Bliss Read online

  Grandmother has Rosie burn the newspaper before I can read the article, but I glimpse the headline: FIVE SLAIN IN BLOODY CULT-STYLE MURDER. It’s terrible that five people were murdered—terrible!—but I don’t understand why Grandmother would read about such a brutal crime and automatically think hippies. Hippies aren’t about hate. Hippies are about love. Does she think that just because hippies reject society, they’re going to fan out and slay those who don’t?

  Her daughter—my mother—is one of those “shiftless hippies.” Mom taught me to be kind to spiders, and she insisted the mice had just as much right to our food as we did. When Layla slashed her chest on a piece of exposed wire, Mom used a shirt to bind her up. My shirt, actually. The one with the embroidered peace sign.

  Dad called Layla a “rat with wings” and said Mom should let nature take its course. Mom refused to talk to him for two days, and he had to coax her from her sulk with a Hershey’s bar he’d stashed in the bottom of his rucksack.

  “Where did you get this?” she demanded, scowling as if he’d been holding out on her.

  “Remember that roofing job I did?” he said. “She paid me in chocolate, and I saved it for my lady.” He broke off a bite of candy and placed it in her mouth. She tried to stay grouchy, but ended up closing her eyes and making an mmmm of pleasure.

  Layla’s gash eventually healed, and I reclaimed my shirt from the filthy coop. I shouldn’t have bothered. The bloodstains never came out.

  wo more people were murdered in California last night. This time I get to the paper before Grandmother, and I learn that the victims—Leno and Rosemary LaBianca—were tied up and stabbed to death in their own house. The article provides details about the other slayings as well. I find out that the people killed the night before were having a dinner party at the house of Roman Polanski, who’s apparently a pretty well-known movie director. Only Mr. Polanski wasn’t there; it was just his wife and four friends. His wife’s name was Sharon Tate. She was eight-and-a-half months pregnant.

  When I hear Grandmother coming downstairs, I quickly refold the paper and place it on the kitchen table. She reads it and goes pale.

  “Have mercy,” she says faintly. “What is this world coming to?”

  “What happened?” I ask, since supposedly I don’t know.

  She gives a bare-bones account of the crime, and I give her a cup of tea. She takes a shaky sip and tells me we must install a gate at the end of the driveway.

  “Maybe we should get a dog,” I say. “Maybe a German shepherd.” A German shepherd probably isn’t needed to protect us from a killer in California, but I’ve always wanted a pet I could actually play with. And German shepherds just sound so loyal.

  “Those deviants, they stabbed that poor woman forty-one times,” Grandmother says. She puts down her cup. “Oh, Bliss, how could people be so heartless?”

  Without thinking, I rise and embrace her. She stiffens, and I feel how frail she is beneath her blouse. I am young and strong, and the last of the scaly patches on my skin have flaked off, thanks to daily scrubbings with my all-natural loofah.

  “Those murderers are far, far away,” I tell her. “We’re safe here.”

  “Yes, of course,” Grandmother says. She pulls away. “Thank you, Bliss. You’re a good girl.”

  “Mom’s a good girl too,” I say without thinking. Maybe I’m afraid that by “deviant,” Grandmother once again means “long-haired hippie freak”?

  “I mean, she’s a good person,” I go on. “She’s not a girl, she’s a grown-up, obviously . . . but—”

  “Oh, Bliss,” Grandmother says.

  “She is!”

  Grandmother’s mask slides back into place.

  “Sometimes good girls go astray,” she says, and she goes to check on Rosie, who’s polishing the silver.

  n the Tuesday after Labor Day, Grandmother drops me off at Crestview with an air kiss and an admonition to be good.

  “I will, I will,” I say, climbing out of her Cadillac. I’m all stirred up, as Flying V would say: antsy and excited and fluttery with nerves. The campus is intimidatingly grand, the buildings constructed from cold, gray stone.

  says a voice in my head.

  I stop dead in my tracks, because it’s not my voice that whispered these thoughts. And whoever’s voice it is, it’s not a nice voice.

  I look up at the tallest of the buildings, which sits and watches from the middle of campus. HAMILTON HALL reads the carved inscription above the entrance. Lush, green vines of ivy snake up the stone blocks, as if they might wrap around you and never let you go. There are windows built into the stone façade, but they’re ungenerous and cramped. I imagine long-ago girls staring blankly from behind them.

  murmurs that chilly voice.

  “Stop it,” I say out loud. I blink. The day is sunny, and there isn’t a shadow in sight. Students stroll down the footpaths, chatting happily, and I remind myself that although I do on occasion perceive things from a realm beyond the physical, I would be foolish to assign dire meaning to such perceptions without further cause. Sorrow lingers, while joy takes to the air like a bird in flight. The dark wisps I’m registering could be a hundred years old or more.

  Plus, while I myself am quick to smile and glad to laugh, I do appreciate a good ghost story. I love the gothic novels that tell of innocent girls lured deeper and deeper into remote and unfamiliar settings, and I could easily be giving myself a delicious shiver on purpose.

  Yet when I cross past Hamilton Hall on the way to my homeroom, my pace slows, and it unnerves me, because I’m not dragging my feet intentionally. Hamilton Hall is not delicious. Hamilton Hall is the old convent’s forbidding Mother Superior, grimly surveying her charges, and the fear I feel is genuine.

  says the voice with a terrible urgency.

  With a jerk of will, I quicken my pace.

  My homeroom is up the hill from Hamilton Hall, in the Woodward Building. Like Hamilton Hall, the narrow corridors and high ceilings of the Woodward Building call to mind processions of solemn novices, but the walls are plastered with cheerful hand-lettered posters, urging us to embody Crestview’s “Can-Do Attitude.”

  With willful concentration, I shake off the creepiness of the blood voice. I’m here at school not to seek ghosts, but friends. Fresh-faced, cleanly scrubbed friends like the kids who live in Mayberry. Kids who drink malteds. Kids who say “Gee, Paw” and whistle as they walk.

  My homeroom consists of thirteen girls, as the boys have their own homerooms. Everyone obviously knows each other. I overhear snippets of talk about the California murders, but the girls are primarily gossiping about their summer vacations. There’s lots of giggling and twittering and checking of lipstick in cute round mirrors that they snap shut and put in their purses. They remind me of busy sparrows.

  I don’t have a pocket mirror, and I don’t have a purse. I’m not wearing lipstick, although that’s another thing Grandmother wants to go shopping for. “A girl needs some color on her face,” she said, looking me over this morning. “And for heaven’s sake, Bliss, can’t you do something with that hair?”

  I took her advice and plaited it into a thick braid, and I’m glad. None of the other girls have their hair loose. Headbands, barrettes, and elastic ponytail holders are the restraints of choice. I study my classmates curiously, though I try not to be obvious. The girls from Flying V’s vision—are they among this flock of chattering birds?

  Our homeroom teacher claps to call us to attention, and girls fly to their desks. I’ve been hovering, not wanting to be the only one sitting down, but suddenly I’m the only one standing up. I quickly take my seat, and the legs of my chair make a farting sound as they scoot against the floor. My face heats up.

  “I’m Mrs. Elliot,” our teacher says. “Welcome to the ninth grade.” She wears a navy dress and, I suspect, a girdle. She’s not nearly as pretty as Miss Crump, Opie’s teacher on Andy Griffith, but she has a kind face. I can imagine her with a lovely book, reading by the fire with a cu
p of cocoa by her side.

  “Most of you know each other from junior high,” Mrs. Elliot says, “and of course I had the privilege of spending time with you during your orientation session last spring.” Her smile is one of tolerant amusement, and the girls giggle. I glean from this that the freshman orientation was a giddy affair.

  “Today we have a new student joining us, however,” she goes on. Everyone’s heads swivel my way. “Girls, please help me welcome Bliss Int—” She breaks off and frowns at the attendance chart.

  Oh no.

  “Bliss Inthemorningdew?”

  My face grows several degrees hotter. “Um, yes.” Grandmother enrolled me under her last name, Gilliland, but apparently the school acquired old social work records. Bliss in the Morning Dew, that’s my legal name. Mom and Dad just crammed all the words together to make it fit.

  The girls share delighted glances. Several of them titter.

  “Well. Bliss,” Mrs. Elliot says, “I’ve assigned a peer mentor to help you get settled so your first day doesn’t feel too overwhelming.” She directs her attention to a plump girl with blond hair held back with a pink headband. “Thelma, will you please escort Bliss to Mrs. Morgenstern’s homeroom when the bell rings? Sarah Lynn Lancaster will be waiting.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Elliot,” Thelma says. She grins at me, and it’s a friendly grin, I think, even if the girls near her are openly giggling. Is Thelma the girl I’m destined to meet?

  Mrs. Elliot goes over the school guidelines, and I try to take it all in. But I’m not accustomed to so many rules. A bathroom pass? What’s a bathroom pass? And all the fuss over the Honor Code, which makes my classmates grow solemn. It seems unlikely that any of these girls would be less than honorable; how funny the school feels the need for a written code.

  A bell rings, and I jump. The girls rise as one, and I realize we’re moving on to the next part of the day. First period, that’s what it’s called. On my schedule card, I see that I’ve got English.

  “Ready?” Thelma asks, appearing by my side.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. In my haste to get up, I knock over my books. I squat to gather them. “Oh, man, I’m such a clod.”

  She waits patiently. I stand, and she links her arm through mine.

  “You are so lucky to get paired up with Sarah Lynn,” she says as we navigate the crowded hall. “She is just . . . well, she’s just absolutely choice, that’s what.”

  “Um . . . what?” I’m having trouble concentrating, because there are so many sights and sounds and smells to take in. And boys, they’ve joined the mix. One guy brushes against me, and I catch a whiff of pine. His deodorant, maybe? It’s intoxicating.

  I vow to throw away the crystal Mom gave me to combat the smell of perspiration. I’ll stop by King’s and buy a deodorant called Secret, which keeps you cool, calm, and protected. I’ve seen commercials for it.

  “And she’s beautiful, and she’s loaded,” Thelma says. “The whole package, you know?”

  “Of what?”

  “What do you mean, of what?” The look she gives me makes me feel as if I’m missing some key component of ninth-grade girlness, which I doubtlessly am.

  “Oh,” she adds, “and she’s pretty much my best friend.” She comes to an abrupt stop in front of room 212, and I bump into her. She gives me that look again. “Ow. You are a clod, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  She steps away to give herself space. “Anyway, this is Mrs. Morgenstern’s homeroom . . . and, oh, there’s Sarah Lynn!” She waves, and all of a sudden, Thelma is on. Like, electric lightbulb on, way more lively than she was with me. “Sarah Lynn! Sarah Lynn! Hi!”

  The girl who comes over has honey-colored hair and great posture. Her eyes skim over me, but I don’t think she really sees me. She doesn’t give Thelma an especially warm welcome either—and by that I mean no welcome at all. She scans the hall as if she’s looking for someone. Someone who isn’t us.

  Thelma doesn’t clue in. “Sarah Lynn, this is Bliss, the new girl,” she says importantly. “Bliss, this is Sarah Lynn.”

  “Hi,” I say. Sarah Lynn reminds me of someone. Who is it she reminds me of?

  “Thelma, could you do me a huge favor and take over?” Sarah Lynn asks. Her voice is sweet, but she still hasn’t made eye contact with me. She’s hardly made eye contact with Thelma, but instead keeps looking down the hall. “I know you’d be great at it, and I’ve got, um . . . I’m just . . . wow. So busy, you know?”

  “Sure,” Thelma says. She stands up taller. “And I hear you, ‘cause oh my gosh, I’m so busy too. But yeah, absolutely!”

  “Hi,” I say again. I give a sweeping wave. “Hellooo.”

  “Oh!” Sarah Lynn says, turning to me with a confused expression. “Hi. Right. Did I not say that?”

  I smile and shake my head.

  “Very nice to meet you,” she says, and in my head, I roll my eyes. She didn’t even catch my name, I just know it. And I’ve figured out who she reminds me of.

  “Okay, gotta split,” she says. “Thank you, Thelma—so much!”

  She dashes off, and I watch her blend in with the crowd. Despite her golden hair, she blends easily. The only person who doesn’t blend is a tall black guy a few yards ahead of her, just now stepping out of his own homeroom. It occurs to me that he’s the only black person I’ve seen.

  “So . . . looks like I’m your student mentor,” Thelma says, pulling back my attention. “Groovy. I know pretty much everything about Crestview, so don’t worry.”

  She seems to mean it, which I appreciate, because Sarah Lynn made me feel like a big fat zero.

  “What grade is she in?” I ask.

  “Who, Sarah Lynn? Ours, not that you’d know it. She mainly hangs out with upperclassmen.”

  I almost say, I thought she was your best friend. But I don’t.

  “Ah,” I say. “Well, I should get to class, huh?” I check my schedule card and see that my destination is two rooms down. I start to go, but Thelma grabs my arm.

  “Wait,” she says. “Is your last name honestly what Mrs. Elliot said it was?”

  It takes me a moment to patch together what she’s asking. I’m still recovering from being snubbed, and also from the intrusive memory of Ms. Sturgess, the person Sarah Lynn reminded me of. Ms. Sturgess was a social worker in California who made me feel as small as Sarah Lynn did.

  Then my brain clicks into gear: homeroom, the giggles, Bliss in the Morning Dew.

  “Um, yeah?” I say.

  “But that’s not a real last name.”

  “Actually, it is.”

  Her expression tells me that’s not enough, so I say, “My parents are kind of . . . hippies.” I hear the way it comes out, and I feel a twinge of guilt. Why did I say “kind of”? And why did I say “my parents,” as if they were hippies, but not me?

  “Oh, wow,” Thelma says, eyes wide. “For real? My dad says it was hippies who killed those people in California.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “That one lady? Sharon Tate? She was expecting her first child. Isn’t that awful? She only had one month to go, but now—” She makes a throat-slitting movement with her hand.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that. Apparently nothing, since Thelma is already moving on.

  “So do you, like, have lots of dads?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You know—free love and all that. Does your mom wear a bra?”

  I blink. Mom doesn’t wear a bra; she burned them all with a bunch of friends as an ironic poke at the “bra-burning ceremonies” invented by the press. Mom’s bras were gray and stretched out, so burning them was no great loss. But I’m reluctant to share this with Thelma—especially since I’m finally processing her “lots of dads” remark. She thinks my mom sleeps around. I can’t decide if I’m more astounded or offended.

  “I just have one dad, and my mom wears a bra,” I say.

  Thelma’s f
ace falls. Then she shrugs. “Okay, well, have fun in English. I’ll swing by to walk you to your next class.” She grins. “Oh, and like Mrs. Elliot said—welcome to Crestview!”

  y lunchtime my head is spinning, but it’s exhilarating. Everyone is so nice—well, other than Sarah Lynn—and it just goes to show that you don’t have to live on a commune in order to love your brothers and sisters. It can happen at a prep school just as easily, with everyone dressed in matching uniforms, even!

  Thelma meets me as promised at the cafeteria. Once we have our trays, she leads me to a table in the middle of the room.

  “This is where you get your big lesson, okay?” she says. She’s realized how clueless I am about pretty much everything, and she’s taken to explaining the hidden rules of high school life, which she either knows intuitively or absorbed during freshman orientation. I’m grateful, although I’m not a hundred percent sure she’s the expert she makes herself out to be. Still, she sure as heck knows more than I do.

  “Girls, this is Bliss,” Thelma says to our table companions. “Sarah Lynn asked me to take over her duties as student mentor, and of course I said yes.”

  Two curious faces gaze at me. One girl has red hair and a heart-shaped face; the other has brown hair and really pretty brown eyes.

  Thelma puts her hand on my forearm. “Bliss is a hippie. Tell them your last name, Bliss.”

  I sigh and say, “In the Morning Dew.”

  The brown-haired girl wrinkles her forehead.

  “That’s her last name!” Thelma says. “In the Morning Dew!”

  I smile with closed lips at their astonished squeals. But it’s just a name. Geez.

  “Can you change it when you turn eighteen?” the girl with the red hair asks.

  “Um . . .” I’ve never thought about it, to tell the truth.

  “I think it’s far-out,” the brown-haired girl says.

  “You do?” Thelma says. She tilts her head, and I get the sense that Thelma is the sort of girl whose opinion changes depending on what others think.

  “It’s tons better than Roach, that’s for sure,” the brown-haired girl says.