of coming up with acceptable Winter Dance attire. It’s far too late for fabulous; “not completely hideous” is the best I can hope for. I’m supposed to meet Lawrence at the gym at seven, and I have to figure something out. I have to figure it out now.

  I rush into my room, and there on the bed is the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen. It’s made of the softest, pearliest gray velvet, with a fitted bodice and a scooped neck. The skirt is floor-length and narrow, but not so narrow that it won’t flare when twirled. Gingerly, I approach it. I touch its plush folds.

  “It was your mother’s,” Grandmother says.

  I turn to see her in the doorway. Her expression is sad, and perhaps for the first time ever, I sense no implied criticism.

  “Try it on,” she says.

  I do, and she helps me zip it up. Then I walk nervously to the full-length mirror. When I see my reflection, I suck in my breath.

  The bodice clings perfectly, and the neckline dips low, showing off the pale tops of my breasts. At my waist, the velvet cinches in, then swoops gracefully from my hips. I never would have thought to clothe myself in gray, but the color complements my fair skin. My dark hair gleams, and my eyes look as inky and deep as Agnes’s—

  No. I will think of Agnes later. I will think of Sandy later. I will think of myself now. I am allowed to think of myself.

  “It’s a bit mature,” Grandmother says. “But it suits you.”

  I turn from the mirror and fly into her arms. She pats me, alarmed.

  “Thank you thank you thank you,” I gush. “You’re the best grandmother ever.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” she says. When I release her, her cheeks are pink.

  She brushes nonexistent lint from the dress and tugs the shoulder straps to raise the neckline. “Do your makeup,” she commands. “Do your hair. And then I’ll take you to this dance of yours.”

  randmother drops me off outside the main entrance to the gym, tutting about the unseemliness of arriving at a dance on one’s own. In her day, no young lady would go anywhere without an escort—most certainly not a dance.

  “It’s fine, Grandmother,” I tell her. “Lots of kids are going in groups. See?” I point at three girls spilling from a wood-paneled station wagon. I open the door of Grandmother’s Cadillac and call out to them. “Jolene! Thelma! Hi!”

  “Well, in my day it would have been a scandal,” Grandmother says.

  “I know, I know.” I lean over and kiss her cheek, pushing down the irrational fear that this will be the last time I get to kiss her cheek. Stop it, I tell myself. To Grandmother, I say, “Bye!”

  Thelma and the others squeal when they see me, and I squeal too. It feels good to squeal. It feels good to release some energy.

  “Oh my gosh, you look gorgeous,” DeeDee says.

  “You too!” I say. She’s wearing a green dress, and her hair is in a bun.

  “We all look gorgeous!” Thelma says, and I laugh, because it’s true.

  Jolene nods toward someone standing in the shadows a couple of yards from the gym entrance. It’s Lawrence. I’ve told the girls about the great date switch, and they swore up and down that they’d take the secret to their graves. Even though they disapprove, they think what Sarah Lynn is doing is incredibly romantic.

  “You better go,” Jolene whispers. “See you inside?”

  “Yeah,” I say, and I shyly approach Lawrence, who’s wearing a white evening jacket. He looks like a prince, just not my prince.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello,” he replies. His Adam’s apple jerks. “I wanted to say . . . I wanted to tell you—”

  “It’s fine,” I interrupt. “I’m happy to help. Really.”

  He smiles, and just like that I’m no longer intimidated by this handsome, gallant stranger. He nods at my dress and says, “We’re a chessboard.”

  “We are?” I glance down and figure it out: my gray dress and his white jacket; my white skin and his black skin. “Oh, we are.”

  His eyes are full of humor, and I like that Lawrence can joke about it, especially given the situation. I can see why Sarah Lynn likes him.

  He offers his arm. “Shall we?”

  I look over my shoulder to make sure Grandmother’s Caddy is gone, and then I link my arm through his. “We shall.”

  We walk into the gym, and a boy standing by the door hands us each a creamy program with the words Winter Dance, 1969 embossed in blue. Below, the names of the Snow Princesses are listed, as well as the names of each girl’s escort. Sarah Lynn Lancaster, it says at the bottom, and beside it, escorted by Mitchell Truman.

  Lawrence and I share a look. I don’t know about him, but while I enjoy the thrill of our collusion, I can’t help feeling a pang at seeing their names linked. Mitchell is my escort. I’m his princess, not Sarah Lynn.

  But when we carefully descend the bleacher stairs to the basketball court, my pettiness drops away and amazement takes its place. The gym has been transformed into a wonderland, and while I witnessed much of what the Decorating Committee did over the last week, the final effect exceeds what I expected.

  The basketball nets have been retracted, and foil stars dangle from the ceiling. Aluminum trees form a glistening forest against the walls, and a makeshift platform has been erected for the band, which is playing “Yesterday.” Couples sway on the dance floor while soft dots of light swoop and dip over them.

  Tears come to my eyes. Everybody looks so lovely. Everybody looks so happy.

  “There’s Sarah Lynn,” Lawrence says. I follow his gaze, and yes, there she is, more exquisite than ever as she chats with Mitchell beside the giant toilet. She wears an elegant high-necked dress with buttons, and her honey-colored hair falls in waves around her face. She’s already donned the glittering tiara that comes with the title of Snow Princesses.

  “She’s so beautiful,” Lawrence says, as if he can’t help himself. If I weren’t already aware of his feelings for her, I would be now. His voice has dropped, and he’s no longer a boy making friendly conv
ersation with someone he hardly knows, but a young man gazing at his true love.

  “She is,” I say. “Let’s go over.” I want to hear how everything went at Sarah Lynn’s house, and if Mr. Lancaster approved of Sarah Lynn’s date. But more than that, I want to reclaim him as my own date. I, too, want to make true love grow.

  We weave through the crowd, and when Sarah Lynn spots us, she squeezes Mitchell’s hand and drags him over. The moment the two of them reach us, Sarah Lynn lets go of Mitchell and slips her arms around Lawrence’s waist.

  “You are so beautiful,” Lawrence says thickly, pulling her close. “You will never be more beautiful than you are right now.”

  “Well, that’s kind of morbid,” I say before I can stop myself.

  Sarah Lynn lifts her head. “Morbid? How is it morbid?”

  “Uh . . .” A laugh chokes out, because I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m not about to explain my ghoulish train of thought, either. “It’s not. Just, it’s like someone saying, ‘It’s all downhill from here. You’ve peaked, and now it’s over.’”

  She and Lawrence gaze at me blankly. I decide it’s time to move on.

  “Sorry,” I say. “And you do look lovely. You smell really good too.” She does, like lilacs.

  “It’s my new perfume,” she says, smiling up at Lawrence. “My boyfriend bought it for me.”

  Lawrence squeezes her waist.

  “That’s sweet,” I say. “But don’t you think maybe you should, uh”—I gesture how close they’re standing—“be a little less obvious?”

  They quickly pull apart. I feel bad, but I’m just looking out for them. On the dance floor it makes sense for a boy to touch his partner, even if his partner isn’t his date. If the guy and girl are just chatting, I would think it might look suspicious.

  Or maybe I’m just paranoid.

  Mitchell steps toward me, loosening his tie. The hollow of his throat is smooth and strong.

  “You look beautiful too,” he tells me.

  “I do?”

  His eyes are liquid and catch the light. I’m not so worried about Sarah Lynn and Lawrence anymore.

  “Let’s dance,” he says.

  I smile. “Okay.”

  As we head for the dance floor, we pass Thelma, Jolene, and DeeDee, who are swaying and tapping their feet on the sidelines. Their expressions are dreamy.

  Thelma sees me and touches my arm. I stop.

  “You’re so lucky,” she says. “You know that, right?”

  I hesitate.

  Mitchell pulls me forward. He takes me in his arms, and the world melts away, leaving only warmth and music and skin and sweetness.

  hen the band takes their break, Mitchell says he’ll find us a table so we can sit for a bit. I volunteer to get us some punch, because I’m just that liberated a gal. Mitchell chuckles when I say that, which makes me happy, and I float all the way to the refreshment table. I’m still floating when someone sidles up behind me and says, “Sorry I’m late.”

  I know that voice, and I startle, splashing red juice down the front of my gown.

  “Sandy!” I wail. “Look what you did!”

  She giggles, and it sounds deranged. I turn around, and she looks deranged, too. She’s wearing a tight yellow dress that pulls across the chest, and her arms stick out from her sides as if the fabric won’t allow her to let them hang free. Her hair is pulled back with a yellow headband, and I note with the part of my brain that hasn’t locked up that it’s the same yellow headband she was wearing the first time we met.

  But her eye . . . her eye is hideous. It’s swollen shut, with pus oozing from the slit. The scabbed-over scratch running from her eyebrow to her cheekbone is equally grotesque. The mirrored ball hanging from the ceiling illuminates the scar as it rotates, turning it first black, then maroon, then black again.

  She jerks her chin at my dress, where the punch blooms like a bloodstain on the gray velvet. “Look,” she says. “It’s the exact color of Agnes’s birthmark. Well . . . maybe a little darker.”

  “You ruined it,” I say. I’m still in shock, and the dress is growing clammy against my skin. I grab a napkin and start dabbing, and at the same time steal a glance at the large gymnasium clock above the retracted basketball hoops. It’s only eight o’clock. “Why are you here, Sandy?”

  “I’m not allowed to come to my own school dance?” she says. “And my name’s not Sandy anymore. I’ve changed it to Lurlene.”

  “You’ve . . . what?”

  She smiles. “But you can call me Lurl. Lurl the Pearl.”

  “Sandy . . .” I laugh, but it’s not a real laugh, and it comes out of its own accord. I try to control my fear. “I’m not calling you that.”

  “Hmm,” Sandy says, seemingly unconcerned. “Regular was naughty. She escaped from her cat carrier, that bad cat. But don’t worry. I got her back.”

  “You brought Regular to the dance?”

  “Do you see Regular here at the dance?” Sandy asks. She widens her plump arms as if perhaps I want to search her.

  “But . . . Sandy . . .”

  “Lurl,” she says.

  “I don’t have time for this.” I hear the desperation in my voice, since what I’m really saying is, Please don’t mention the ceremony. Please don’t let it be true. Please go away and never come back.

  She crooks her finger, beckoning me forward.

  “No,” I say. I scan the gym and spot Mitchell talking to a guy from the football team. Why isn’t he coming to find out what’s taking me so long?

  Sandy closes the distance between us and whispers, “I have the relic. I have the key.”

  The gym tilts.

  “You need to come with me to you-know-where.”

  “But . . . it’s not nine o’clock,” I say stupidly.

  “I decided eight was better,” she says, as if all the logic and reason in the world is behind her.

  “Sandy?” My voice wobbles.

  “And just in case you’re feeling like you don’t want to, I have a little extra incentive.” She giggles. “Come with me—right now—or I let the pigeon out of the coop.”

  “What pigeon?” I say. “What coop?” For a second I wonder, Is she talking about the pigeon coop on the commune?

  “It’s an expression, you numskull,” she says, and her too-familiar tone says, You are such a dum-dum, but that’s okay, because you’re my dum-dum. “It means to tell a secret.”

  “What secret?”

  She looks at me coquettishly. Then she turns her head to the right, gazing across the gym at Sarah Lynn. Sarah Lynn is smiling up at Lawrence, who’s standing close and entertaining her with some story. Down lower, almost hidden by the sleeve of Lawrence’s jacket, I can see that their pinkies are entwined. It’s not something the casual observer would notice, but Sandy isn’t a casual observer.

  “Hmm,” she says, tilting her head and placing her finger on her cheek. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right. Sarah Lynn’s escort is Mitchell—it’s listed right there on the program—but she’s spending all her time with Lawrence.” She widens her eyes like a scandalized schoolmarm. “A Negro.”

  Tightness clenches my lungs.

  “Now, why is that?” Sandy muses. “And isn’t Mitchell supposed to be your date?”

  “Leave it alone,” I say. “It’s none of your business.”

  A ghost of a smile tickles her lips. “I guess that depends on who you ask. I think it is my business—and if you don’t come on, I’ll make it everyone else’s business too. You see?”

  “So . . . you’re threatening me? That’s the incentive?” I’m stalling, but it backfires, because she gets a look in her eyes—in her eye—that makes my fear plunge deeper. For just an instant, she stops looking cunning and instead looks uncertain, and somehow that’s worse.

  “Bliss, I don’t want to force you,” she says. “It’ll hurt far less if . . .”

  If what? I’m scared. I’m scared to the very core of me.

  She pulls
herself back from the void and straightens her spine. Her mocking manner returns. “She’s a Snow Princess, after all. Surely her loyal subjects deserve to know the truth.”

  “Sandy . . . that would destroy her,” I say unsteadily.

  From behind me, someone touches my shoulders, and I whip around as if I’ve received an electric shock.

  “Whoa,” Mitchell says, grinning. Now he shows up, great. He leans close and pecks my cheek. “Destroy who?”

  “No one!” I say.

  “Girls, play nice,” he says, mock-scolding. “We’re at a dance, after all, not a catfight.” He loops his arm around me. “Let’s go, Bliss.”

  “I’m not done talking to you, Bliss,” Sandy says, ignoring Mitchell altogether. “We need to go . . . somewhere private.”

  “Sorry, but it’ll have to wait,” Mitchell says. “I need some time with my girl.” He takes in Sandy’s eye and winces. “Ouch. Crap, Sandy, what happened to your eye?”

  “Meet me in our special place,” she tells me coldly. “I’ll give you five minutes.” She turns on her heel and strides for the bleachers, ridiculous in her yellow dress.

  “I think someone’s eaten a few too many Froot Loops,” Mitchell says when she’s out of hearing range. He chuckles and squeezes my arm. “Come on, let’s grab some punch and go sit down.”

  I twist away and step backward. “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  “I’ll hurry—it’ll only take a sec.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re ditching me for her?”

  “I thought you liked it that I was nice to her!” I say nonsensically. I try to find her in the crowd.

  “Yeah, but this is our night.” He notices the front of my gown. “Hey, baby, did you spill something?”

  I rise to my tiptoes and spot her exiting the gym.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, “but I’ve got to go. I’ll be really quick and I’ll come right back, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay,” he says, annoyed. “You’re acting weird, Bliss—even for you.”

  Tears blur my vision. That Mitchell would say that . . . Mitchell, of all people . . .