Except that it was. That night, he'd told her all about his family, and how he'd hated boarding school in Connecticut. She'd told him about Houston, how she used to drive her grandfather's Cadillac convertible to school, which everyone thought was hilarious. The thing was a boat - with proper fins. More important, she'd confessed how she didn't feel like she fit in at Duchesne at all, and how she didn't even like Mimi.
It was liberating to have been so honest with him, although she regretted it as soon as she got home, traumatized by the fear that somehow he would find a way to tell Mimi what she'd confided in him, even though she knew it was impossible. Mimi was in the In-Clique. Dylan hung out with the misfits and losers. Never the twain shall meet. If he even tried to approach Mimi, she would cut him dead with a look even before he got his mouth open.
"Wanna cut?" he asked. His black hair was combed straight back, and he wiggled his dark eyebrows at her invitingly.
Cutting a funeral. Now that was an interesting idea. The whole school was supposed to be at the service. It was mandatory. The only class Bliss had ever cut was gym, one afternoon when she and her friends decided to go see some teen slasher flick. It had been a fun day - the movie was even worse than it sounded, and they'd gotten back to school without getting caught.
At Duchesne, you were actually allowed to cut class twice a semester - it was part of the "flexible academic program." The school understood that sometimes, the stress was just too much and students occasionally had to cut class. It was amazing how even rebellion was written into the school's rules, everything so neatly tied into the whole rigor and logic of the place.
But as far as she knew, no one was allowed to cut a funeral. That would be seriously transgressive. Especially because she was supposed to be one of Aggie's BFF's since they hung out in the same crowd.
"Let's go," Dylan said, reaching out to hold her hand.
Bliss began to follow him, when another figure stepped out of the chapel doors. "Where are you going?" Jordan Llewellyn asked her sister, her large eyes boring into Bliss's skull.
"Who are you?" Dylan asked.
"Beat it, buttface," Bliss warned.
"You shouldn't go. It's not safe," Jordan said, looking directly at Dylan.
"Let's go, she's a freak," Bliss said, scowling at her sister, who was dressed all in white and looked like she was about to receive her first communion.
"I'm telling!" Jordan threatened.
"Go ahead! Tell everybody!" Bliss shot back.
Dylan smirked, and without another word, Bliss followed him through the back door, down the stairs, toward the first level of the mansion.
One of the school's housekeepers looked up from inside the copy room, which faced the back staircase. "Wha' you kids doing here?" she asked, putting a hand on her ample hips.
"Adriana, be cool." Dylan smiled.
The housekeeper shook her head, but she smiled back.
Bliss liked that Dylan was on friendly terms with the staff. Even though he was just being polite, it was still nice. Mimi treated the ground staff and the service workers with withering condescension.
Dylan led Bliss out the side door past the Dumpsters and out the service entrance. Soon they were free, and walking down Ninety-first Street.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
She shrugged. She inhaled the fresh autumn air. Now, that was something she was really starting to enjoy about New York. The crisp, clean fall weather - they didn't have weather like that down in Houston. It went from muggy to rainy. She put her hands in the pockets of her calf-skimming Chloe trench coat.
"It's New York, we could do anything," he teased. "The whole city is open to us. We could see a burlesque show, or a bad comedy act. Hear some Derrida lecture at NYU. Or we could go bowling at the Piers. I know, what about this bar in the East Village where the waiters are real Belgian monks? Or maybe we could go rowing in the Park?"
"Maybe we can just walk to a museum?" she asked.
"Oh, artsy girl." He smiled. "All right. Which one?"
"The Met," she decided. She'd only been there once, and only to the gift shop, where her stepmother had spent hours picking out floral prints for souvenirs.
They walked toward Fifth Avenue and arrived at the Metropolitan Museum in quick time. The front steps were filled with people scarfing down their lunches, taking pictures, or simply basking in the sun. It was a carnival atmosphere; someone was slapping bongos on one end, and a boom box blasted reggae music on the other. They walked up the steps and inside.
The lobby of the museum was bustling with activity and color - schoolchildren on field trips lined up behind their teachers, art students walked briskly with their sketchbooks tucked underneath their arms, a Babelian prattle of many different languages bubbled from the tourists.
Dylan slid a dime underneath the glass ticket counter. "Two, please," he said, an innocent smile on his face.
Bliss was a little appalled. She checked the sign. SUGGESTED DONATION: $15. Well, he had a point, it was suggested, not mandatory. The cashier handed them their round Met pins with no comment. Apparently, he'd seen it all before.