✪✪✪ Bliss Cavendar

Monday, December 13, 2021 12:56:28 PM

Bliss Cavendar

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BLiSS @ Neverland Festival 2017

PG, min. View All Photos Smashley Simpson: God damnit Dianne! Earl Cavendar: I can take losing the money. I cannot take loosing the chance for our kid to be happy. Bliss Cavendar: Screw you and your grandmother's Chevy Celebrity! Earl Cavendar: I like smart girls. That's why I married your mama. Well, that and I knocked her up. Close Save changes.

Arrebato Rapture. Cry Macho. Ever Since We Love. Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings. Mogul Mowgli. Venom: Let There Be Carnage. Prisoners of the Ghostland. Aileen Wuornos: American Boogeywoman. Afterlife of the Party. Mayberry Man. Qismat II. Saturday Night Live. No Score Yet. Meerkat Manor: Rise of the Dynasty. Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha. It was her way out when she couldn't ask for the keys to her parents' truck and Pash couldn't give her a ride in her much-mourned Celebrity. Pash doesn't see the appeal. But Pash probably wouldn't have been welcomed by the little old ladies or asked to hold their knitting, not with her name and her face and her obvious Not From Around Here-ness. It was a quality Bliss always aspired to and Pash kind of loved and hated in equal measure.

At least Cambridge is full of people from everywhere, students from every corner of the globe, corners Pash wants to visit someday. The music is still a comforting hum in the lower registers once it's been turned down, pounding drums and Corin Tucker's voice a perfect antidote to jingling bells and songs about how great the winter weather is. Which: no. The street lights and the windows and lighted signs smear together as the bus rolls through Inman Square and onwards, and Pash taps her fingers on her knee.

Even without the announcements she'd recognize this, she knows. It's become home the same way New York did, sinking into her bones and wrapping around them. She gets asked for directions sometimes. She knows which coffeehouse is good and which one is fast and which breakfast place has the best quiche in the world. She made friends with the staff at the weird one-screen theater and knows where every bathroom is on campus. And she knows when she gets off the bus and trudges down the dark and soggy street that she's heading someplace warm and safe and - okay, enough maudlin musing, she tells herself, hopping around a smear of dogshit on the sidewalk.

Just because it's snowing some people think they don't have any responsibilities anymore, which is bullshit. Down the street and around the corner and onto their weird little loop of a street, up the creaking porch steps and into the vestibule and up the stairs and up again, and Pash unlocks the door and walks in. And is immediately smacked in the face by bright lights and some kind of hideous noise that possibly involves more of those damned bells. The noise resolves into a punk rock cover of 'Here Comes Santa Claus.

Pash sinks into it like she does every time, like she has for years now, like the first time in her dorm room at Columbia. And then she remembers and pulls away. I ask again: what the hell? Bliss glances over her own shoulder, at the tiny hot pink tree and the strings of enormous lights that are turned on but piled on the floor, at the tinsel draped over the TV that only works half the time when the plug is wedged in place. The big bulbs are just like the ones Mr. Cavendar used to string around the roof every year. Bliss's mom would not have been caught dead with a pink tree in their house, but she loved the holidays, and even though she was politely baffled by Pash's total non-Christianity she always welcomed her into their house for cookies and eggnog and cocoa.

Christmas was one of the few times Bliss and her little sister could get along, plotting gifts for their parents and dumping powdered sugar on the lawn to make "snow. She snags Bliss by the elbow and tugs her in for another kiss. Bliss makes a face for a second, but then her expression reforms into something softer - a little hopeful, a little wistful. It's dumb, I know, I just It's stupid. If you really don't like it we can just put everything on the curb and leave it out of the house. Pash shrugs. You know that. I can put up with some blinky lights and a tree for a little while. And you owe me a favor.

The smile on her face is brighter than the twinkling lights, and it warms Pash from the inside like a summer day in Texas.

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