So I do, and my angel-boy turns his head.
“Bliss!” Thelma squeals. She tackles me and claps her hand over my mouth. “Oh my gosh, will you hush?!”
It’s another “don’t cross your legs above the ankles” moment, even though Thelma is the one who egged me on.
But my angel-boy smiles, and my heart takes flight. I smile back, and something passes between us. Something fizzy and fine.
He laughs and continues along his way.
Thelma swats me. “Bliss!”
I watch my boy stroll up the hill. I appreciate the play of muscle beneath his khakis.
“She’s smitten,” Jolene says affectionately.
“I am,” I agree.
“Well, don’t be,” Thelma says. “That’s Mitchell Truman, and he’s a junior. Juniors don’t date freshmen.”
“That’s his last name, ‘Truman’?” I say. How perfect—true man.
“Unless the freshman’s Sarah Lynn Lancaster,” DeeDee says. “Any junior in school would date her. Any senior, even.”
“Only she doesn’t date,” Thelma says pompously, since she’s pretty much Sarah Lynn’s best friend. A best friend who does little more than worship her from afar, but who am I to judge? From what I’ve seen, that’s about as close as Sarah Lynn likes anyone to get.
I think of her stolen kiss with Lawrence, and how she pushed him away when I appeared on the scene. “What do you mean, she doesn’t date?” I ask.
Thelma rolls her eyes. “She doesn’t date, that’s what I mean.”
“Her daddy’s scary strict,” Jolene says. “He told her he’ll send her to a convent if he ever even catches her holding some boy’s hand.”
I frown, trying to absorb this. I’ve grown comfortable enough with my assessment of Sarah Lynn as shallow and privileged that I resist adjusting my opinion.
“Bliss, not everyone’s parents believe in free sex,” Thelma says, and there’s a meanness to her comment that isn’t a loving tease. She’s punishing me for something, though I don’t know what.
And then I do. It’s because Mitchell smiled at me even though I’m a freshman.
I regard her. Not coldly, not as a challenge, but without an ounce of apology, either. I hold her gaze until she’s the one who backs down.
“I have an itch,” Jolene says, angling her spine toward me. “Will you scratch it?”
“Sure,” I say. I push her brown ponytail to the side and scratch her shoulder.
“Omigosh, thank you.” She wiggles. “A little lower? Little more to the left? Oh, that feels so good.”
I keep what I know about Sarah Lynn and Lawrence to myself. I also remind myself that even if Sarah Lynn does have a scary strict father, that doesn’t release her from the responsibility of treating others with respect. Abuse of power is wrong, no matter the context, no matter the history.
What is “power,” anyway? Power is an ego trip. Power is a way to raise yourself up by lowering others, and I want nothing of it.
he next day I take a new route to French in hopes of running into Mitchell. With my sleuthing skills—and a winning way with the secretary, who thinks I’m such a nice young woman—I’ve gotten my hands on his schedule. He has calculus this period, and his classroom is in Hamilton Hall. My stomach sank when I saw that. But love conquers all, right?
I am amazed to find that it does. Not that what Mitchell and I have is love; what we have is a shared smile and nothing more. (Yet.) But it turns out that I am indeed willing to face Hamilton Hall for the sake of Mitchell. Or maybe I’m unwilling to let a dead girl keep me from entering a building that dozens of students stroll into every day.
says the blood voice the moment I enter the building. I turn and promptly leave. And then scold myself, regain my composure, and head back in.
This time, there is no voice to deter me.
The first floor of Hamilton Hall is all hustle and bustle, and I hold myself tall. I can do this. Mitchell’s schedule card says CALCULUS, HAMILTON HALL 313, and though I’m momentarily confused—I thought his class was here on level one?—I’m not about to turn back now.
I push through to the stairwell, which is far less crowded than the hall. I don’t like the stairwell. But I lift and lower my feet—left, then right, then left—and I climb toward the second story.
I stop. I listen, my senses on high alert. But I hear nothing but the chatter of the two girls behind me, so I continue.
The girls veer off at the second floor, and I find I’m alone, just as I was the day I chanced upon Lawrence and Sarah Lynn. Why is no one else heading to the third floor? The stairwell is cold, and my satchel bumps against my side.
As I step into the third-floor hallway, I register the absolute lack of life. There was no one on the last flight of stairs; there’s no one in this third-floor hall. But why? The tardy bell hasn’t rung yet, has it?
I press my fingers to my temples. My thoughts . . . they’re not as clear as I’d like them to be.
Maybe only special classes are held here, special classes for special people. I walk down the hall as if in a dream, and other dreamlike details filter in: the murky light, the unadorned walls, the musty air. To my left is a small room with a high, narrow window. Doorways to other rooms are visible ahead. This must be where the convent’s initiates were housed, fourteen-year-old girls fresh from their families’ farms. I imagine them chatting, praying, attending to their studies. This bleak hall must once have been full of life.
I continue down the hall. Mitchell’s not here, and I suppose I should turn back, but something in the shadows entices me to take one step farther, then another, then another. The tickle of lemons fills my nostrils, and the tingling of my skin tells me I’m stepping into the vast unseen-ness that overlays our world. It makes me feel special, that I, rather than Thelma and the others—
—hold the key to entering this realm.
Wait. Key? I’ve never thought of my gift as a key. Indeed, Flying V schooled me most sternly not to think of it as a key or a tool or something to “use” for gain.
It’s the blood voice. I try to dislodge it. Surely I’m stronger than a shapeless, shadowy whisper.
I’ll go a little farther, that’s all.
At the end of the hall is a gray metal door, clearly a product of renovation. It’s the sort of door that opens by pressing a metal bar, and it takes several firm shoves before the release finally clicks. I use my shoulder to push open the door, and I slip through. It bangs shut behind me.
The corridor I’ve entered is dark and cool, like a burial chamber. Along the hall are timber doors fit into stone, each door intricately carved with religious icons. Crosses, chalices, supplicants kneeling in prayer. The carvings are in the style of “fear me or I will smite you”—lots of thorns and anguished expressions.
I imagine the ossified gloom behind these doors, and it is almost enough to puncture the altered state I seem to be in. If I were a young girl training to be a nun, I wouldn’t want Tortured Jesus carved onto my door. I’d want Friendly Jesus, the one with bunnies and little children.
Or maybe it’s just the thought of being trapped behind one of these doors that presses in on me. Even on the commune, I didn’t do well in enclosed spaces. Especially the pigeon coop. Especially in the pit of night.
It could be night here in this desolate corridor. In the outside world, the sun itself could have been snuffed out, leaving me alone save for dread spirits behind closed doors. I wish I’d never thought of entombment—what if there are spirits in these forgotten chambers? What if they’ve been waiting all this time for someone to stumble blindly down the hall?
And yet I don’t turn back.
There are numbers on the doors, and if I strain my eyes, I can make them out. 308, 310, 312. On the opposite side of the hall are the odd-numbered rooms. Room 313 is directly ahead of me, carved with the image of a dove carrying a laurel branch.
I swallow.
Below a dark keyhole is an iron latch, and I watch my
hand rise toward it. I marvel at its movement, for I’m not controlling it. Am I?
I rattle the latch, but it holds firm. My hand drifts down, and I trace the carving of the dove. Then the fragile laurel branch. Then back to the dove, which is no larger than an egg. My fingers flutter over the delicate ridges of its wings. There’s the slightest gap at the tip of one wing, a fracture in the wood. My thumbnail catches on the grain. I pull at it, and the dove moves. I wiggle the dove as I’d wiggle a loose tooth, and slowly, millimeter by millimeter, it begins to come out.
I’m pretty sure my mouth drops open, because I’m breathing differently. I can feel air moving over my lower lip.
The dove is like an incredibly well-made puzzle piece. I’m in love with the smoothness of its edges. I’m in love with the satisfying sluice it makes when at last it flies free.
I draw in my breath. In the space behind the dove is a key. A real key. A physical key.
I lift the key from its hiding spot. It’s rusty and old and brings to mind clanking metal jail cells. I hesitate—
—then insert it into the lock. I twist it, but it sticks. I rattle it.
Wh-what? I’m jerked out of my trance, only when I try to step back, I can’t. My hand is glued to the key, and the key is glued to the lock. I can’t withdraw it. Panic slicks me with sweat.
The smell of my own fear drowns out the hypnotic scent of citrus, and with a mighty effort I pull the key from the lock. From the dusty recesses comes a rage-filled I turn and run down the dark corridor, shoving both the key and the small wooden dove deep into my satchel. But when I reach the heavy metal door, I can’t get it open. It’s dark, so dark, and no one knows I’m up here! I could be trapped here forever!
Finally the latch releases, and I flee, my satchel thwacking the flesh below my ribs. Down the hall, down the deserted stairwell, out the door onto a neatly tended stone pathway. But this isn’t where I came in, is it? I don’t remember these bushes. And the stone path that leads to the newly constructed gymnasium, where we girls wear our green-and-white gym clothes . . . well, there it is in front of me. Only, that means I’m on the south side of the building, when I know I entered from the north.
I squint. Is that blood on the flagstones?
I blink again, and it’s gone. Lightheaded, I lean against the wall of the building—then flinch away just as quick. I stumble across the trail and sink to the grass.
Breathe, I tell myself. Slow down. Calm yourself.
Trembling, I fish Mitchell’s schedule card from my satchel. It’s printed on Crestview letterhead, and the heavy cardstock reassures me.
Period four, it says halfway down. Calculus. Hamilton Hall, Room 103.
There’s a rushing in my head, and I have the prickling sensation of danger barely averted. I fold the schedule in half, draw my thumbnail along the crease, and stuff it in my bag. The key and the wooden dove knock against my hand, and I reflexively yank my hand back out.
I stand up unsteadily, because I need to get to class. I need to be around others who are made of flesh and blood.
fter French—in which Madame Guittard scolds me for being tardy—I head for lunch. When I enter the cafeteria, I do a quick scan, but there is no Mitchell. No Thelma, either. Also no Jolene or DeeDee. I must still be recovering from my haunted hall scare, because my response is stomach-plunging dismay. Where are they?
I take in the scrum of students—minus my friends—and I think, What if they’re gone forever, their souls stolen by some unseen force? And then: Who will I sit with if not Thelma and the others?
“Good, there you are,” Thelma says breathlessly, rushing up behind me.
“Thelma!” I say. I give her a spontaneous hug.
“What was that for?” she asks when I release her.
“Just glad to see you, that’s all. Hey—have you ever been to the third floor of Hamilton Hall?” I think of showing her the key I found.
“No, of course not,” she says. She looks at me strangely and doesn’t ask why. “Listen, we have a Booster Club meeting today—me and the girls—so we won’t be eating in the cafeteria. I just wanted to let you know, okay?”
“Oh. Okay. Um, what’s the Booster Club?”
“Just the funnest school club, that’s all. We do bake sales and car washes and stuff to earn money for school events, like the Winter Dance. It’s going to be far-out!”
Far-out? A dance? That I’ll have to see to believe. Giggles and gossip and girl-talk sound pretty good right now, though.
“Can I come?” I ask.
She shifts. “Well . . . it’s just that today is voting day.”
I wait.
“New members can’t vote,” she explains. “And you’re not even a new member. I mean, you haven’t paid dues or signed the pledge or anything.”
“There’s a pledge to be in the Booster Club?”
“Lookit, I’ve got to go. The girls are waiting.”
The relief I felt starts to slip away. “But who will I sit with?”
“Whoever you want,” she says impatiently. “I’m not your babysitter, you know.”
She hurries off, and my gaze drifts to the congested cafeteria. So many teeming bodies. So many beating hearts. Well, that’s what I wanted, isn’t it?
Someone walks past me, snagging my gaze. It’s Sandy, the Good Samaritan who helped Gayla that day. I watch as she navigates the crowd. Her socks refuse to stay up, and her blouse is too tight, straining over the full breasts that come with being chubby. She wears a shiny yellow headband. Her face is free of makeup.
I follow Sandy hesitantly to the food line, because I’ve been wanting to meet her since that day with Gayla. Now’s the perfect chance. I don’t care that she’s not pretty or popular. I certainly don’t care that she’s not a rah-rah Booster girl, too busy planning the Winter Dance to think about anything else. The Winter Dance may very well be great fun, but it’s hardly going to change anyone’s life.
A lady in a hairnet plunks a slice of meat loaf on my plate along with a serving of green beans, and I trail Sandy into the dining area. She drops into a seat at a vacant table, and the way she does it—without even scanning the other tables—tells me she’s accustomed to eating alone.
My heart pounds as I approach her. “Can I sit here?”
Her head jerks up. “What?”
“I said, can I sit here?”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
She makes an impatient sound, as if she and I both know that there are girls at Crestview who get the stamp of approval and girls who don’t. Sandy falls into the second category—and yes, I suppose that distinction hasn’t escaped me. I’ve been at Crestview more than a month now, and by standing here, I know I’m crossing an invisible line.
Yet on the commune, I was taught to open my heart to everyone.
“I just want someone to sit with,” I say. “Is that a problem?”
Sandy’s expression is mulish. Seconds tick by, and I feel stupid. I turn to leave.
“Wait,” she says—or at least, I think that’s what she says. Her voice is low.
She nudges the chair next to her with her foot, pushing it out so there’s room for someone to slide in. “Suit yourself, New Girl. It’s your funeral.”
unch with Sandy is different from lunch with Thelma and the others. The two of us eye each other, and chew, and eye each other some more. She’s the silent sort, I decide, but I’m okay with that. I’m okay with simply being meat-loaf-eating companions. Meat loaf is essentially unthreatening, and the blood voice retreats farther away with every scrape of fork against plate.
When I join Sandy again the next day, she doesn’t protest—and this time we do talk. It starts when I tell her, jokingly, that there must be something wrong with me since I’ve been ditched by not one, but two, peer mentors. Thelma’s eating in the Booster Club room again, and I suppose I’m a little miffed.
“First Sarah Lynn, then Thelma,” I say, sighing as if
it’s so tragic. “I’m beginning to wonder if I stink or something.”
Immediately, I regret my words, remembering what Jolene told me about Sandy and the deodorant. But Sandy exhibits no discomfort—and anyway, she doesn’t stink. Not from across the table, at least.
“Sarah Lynn?” she says. “Sarah Lynn Lancaster?”
“She was assigned to show me around, but she passed me off,” I say. “Alas.”
“Sarah Lynn is your peer mentor,” Sandy repeats. It’s a little annoying. Is Sarah Lynn so fabulous that even Sandy can’t help but fixate on her?
“No, Thelma is,” I say. “Not that I need one anymore. But when I first got here, I was, you know, fresh off the boat. Only the boat was really a commune.”
“You lived on a commune?” Sandy says, her eyebrows arching.
Here we go, I think, but at the same time, I’m aware that I brought it up. She didn’t ask; I told. And it wasn’t to get her off the subject of Sarah Lynn as much as it was to test Sandy’s reaction—kind of. I didn’t know I wanted to until now, but I do. Is Sandy a Sarah Lynn worshipper who—because she’s different—will never get the chance to taste Sarah Lynn’s power? Or is Sandy her own person and proud of it, open to the idea that we all have gifts to offer?
I take a bite of pizza. “Yep, lived on a commune. Slept in a tent, wore hand-me-downs and skirts with bells. And my last name, just in case you were wondering”—I chew and swallow and say quite matter-of-factly—“is In the Morning Dew.”
Sandy’s normally cautious expression loosens. She laughs with relish. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.” I rip off another healthy bite of pizza. “Bliss in the Morning Dew, that’s me.”
“What a gas. I love it.”
“Do you?” I ask.
“What was it like on the commune?” She wants to know. She leans forward and puts her chin in her hands. “Did you have run-ins with the law? Were you ever in any protests? Could anybody be whoever she wanted to be?”