Bliss

  I study her, this moon-faced girl with intelligent eyes.

  “You really want to know, don’t you?” I say.

  “Are you kidding? You lived on a commune. You were willing to challenge the existing social order.”

  “Well, not me specifically.”

  “Of course I want to know,” she asserts. “I want to know everything.”

  Something lightens in my chest, because it’s nice to be around someone who is interested in that part of me. Except . . . what if Sandy’s enthrallment stems from prurient fascination, as Thelma’s did? What if all she’s after is the cheap thrill of mythical bra-burnings?

  “Why?” I say.

  “Why do I want to hear about your life on the commune? Because it’s far-out. Because living there had to be better than being stuck here at Crestview. Because I want to change the social order too.”

  “Ah,” I say. A smile twitches at my lips.

  “‘Ah’ is right,” she says brashly. Who would have thought that beneath her bland exterior, Sandy was a smart-aleck? “It’s all part of my plan for world domination, you see.”

  I let loose my grin, liking this girl who has not only strong opinions but a sense of humor too.

  n Saturday, Grandmother goes to her Ladies Auxiliary meeting. They’re planning their spring flower show.

  I watch TV for a while, then grow bored and turn it off. I listen to the ticking of the grandfather clock, and I think about how with each tick, another second of my life is gone. Tick, tick, tick. I lean back against the sofa cushion and stare at the ceiling. That lasts for a minute or two, and then with a tug of my neck muscles, I pull my head forward and look at my toes.

  “Hello, toes,” I say. They’re good toes. I like that they’re long and slender and not the slightest bit stubby. I wiggle them, ten unstubby waves that say, “And hello to you, Human Host!”

  Except they’re toes. I’m talking to my toes. Maybe I’m not bored . . . maybe I’m lonely? I slip on my sandals and go find Rosie, who’s wiping the iron railing of the front staircase. She’s kneeling on the wooden stairs, her rag swooping up and over the ornate curlicues.

  “Hi, Rosie,” I say.

  She lifts her head, but doesn’t stop working. “Afternoon, Miss Bliss.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I say, meaning the “Miss” part. It sounds so dumb, Miss Bliss. Plus, Rosie’s in her seventies. I should be calling her “Miss”—or if not “Miss” then “Missus” or “Ma’am.”

  Is Rosie married? I realize I don’t know.

  “Would you, um, like some help?” I ask. I hate seeing her there, puffing with exertion. Her knees must be killing her.

  “Oh, no thank you, Miss Bliss,” Rosie says.

  I shift. Why is Rosie cleaning the banister, anyway? Did Grandmother tell her to? Did she say, “Today I’d like you to dust the banister?”

  “Do you have a family, Rosie?” I ask.

  “Yes, Miss Bliss.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “Yes, Miss Bliss.”

  I wait. She offers nothing.

  “Girls?” I say. “Boys?”

  “That’s right, Miss Bliss,” Rosie says. Her breathing is labored, and I realize I’m making her talk and work, when she’d much rather simply work.

  “Are you sure you don’t want any help?” I ask. “I’d be happy to. Really.”

  “No thank you, Miss Bliss. You go on, now. Go on and play.”

  Play. Right.

  I leave the house and wander outside. Terrence, the gardener, is weeding the flowerbeds, and I watch him for a moment or two. I consider offering to get him a glass of water, but I don’t. There’s a plastic thermos right there beside him, beads of condensation making their slow way down its side.

  I go back indoors and return to the den, where I flop onto the sofa and kick off my shoes. I grab the remote, ready for the weekend to be over.

  t school, when Sandy laughs, I feel a hum of pleasure. Her laugh is low and deep; it sounds like a man’s laugh, actually. But it feels good to draw it out of her. So good, in fact, that sometimes I say things I shouldn’t, just for that satisfaction.

  I fear such a moment is fast approaching. I could exercise restraint, but I don’t. Instead, I giggle.

  “What?” Sandy says. She and I are sprawled on the grass, out in the middle of the quad. We’re not supposed to be. It’s unladylike and against the rules. But I like to feel the earth beneath me, and I like the sense of belonging that comes from being with a fellow rebel, no matter how small the insurrection.

  Also, sitting way out here keeps Hamilton Hall out of my line of vision, which is the way I like it.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “What?!”

  “Well . . .” I jerk my chin at the path in front of us. Thelma and DeeDee are heading to class, and Thelma is giving me the evil eye. She’s been put out with me for the last week. Even though I make sure to give her and Sandy equal time—I’ve worked out a lunch schedule, for example, where I alternate which of them I eat with—Thelma can’t comprehend why I choose to spend any time at all with Sandy, not when I could be spending time with her.

  I’ve realized that Sandy is the other girl from Flying V’s vision, of course. Not Jolene, after all. I’m fond of Jolene, but Sandy pulls more out of me.

  “She calls her bottom her ‘ham hock,’” I confide.

  “Who, Thelma?”

  “Uh-huh.” I’m being wicked, and I know it. Worse, I’m being thoughtless, as I remember too late that Sandy’s own ham hock is twice the size as Thelma’s. Three times the size.

  But Thelma’s skirt is twitching up the hill as if with its own self-righteous disapproval, and I can’t help it. I giggle again. Sandy’s laugh rolls out, gravelly with pleasure—and Thelma stiffens. Then she resumes her indignant march, her skirt twitching even more huffily.

  “What a prig,” Sandy says, leaning back on her hands.

  “Ah, she’s not so bad,” I say. I realize that making fun of someone and then turning around and saying, “Ah, she’s not so bad” is pretty feeble. Also, I’m a fool to set the two against each other, given Flying V’s long-ago warning about a dangerous triangle. But being around Sandy brings out the devil in me, I’m afraid.

  I spot Mitchell walking along behind Thelma and DeeDee, his brow furrowed as he squints at his book. He’s so cute, walking and reading at the same time. He could walk right into a tree—bam!—and I’d find him equally adorable.

  Sandy follows my gaze to see what’s making me smile. “Oh, God,” she says. “Tell me it isn’t so.”

  “It isn’t so,” I say to oblige her. I sigh happily. “Only, it is.”

  “You’re keen on Mitchell Truman?” she says.

  I nod, and Sandy shakes her head as if I’m pathetic. Then her gaze shifts. Her mouth flattens, and I wonder who in this parade of humanity we’re to be treated to next.

  “Why, look,” she says in a monotone as I glance over my shoulder. “It’s your peer mentor.”

  Sure enough, it’s Sarah Lynn Lancaster. Sandy has mentioned Sarah Lynn to me more than once, invariably calling her my “peer mentor” when she knows she’s not. I think Sandy just likes bringing up Sarah Lynn. I think that despite her rebel leanings, she can’t resist Sarah Lynn’s promqueen appeal. Or Snow Princess appeal, Thelma would say, since that’s the Crestview way.

  I’m not immune to Sarah Lynn’s lure either, much as it vexes me. She’s simply one of those people who’s hard to look away from. Yesterday, I spotted Sarah Lynn with Lawrence in the Woodward Building. The two of them were chatting with some other kids, and other than the fact that Lawrence was the sole black person in a sea of white, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the scene.

  But I paused. I watched. And I was rewarded by the sight of Lawrence shifting his weight so that his body bumped hers. She shot him a warning with her blue eyes, yet she didn’t step away. He returned her stare for a long moment, and the intimacy of their exch
ange gave me goose bumps, even as shrouded and suppressed as it was. Their bond was there for all the world to see, if only anyone was paying attention.

  “My ex–peer mentor,” I say as Sarah Lynn strolls up the footpath. “Ex, ex, ex, remember?” Sarah Lynn is flanked by her constant companions, Heather and Melissa, and she doesn’t look like a girl who toys with the hearts of others for fun. Then again, who would guess that under Sandy’s doughy exterior lies a freethinker hungry for change?

  I admire the way the sun glints on Sarah Lynn’s hair. “She is beautiful,” I admit. “Whatever else she is, she’s lovely on the outside, isn’t she?”

  I half-hope Sandy will disagree with me, but she says nothing. When I turn to her, I see that she’s pulling and pulling at a strand of her own hair, which is thin and drab compared to Sarah Lynn’s.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. I search her face, remembering the way everyone laughed at her when she helped poor Gayla. “Has Sarah Lynn—has she been mean to you?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know,” Sandy says. Her voice is strained, and I realize that Sandy is afraid of these girls.

  Melissa spots us. She stops and says something that makes Heather laugh. Sarah Lynn frowns and puts her hand on Melissa’s arm, but Melissa shakes her off and strides toward us. Heather jogs to catch up. Sandy’s breath quickens, and I smell the tang of her sweat.

  It brings back the sense memory of my own fear-drenched sweat that day in Hamilton Hall.

  I don’t know what’s going on—or why the blood voice is suddenly intruding. Or why that word “ninny” makes my stomach tense. But my fur rises like that of a cat protecting her young.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “I’m staying right here.”

  A breeze makes me hug my torso. Tree branches in the distance sway, revealing flashes of Hamilton Hall’s vacant third story. Its windows are eyes. I think of the key in the bottom of my satchel. I’ve kept it with me since I found it—a niggling pressure compels me to—but I’m loath to touch it or the dove again.

  Heather and Melissa plant themselves in front of us. Melissa puts her hands on her hips.

  “You’re not supposed to sit on the grass,” she states. “It’s against the code.”

  I flash my winningest smile, while in my head I think, Put your money where your mouth is, private-school-girl-who’s-never-started-a-fire-in-her-life. “Hi, there. I’m Bliss. I know I’ve seen you around, but I can’t remember your name. What is it again?”

  She blinks. “Um . . . Melissa?”

  “Right, Melissa.” I turn to Heather, still smiling. “And you are . . .”

  Heather is equally thrown. This isn’t going according to plan, I suppose.

  “I’m Heather,” she says.

  “Nice to meet you, Heather.” I pat the grass. “Come. Sit. Chat.”

  Melissa and Heather share a glance.

  “Did Sarah Lynn send you?” Sandy demands.

  Heather straightens her spine. “If Dr. Evans saw you, he’d write you up.”

  “Bluh, bluh, bluh, bluh,” Sandy says, mocking Heather’s intonation.

  “Sandy!” I say. I stifle a shocked giggle.

  “God,” Melissa says. “Do you have to be so different?”

  “Bluh. Bluh bluh bluh bluh bluh bluh bluh-bluh?”

  Now I can’t help it. I cover my mouth and laugh. Sandy’s bluh-bluhs are childish and uncalled-for, but I do admire her defiance.

  Then Sandy spits, and a glob of saliva lands just in front of Heather, who jumps back. She cries out in disgust, and I stop laughing. Spitting at someone—no. That’s not right, even if that someone is a self-righteous pill.

  “Girls . . . we’re going to be late!” Sarah Lynn calls anxiously from the footpath.

  “Freak,” Heather says to Sandy.

  Sandy juts out her tongue and blows, so that what comes out sounds like a fart. Blood rushes to my face, and I attempt to stammer out an apology. This situation has gotten out of control, and fast.

  Heather cuts me off. “And you?” she says. “Thelma’s no prize, but anyone’s better than her.” She juts her chin at Sandy.

  Together she and Melissa flounce off.

  I’m speechless. Sandy is sullen, but her cheeks are red and splotchy.

  “What was that about?” I finally manage.

  Sandy clamps shut her lips. She rips blades of grass from the lawn and tears them up.

  “Look,” I say. “I realize you must feel threatened by them or whatever—”

  “Who says I feel threatened?” she says. “I couldn’t care less what those clones think!”

  “Okaaaay,” I say. “And that’s why you stuck out your tongue like a two-year-old and made a raspberry?”

  Sandy moans and starts beating her forehead with her fists. Tufts of grass cling to her hair. Others fall free.

  “Sandy, stop.”

  She moans and beats.

  “Stop!” I say. I grab her wrists, and I hold tight when she resists. Finally, her hands fall to her lap. I wait until I’m sure the fight’s gone out of her before I let go.

  “Sandy, what’s going on?” I demand.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she mutters.

  “Um, I think it does.”

  She doesn’t answer, just sits like a lump.

  “How can I help if I don’t know what’s going on?”

  Her head whips up. “They say why am I different—but why do they all want to be the same? They dress like her, they wear their hair like her . . .”

  “Who, Sarah Lynn?”

  “And even if I tried, even if I tried my very hardest . . .” She flings out her arms. “Just look at me!”

  Whoa. She said out loud that which should never be said, because it’s absolutely true. Sandy will never be a Sarah Lynn. Never, ever, ever.

  “I told you,” she says. “That first day you sat with me? I told you it was your funeral.”

  I draw my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my shins. Sandy peeks at me from beneath her eyelashes, which are so blond they’re nearly invisible. She catches me looking and stares at the ground.

  “Sandy . . .”

  “I know, I know. Don’t bother.”

  “What do you mean, don’t bother? You have no idea what I was going to say.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “No, you don’t, Sandy. I was just—” I break off. I guess I myself don’t know what I was going to say.

  Sandy’s features go slack, and yet there’s a dumb-animal pain in her eyes that I can’t ignore. Who knows how Heather and Melissa have tortured her in the past? Sarah Lynn, too, from the sound of it. To her credit, Sarah Lynn stayed back this particular time, and she seemed uncomfortable at the way Melissa and Heather were hassling Sandy.

  Still. I can see how a girl like Sarah Lynn could make a girl like Sandy feel like dirt.

  “Go on, say it,” Sandy says. “Sorry, but I don’t think I can be your friend anymore.”

  “Sandy, that wasn’t what I was going to say,” I insist. How strangely her brain works, turning at once to the idea that a friendship could so quickly turn sour. “What I was going to say, before you interrupted me”—I lick my lips—“was . . . do you want to come over sometime?”

  Her jaw falls open. “And do what?”

  “I don’t know. Watch TV?”

  She scrutinizes me. She pinches her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger.

  “I’m busy almost every afternoon,” she says. “I have things to do.”

  “Okay,” I say, not wanting to call her out. It makes me feel sad, though, that she’d feel the need to pretend. I stand and collect my books.

  “But I suppose today could work,” she says.

  “Today?”

  “If you meant it. Did you?”

  “Of course!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sandy . . .” I can’t help but smile, because she is so Sandy, and she’ll always be Sandy, but that doesn’t mean she has t
o be a perpetual scapegoat. She has the power to change things, if only she weren’t so down on herself. “I’m sure.”

  “Fine,” she says.

  “Fine,” I repeat.

  And there it is: We’re going to have a playdate.

  ou want something to eat?” I ask Sandy in Grandmother’s kitchen. A note tells me that Grandmother is once again at the Ladies Auxiliary. Rosie has left for the day, returning to wherever she calls home.

  “Yeah, sure,” Sandy says. It’s odd to have her here, filling up space. She fingers a blue checkered dishcloth hanging from the oven. “You have any Flavor Straws?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know what Flavor Straws are.

  “How about Ritz crackers?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Popcorn? Please tell me you have popcorn.”

  I laugh, because she’s different away from Crestview. Bossy, even. “Well, let me check,” I say in a tone that implies a joking Your Highness. I rummage through the cabinet and pull out a glass jar filled with kernels. “Is this okay?”

  “I suppose it’ll do.”

  I arch my eyebrows.

  “Kidding!” Sandy says. “Kidding.”

  “You better be,” I say.

  I twist the dial on the stove, then light a match. The spark catches. I slide the skillet over the heat and pour in the oil.

  “Don’t forget butter,” Sandy says.

  “Butter?” We never put butter on popcorn at the commune. Of course at the commune, we cooked popcorn over a fire—not exactly the most butter-friendly environment.

  Sandy sighs and strides to the refrigerator. She pulls out a stick of butter, discards its waxy wrapper, and plops it into a small saucepan. Deftly, she lights another burner and slides the saucepan over it.

  “For pouring on top,” she explains.

  “Yum,” I say.

  The first kernel pops. Then another. Then pop-pop-pop-poppop, and man, it smells amazing. The butter in the saucepan is an ooze of bubbles around a molten yellow brick. I swish it around to hasten the melting.