"I guess. So I'm not crazy? Other people have experienced this?"
"Well, not everybody," Dr. Pat replied doubtfully. "But some people. Special people. You should have told your parents about it sooner. You have a Committee meeting on Monday, yes?"
How did Dr. Pat know about The Committee?
She nodded.
"Everything will be explained in time. For now, don't give it another thought."
"So there's nothing wrong with me?"
"Absolutely nothing at all."
Later that night, Bliss woke up with a blistering headache. Where am I? she wondered. She felt as though she'd been hit by a truck. Her body felt waterlogged and heavy, and her head was groggy. She looked at the clock next to her bed.
It flashed 11:49 P.M.
With effort, she pulled herself up to a sitting position. She put a hand to her forehead. She was hot, burning. The pounding in her head was merciless. Her stomach growled. Hungry.
She swung her feet over her bed and heaved herself up to stand. Not a good idea. She was dizzy and sick. She grabbed on to one of the bedposts and staggered over to the light switch. When she reached over to turn on the light, her bedroom was suddenly illuminated.
Everything was just as she'd left it—the thick Committee letter and forms scattered on her desk, her German textbook open to the same page, her fountain pens arranged neatly in her pencil box, a funny Stetson magnet from her friends back home in Texas, a framed photograph of her family in front of the Capitol steps when her father was sworn in to the Senate.
She wiped her eyes and patted down her curls, which, from experience, she knew were sticking out frantically in all directions.
Hungry.
It was a dark, abiding ache. A physical pain. This was new. Dr. Pat didn't say anything about this. She clutched her stomach, feeling nauseous. She walked outside her bedroom to the darkened hallway, following the low lights to the kitchen.
Their stainless-steel kitchen looked severe in the midnight glow of the overhead lamps. Bliss saw her reflection on all the surfaces—a tall, gangly girl with scary hair and a bleak expression.
She opened the door to the Sub-Zero. Arranged neatly in rows were bottles of Vitamin Water, Pellegrino, and Veuve Clicquot. She tore open the drawers. Fresh fruit, cut and placed in Tupperware containers. Creamline Yogurt. A half-eaten grapefruit covered in cellophane. White cardboard containers of leftover Chinese food.
No good.
Hunnngrrry.
In the meat drawer, she found it. A pound of raw hamburger meat. She took it out and tore the brown paper wrapping. Meat. She stuffed her face with the bloody chunks of ground beef, devouring it voraciously, so that the blood dripped down her chin.
She practically swallowed it whole.
"What are you doing?"
Bliss froze.
Her sister, Jordan, in pink flannel pajamas, was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her.
"It's all right, Jordan." BobiAnne suddenly appeared out of the shadows. She was smoking a cigarette in the corner. When she exhaled, the smoke curled up around the edges of her lips. "Go to bed."
Bliss put the packet of meat down on the counter. She wiped her lips with a napkin. "I don't know what got into me. I was just hungry."
"Of course you are, my dear," BobiAnne agreed, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to find your stepdaughter eating a hunk of raw hamburger meat straight from the fridge at three in the morning. "There are some filet mignons in the second drawer. In case you still have an appetite."
And with those words, BobiAnne bade her goodnight.
Bliss thought about it for a moment, wondering if the world had gone insane. Dr. Pat telling her her out-of-body, out-of-time experience was just "one of those things," her stepmother not blinking an eye at seeing her covered in blood in the kitchen. She contemplated for a moment. Then she found the packet of steaks and ate them, too.
Consumption. Symptoms include a high fever, fainting, dizziness, coughing up of blood, and the accumulation of fluid in the lungs. During the early years of the American colony at Plymouth, a high degree of consumption was the cause of many deaths. "Full consumption" was the term for a person who had died with all of his or her blood drained from the body. Theories suggest that a bacterial infection broke down the platelets, thinning out the blood and absorbing it into the body so that it only looked as though all the blood had disappeared.
— From Death and Life in the Plymouth Colonies, 1620–1641 by Professor Lawrence Winslow Van Alen
CHAPTER 13
The next day, the whole upper school was called into the chapel again, but for a less somber reason. It was a Career Talk. Even the unfortunate demise of one of their students couldn't change the rigid schedule of lectures that the school had planned for the year. Part of the Duchesne philosophy was to expose their students to a sampling of the many career opportunities and paths available to them. They'd had talks from a famous heart surgeon, the editor of a prestigious magazine, the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, a famous film director. Most of the adults who came to give the talks were Duchesne alumni, or Duchesne parents. Most of the students welcomed the hour-and-a-half break in their day, since it meant that they could snooze in the back pews, which was a lot more comfortable than nodding off in class.
"We have a special treat for you today," the Dean of Students announced. "Today we have Linda Farnsworth, from Farnsworth Models." A ripple of approval and excitement went through the assemblage.
Farnsworth Models was the biggest name in the cutthroat modeling industry. Their biannual Career Talk at Duchesne was just an excuse to find the newest batch of models lurking in the student body. An incongruous, but unimpeachable fact was that Duchesne was a breeding ground for modeling talent in the city. Students had gyrated their hips in music videos, walked the runways in Bryant Park, and had appeared in television commercials and print advertising. An inordinate number were featured in the J. Crew and Abercrombie & Fitch catalogs. The Duchesne type—tall, willowy, blond, aristocratic, and all-American, was more in demand than ever.
Linda Farnsworth was a short, squat woman with crinkly hair and a dowdy appearance. She wore half-moon glasses, and her voice quavered over the microphone as she explained the ins and outs of the modeling industry. She exhorted its virtues (Glamorous photo shoots! Travel to exotic places! Fun parties!), and in the same breath emphasized the very hard work that went into making the perfect photographs. There was a smattering of polite applause when she finished.
When the formal talk ended, Linda set up a casting call on the third-floor landing and invited any interested students to try out. Almost all of the girls and even a few of the boys waited in line to see if they would make the cut.
After a bunch of glum freshmen were ushered to the side, Mimi stepped forward. She had dressed especially well for the occasion, in a slim-fitting tailored C&C California T-shirt and low, hip-slung Paige jeans. She'd heard that models should dress as plainly as possible for auditions, a blank canvas on which advertisers and designers could easier project their visions. The night before, she'd left the Italian exhausted in his penthouse loft, she herself felt invigorated and cheerful.
"Walk up toward the end of the staircase and back, please," Linda instructed.
Linda clucked in approval as Mimi stomped up and down the hallway and pirouetted at the end of the stairs.
"You have the ideal proportions my dear, and a natural ability. A fabulous walk is what it's all about, you know. Tell me, are you interested in being a model?"
"Of course!" Mimi squealed, clapping her hands together, delighted she had been chosen. It was about time she joined the ranks of the professionally beautiful!