I’m dizzy, and the antics of the emcee aren’t helping. He’s drawing out the ceremony as the minute hand on the clock edges toward the twelve, and in response, the crowd is heckling him good-naturedly. Everything’s too bright. People’s mouths, stretched in laughter, look distorted.
It’s one minute before nine.
“As the relic nourished Regular, so Regular nourished me,” Sandy says. “And through this hallowed transfer, Liliana and I have joined.”
“Please,” I whimper. I try to edge away, but bodies crush against me.
Sandy leans in. Her lips are so close I can hear the slickness of her saliva. “All We need is the offering, and the assimilation will be complete.”
The tip of her tongue flicks my earlobe, and that small muscular wetness jars me from my paralysis. I turn, and she’s as gruesome as I imagined. Her bad eye oozes yellow goop. From her good eye, hunger gleams.
“I won’t do it,” I say. “Go away. Go away!”
“I called Sarah Lynn’s daddy,” she says, her voice like silk. “I didn’t want to, but you were so naughty. So very, very naughty.”
My blood pressure plummets. “What did you tell him?”
She watches me with half-lidded pleasure. I shake her, and her smile slips and slides over her face.
“What did you tell him?!”
“Nothing that everyone on the dance floor didn’t already see for themselves. Lawrence’s black hands on Sarah Lynn’s white dress. His leg between her thighs as he held her close—”
I shove her away from me and force my way through the crowd. “Sarah Lynn!” I call out.
My voice is lost in the drumroll of hands slapping knees that the emcee has requested. His voice projects throughout the gym.
“So it is with great pleasure—”
“Sarah Lynn!” I cry.
“—that I now announce this year’s Queen.” He makes an upward gesture with his hand. “Ladies, if you please?”
The four Snow Princesses rise. Sarah Lynn teeters—that’s the one thing Thelma didn’t think of, that a toilet seat, even one that’s oversize, is hardly a sturdy place to stand—but she finds her balance and smiles. It’s an intimate smile. I track her gaze and see Lawrence right up front, regarding her with loving pride.
Then several things happen in rapid succession, and my heightened senses register them almost simultaneously: the clomp of footsteps on the metal bleachers—people in the crowd twisting to look—a medley of reactions. Who is that? Nice muttonchops, man. Holy shit, is that a rifle?
People’s faces turn in a ripple effect as I push forward, but I don’t look behind me. The people at the front of the gym have yet to figure out what’s happening. I’ve got to get to Sarah Lynn before her daddy does.
Lawrence winks at Sarah Lynn, who lifts her fingertips to her lips and blows him a kiss for all the world to see.
“Sarah Lynn, you get away from that nigger!” her father thunders. He cocks the rifle and fires at the ceiling, and the mirrored ball shatters into a million glittering fragments. People scream. There is a rush for exit, and the floorboards shake.
The giant toilet shudders, and Sarah Lynn’s arms fly up as she loses her footing. Her blue eyes go wide with surprise.
“Sarah Lynn!” I scream.
Her body is graceless as she falls. Her limbs flail, and one leg points straight up as she goes down. Her skull strikes the floor with a sickening smack.
There’s a rushing in my veins like the flapping of thousands of wings. Lawrence gets to her first, and his mouth shapes words, but the words don’t matter. I drop to my knees on her other side, and she turns her head toward me. Her blue eyes are bewildered. A pool of blood spreads on the floor beneath her head, and then, as I hear myself pleading no, no, no, the light inside of her goes out. My sobs come in great, hot gasps.
Mr. Lancaster shouts his daughter’s name. He’s almost to her when a teacher tackles him and brings him down. His rifle slides past me across the floor.
Now others trickle back, gathering around Sarah Lynn’s sprawled body. There’s Heather—and Thelma—and Ms. Phillips, who begs someone to call an ambulance, though she must, like the rest of us, know it’s too late.
One of the onlookers is a girl in a ripped yellow dress, and she makes a show of being as devastated as everyone else. When she kneels beside me, I recoil, and I want to call out that there is a monster among us. But I can’t, because I can’t stop crying.
My tears make everything waver, but I’m perfectly capable of seeing what Sandy does. She dips her finger in Sarah Lynn’s blood and, looking straight at me, puts it in her mouth. When she pulls it out, she smiles.
n Monday, Dr. Evans delivers a eulogy for Sarah Lynn. The service is held in the simple chapel in Wesley Hall, since to herd us into the gym, which is no doubt still strewn with silver confetti, would be heartless.
Dr. Evans praises Sarah Lynn’s beauty, intelligence, and school spirit, in that order. He acknowledges the great loss we must all feel and lets us know that the school counselor is there for us if we need her. He also assures us that Crestview does not tolerate “rogue outbursts from disgruntled parents,” and that appropriate measures will be taken to ensure our safety at future school events.
“As for the student’s father,” he states solemnly, “I leave that matter to the appropriate authorities.”
A boy in the pew in front of me leans toward his friend. “My dad’s on the force, and he was at the station when the call came in,” he says. “The chief said it was a damn shame, and that Buel Lancaster’s a fine man. Said no nigger’s worth going to jail for.”
“The judge’ll slap his wrist and send him on his way,” his friend says. “Least, that’s what I’d do.”
I’m so numb that the words just roll over me. I do think to look for Lawrence, and my neck muscles make the appropriate movements to swivel my head from side to side. No Lawrence. Also, no one will meet my gaze except Jolene, but her sad brown eyes do nothing but make things worse. So I look away.
Dr. Evans closes by informing us that the parents of the deceased have chosen to hold a private funeral, for family only. He knows, however, that our prayers would be appreciated.
Afterward, we’re sent to our homerooms, where everyone speaks in hushed tones. Several girls are absent, and I wish I could count myself among their number. I don’t want to be here, but Grandmother made me.
Grandmother is being very kind. I sense she doesn’t know what to do to help me, so she falls back on routine and worried glances. She brought warm vanilla milk to me last night, up in my room. I do love her, my prim and worried grandmother, and I believe she’s grown to love me in return.
It’s not enough.
I sit at my desk and lay my head on my folded arms, staring off at nothing. I get up and move when the bell tells me I’m supposed to, and then I sit and stare again.
I do this for days.
Thelma and DeeDee each try to talk to me, but I reject their overtures. Perhaps I’m being ungenerous, but I can predict how DeeDee’s eyes will widen, how Thelma will say it’s such a tragedy. Which it is. Talking to them will take none of that away.
Jolene is more timid in her approach, but also more authentic. No matter. I tell her to leave me alone, and she does, though not without one last attempt at reaching out.
“But, Bliss,” she says. “If you ever . . .”
“I won’t,” I say.
Mitchell gives up less easily than Thelma and DeeDee, more easily than Jolene. Perhaps because he’s a boy. Perhaps my cold shoulder wounds his pride. Or perhaps I disgust him. Perhaps he blames me, as he should, for Sarah Lynn’s death.
I certainly don’t deserve his comfort, and as for him, I have no comfort to offer. I feel always on the verge of crying, but I refuse myself that solace. I keep my tears inside. Often I push my hand deep into my satchel and wrap my fingers around the wooden dove, squeezing so tightly that it digs into my flesh.
A week after the dance, I
see Sandy sitting in the cafeteria at my old table, and I wonder if the world has turned upside-down. She’s in my old spot, eating with Thelma and Jolene and DeeDee. Thelma nudges Sandy, who turns her large head and pins her eye on me. The other eye is still swollen. Instead of a headband, she’s clipped her hair back with a sparkly barrette.
Thelma says something to Sandy, and Sandy shakes her head. She pats Thelma’s arm and rises from the table. I want to turn and leave, but I don’t. My palms grow clammy as she approaches.
“So how does it feel?” Sandy says, planting herself before me with an arrogance that makes me sick.
I’m not answering that. Instead, because I fear for Thelma and the others, I say, “Why are you sitting with my friends?”
“I’m not.”
“I saw you,” I say, gesturing at the table. DeeDee, Thelma, and Jolene quickly avert their gazes.
“And?” Sandy says.
“Fine, I’ll repeat the question.” I try to be strong. I try to be fearless. “Why are you sitting with my friends? And this time, don’t lie and say you’re not.”
Sandy laughs. “They’re dull and stupid, and Thelma smells like dog. But I’m sitting with them anyway, because from now on I’ll sit with whoever I want. And when you say, ‘Why are you sitting with my friends?’ my reply will always be, ‘I’m not.’” She appraises me. “Do you understand?”
I search the face of this monster in front of me, this monster who smells of lemons. Is Sandy even in there anymore? The old Sandy, the Sandy before the . . . assimilation?
Something flickers in Sandy’s good eye, something just barely human. She blinks and says, “It’s not too late, you know.” Her voice is suddenly unsure. “They’re drawn to my power, but you can have it too. You’re special. You’re my best friend.”
“Did you mean to do it, Sandy?” I ask.
She can’t hold my gaze.
“Did you mean for her to die?”
“For one to rise, another must fall,” she says desperately.
“That’s not true, and you know it.”
“It is true.” She hiccups. “It is, and I’m glad it happened. I’m glad!”
I look at her, and I’m sickened. She must have a shred of humanity left within her, because she blushes.
“Stop being mean to me,” she pleads. “Stop being mean, or I won’t share my power!”
“I don’t want your power,” I say. I turn to go.
“Good, because you’ll never have it!” she says to my back. “The others appreciate me, but you don’t know perfection when you see it! You’re the one who’s unnatural!”
I leave the cafeteria and vomit in the girls’ bathroom.
nother week passes, and people stop talking about Sarah Lynn quite as much. By the time we return from Christmas break, they rarely speak of her at all, and if her name does come up, it’s followed by confusion and immediate retraction.
“I have no idea why I said that,” I hear one girl muse, after wondering out loud whatever happened to Sarah Lynn. “Maybe it’s my cousin I’m thinking of. Or, wait—that’s just another of those ghost stories, isn’t it? The Crestview girl who died?”
Sandy, however, is alive and well. In January, she joins the Pep Club, the Booster Club, and the Branching Out Club, which she herself founds. “Strangers Are Just Friends Waiting to Happen” is the club’s motto.
I hear through the grapevine that she’s started volunteering at Good Mews, and that she plays her harp for the stray cats. She brings a litter of kittens to the quad, and they all look like Regular. Dr. Evans commends Sandy’s humanitarianism and allows the kittens to prowl the campus at liberty.
For a long time I torture myself with why’s: why did I believe Sandy about Sarah Lynn; why did I give Sandy the key; and for heaven’s sake, going way back to the beginning, why did I befriend Sandy in the first place?
Because she helped Gayla, I remember. The day Gayla tumbled down the staircase, and everyone laughed. Or is it possible I was wrong about that too?
I hunt down Gayla and follow her into the girls’ bathroom. We’re the only two in there, which makes it hard for her to ignore me, though she tries.
“What did she say to you?” I press, after jogging her memory of the day she fell and her skirt flew up. “What did she say to make you get up?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Gayla says.
“Yes, you do. Tell me.” I step closer, and she cringes.
“She said . . . she said . . .”
“Go on.”
Gayla’s cheeks turn bright red. She gulps and whispers, “She said I was showing my bits and pieces, that they were on display for everyone to see.” She raises her chin. “But the girl who was mean to me, it wasn’t . . . who you said it was!”
“Yes, it was,” I say, reeling at Sandy’s malice, which I interpreted as charity.
Gayla shakes her head. “No. Lurl would never say something like that. It was someone else.”
After that, I give up trying to make sense of anything or anyone. I walk the halls alone.
Mitchell, when I spot him, is usually alone as well. He devotes himself to his studies, and as soon as school lets out, he roars away on his motorcycle.
One day I see him sitting by himself on a stone bench, wearing the leather jacket he lent me so long ago. His expression is lost, and I almost approach him. Then I think about Sarah Lynn and Lawrence, and how we tried to help them, and how horribly we failed.
I don’t know where Lawrence is. He’s certainly not at Crestview. I hope that wherever he is, he’s safe—and that he’s far away from Mr. Lancaster.
Next fall, I hope to convince Grandmother to let me join my parents in Canada. Until then, I move through the world like a ghost. Sometimes I visit Agnes’s grave at the Salem Hills Cemetery, and since I can’t talk about school, I catch her up on the events of the world. I tell her about Janis Joplin and how it sounds like she’s crying while she’s singing, and I tell her about a new plane called the Boeing 747, which can seat 374 passengers.
On the day the verdict is announced in the Tate-LaBianca trial, I lay a bouquet of blue pansies on Agnes’s grave. Charles Manson is convicted on multiple counts of murder, as are his supplicants Sadie Atkins and Patricia Krenwinkel. I tell Agnes how they giggled when their sentence was handed down.
One bleak Thursday in March, I feel especially lonely. In homeroom, Thelma and the others are already planning next year’s Winter Dance, and it numbs my soul.
“Only we’ll call it the Winter Carnival, to mix it up a little,” I hear Thelma say to a girl named Midge. “Because to call it the Winter Dance”—disorientation dims her features—“it’s sad, isn’t it? There’s something about that name that just feels sad.”
“Maybe because ‘dance’ rhymes with ‘chance,’” Midge suggests. “And ‘chance’ means, like, leaving it up to chance, which can go either way: good or bad.”
“Maybe,” Thelma says uncertainly.
“Or maybe because it rhymes with ‘pants’!” She giggles. “Who wants to go to a dance called Winter Pants?”
Thelma doesn’t giggle, but she smiles.
“Let’s mix it all up, a whole fresh beginning,” Midge goes on. “Not a snowflake theme but icicles. And instead of Snow Princesses, maybe Ice Maidens?”
Thelma’s enthusiasm returns. “I think that’s a marvelous idea. And Lurl’s a shoo-in, of course. She’ll be the perfect Ice Maiden! It’s so exciting!”
I can’t be part of this. I can’t even be around this. So I ask for a pass, and I go and sit in Wesley Chapel. Instead of Winter Dances or Winter Carnivals, I think about death and black holes and endless stretches of darkness. I think about how the universe cracked open and Sarah Lynn fell in.
And when the air in my lungs gets tight, I close my eyes and pray for this cursed school.
When I open my eyes, my gaze is drawn to the stained-glass window at the highest point of the chapel. I’ve never noticed it before, this particular pane. It s
hows a white bird, wings lifted in flight.
I rise from the pew and walk to the altar. I keep my eyes on the stained-glass dove, because I don’t want to blink and risk it flying away.
“Sarah Lynn?” I say, kneeling on the hardwood floor. It’s the first time I’ve said her name since the night she died. A lump rises in my throat.
Shhh, whispers a draft in the chapel. I smell the pure scent of lilac, the scent of Sarah Lynn’s perfume. Shhh.
My vision blurs, and I give myself over to sobbing. My head aches, my throat aches, my heart aches. But I keep crying. My tears wash me clean.
When I’m finished—when the sounds I’m making are shuddery gasps, but I’m no longer weeping—I’m not surprised to see that the stained-glass dove is gone. I wipe my eyes. I take a deep breath.
I walk the few steps back to my pew and draw the wooden dove out of my satchel. I hold it in my cupped hands. It’s warm. It warms me, too.
I return to the altar and place the dove upon it. Behind the dove is a collection of candles, varying in size and color. A container of matches rests discreetly nearby.
I choose a simple white candle, and I light it for Sarah Lynn.
I close my eyes and say good-bye.
About That Creepy Charles Manson . . .
(A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR)
“Facts and truth really don’t have much to do with each other,” claimed William Faulkner. I find this observation both funny and smart, especially when it comes to storytelling. As I wrote Bliss, I wanted the real-life Tate-LaBianca murder cases to be a backdrop for the drama playing out in Bliss’s own life. Since the actual trial stretched over several years, however, I condensed the timeline of facts in order to better serve the truth of Bliss’s story.
Bliss moves to Atlanta in the summer of 1969, and the novel follows her through the spring of 1970. Throughout the novel, she refers to the gruesome murders committed by Charles Manson and his “Family,” and she and her friends discuss various aspects of the trial. At the end of the novel, Bliss reports to Agnes that Charles Manson and two members of his cult are found guilty of murder and sentenced to death.