Not So Pure and Simple Read online

  “Amen, Sister Vanessa,” Pastor Newsome said, reaching for his microphone.

  She—Vanessa—lost her smile; she passed the mic. Newsome swept a hand from us to the congregation, giving us permission to return to our seats. Kiera broke formation first. Of course, I was right behind her, enjoying the view, because that dress, oh my Gawd. Kiera was what you’d call slim thick. There are whole Instagram accounts dedicated to booties like hers. How could I not follow her? And the rest followed me.

  The benediction was as long as ever, padded with additional prayers for I don’t know what. I couldn’t even pretend I was paying attention at that point. I was Prayer Peeking again, zeroed in on Kiera, still thinking my plan could work. Further down her pew, two arms raised. Wide at first, before crossing into an X, then wide again. Jameer Sesay, Prayer Peeking like me. At me. Trying to get my attention.

  He shook his head. Mouthed something. It looked like Don’t do it.

  “Amen!” Pastor Newsome said, the band giving us a free-to-leave musical cue. Everyone stood, and white-gloved ushers got to work extinguishing candles with brass snuffers. Mom shook hands with folks around us. Some patted me on the back for joining Purity Pledge. A thin sea of people parted as Jameer wedged his way toward me.

  I told Mom, “Be right back.”

  Skirting around folks, I met him halfway, all while flicking glances at the Westings. Didn’t want this interruption messing up my operation.

  Jameer was a little shorter than me. Way skinnier, with a Gloworm’s complexion. He wore black-framed glasses, and pristine suits with his neckties done in intricate knots.

  We’d only exchanged “what up” nods in passing. So, when he slapped my palm, and pulled me into a bro-hug, I thought this was more Purity Pledge nonsense. But, he whispered in my ear, “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t. Bad timing.”

  I backed out of the hug, stomach churning again.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I’m talking about her.”

  The Westings were in the foyer shaking hands. The group gathered around Kiera was thicker than usual, giving her arm extra pumps of encouragement. I was missing my in.

  Jameer laughed. Laughed. “You look so thirsty. Let me guess. You’re thinking she broke up with Colossus. You need to rush in, right now, profess your undying love.”

  “How did you—?”

  “Please. You and half the school. Three guys already asked her to prom.”

  Three? Prom was nine months away. And I was going to take her. Bet that!

  “Relax,” Jameer said, “they all got noes. You’re going to get a no if you don’t listen to me.”

  My head was all over the place. The other times I’d waited and lost. Three prom invitations? In less than twenty-four hours? “How you know any of this? Why tell me?”

  “Walk with me.” He took the aisle to the pulpit, where a couple of deaconesses tipped collection plates into buckets, the loose change clattering. The crowd in the foyer thinned. Pastor Newsome worked through a few straggler parishioners, his dark robe swishing, patting backs en route for the Westings. If I was going to execute my plan, it had to be now.

  Jameer’s warning, though.

  He swung a sharp right and took a side door outside. I rushed after him, emerged in a grassy, fenced-in side yard. A swing set, slide, and monkey bars occupied a rectangular patch with a plank-board border, filled end to end with crunchy broken seashells that definitely have skinned and definitely will skin knees. Giggling young kids with sleepy-looking young parents played. They all waved at Jameer and he waved back as I caught up, in time to see a couple of parents turn their children away from my new friend.

  Forgetting that oddity almost as soon as I saw it, I said, “Does Kiera know what’s up? I mean, that I wanna get with her?”

  “Not really. It’s shocking how oblivious she is about how many of you are unhealthily obsessed with her.” He leaned on the fence and stroked all three of his chin hairs, enjoying this. “I know because you’re just not very original.”

  “What?” Were we about to fight? It felt like we should fight.

  “You’re doing what everyone else is. The day after someone she thought she loved betrayed her. You want to get in on the ground floor when the building’s not open.”

  “You a poet or something?”

  “I dabble.”

  Awesome analogies aside, I still had suspicions. “Why are you even talking to me right now?”

  “Because I’ve seen you looking all enamored every Sunday. I know we don’t know each other like that, but you seem like a good enough dude. Someone should tell you you’re doing the most right now, and it’s not cute.”

  “Maybe you’re saying all this so you can snake me. Knock out a contender.”

  He laughed. Again. “Hardly. Living within one hundred feet of her for as long as I can remember inoculated me. Thank God. I’d hate being like the rest of you puppies nipping at her ankles. Plus, I don’t know how much of a contender you are, rocking a clip-on.”

  My hand floated to my tie involuntarily. I forced it back down.

  “Not to be all demanding,” Jameer said, “but I like my favors returned.”

  “Favor? I didn’t ask for your help.”

  “Be glad you didn’t have to. As I said, I’ll be collecting. Not sure what, yet. When I know, you’ll know.”

  This guy. “I’m not promising you anything.”

  “Reevaluate.” He approached a latched gate that opened on the church parking lot. “You’re in this Purity Pledge with us now. Maybe you can get to know her better, with some assistance. Though, considering the class, what you probably have in mind might be a bit counterproductive.” He shook his head and was gone.

  I took the side entrance back into the church. The foyer was clear. The Westings had left. I felt deflated, my clothes suddenly baggy on me. Mom sat in our pew, patiently flipping through a packet of paper she didn’t have before.

  “Here.” She thrust a folder the color of communion wine into my hands. “From Sister Vanessa. You’d run off, so she gave it to me.”

  A white mail label affixed to it read: Purity Pledge Materials and Activities. Spreading the folder wide, I noticed the first page was a schedule. Assignments and due dates. “There’s homework?”

  “Apparently. Y’all meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. I’m really proud of you. I had no clue this was a commitment you wanted to make.”

  Yeah, Mom. Sometimes I even surprise myself.

  Chapter 3

  “YOU SORRY PIECE OF SH—” Dad clipped his profanity as we emerged from the garage into the kitchen, Mom leading me, shaking her head. A thick simmering beef-and-spice aroma clouded the air. Dad hunched over the slow cooker with the lid off, steam billowing up around his shaved face and head, making him look like a genie escaping a Crock-Pot. An angry genie, with a view of the football game playing on our living room TV.

  “The Dolphins losing?” I asked.

  Dad gave me the “of course they are” shrug, then asked Mom, “How was church?”

  “You’d know if you’d go,” she said in her standard tone. Upbeat. Hopeful.

  Dad adhered to the script, as neutral and noncommittal as ever. “Maybe next time.”

  They kissed, a quick peck, no hard feelings since Dad’s hand slipped below the counter to do-a-thing-I-didn’t-want-to-think-about, causing Mom to jump and slap his fingers from her backside playfully. Sultry looks were exchanged, and I’d for sure need to charge my headphones later tonight if I was to avoid traumatic bed squeaking.

  “Cressie called,” said Dad, sounding cranky. Crankier than he was about the Dolphins losing.

  Mom whirled, and snatched the cordless handset from the wall mount, dialing my sister’s number. “Is everything okay?”

  “You tell me, Tina. Because right now I’m worried the massive tuition payment we made is not okay.”

  Mom ceased dialing. “Really.”

  “It’s been a month since we moved her on campus
. She’s popped up back home twice already, and she’s on the phone with you nearly every day. Is she going to class? Have you seen any grades yet? I know you miss her, but damn.”

  Mom’s new look—definitely not sultry. She turned the corner, the squawking tones of dialed numbers drowned by her stomping footsteps ascending the stairs.

  Dad shook his head and went back to stirring his meat. Mysteries of the nightly meal intrigued me way more than Cressie’s drama, so I said, “Smells good. What is it?”

  “Slow-braised beef. Going to hook up some street tacos.”

  “Nice.” This was the unforeseen benefit of our relatively new weekly church tradition. Since Dad refused to go, he’d cook us a banging meal every Sunday as a peace offering. I don’t know what Mom prayed about up in First Missionary, but I’d been asking God to keep these meals coming. Guess that spiritual stuff really works. Still, I could use a break. “Dad, how about we switch it up next week? You hit church with Mom, and I stay behind to cook.”

  “Wow. It’s not just the Dolphins making bad plays today.” He dumped a small mound of chopped onions into his cauldron, then held up a torn envelope from Nationwide Car Insurance as a reminder that I had more pressing concerns than weekly worship. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Freedom ain’t free, young man.”

  On the TV a pass grazed a receiver’s fingers before sailing out of bounds, and Dad resumed his cursing (quietly), our conversation over. Unclipping my tie, I made my way upstairs to get ready for work.

  Mom’s voice echoed in the hall, cheery and skeptical in a way only moms could pull off. “. . . I don’t know what a YouTuber is, but it doesn’t sound like a real career to me, Cressie.”

  She saw me pass, and shouted, “Del, come talk to your sister.”

  I leaned into the room. “Mom, I got work.”

  “Talk. To. Your sister.” Mom shoved the phone into my hand.

  I said, “Hey, C.”

  “Hey, D.”

  “So, have you flunked out yet?”

  “No,” she huffed. “Asshole.”

  “Mom, Cressie said a bad word. On Sunday.”

  But Mom was in the walk-in closet, changing. I sat on the edge of my parents’ bed, then flopped backward, stared at the slow-whirling ceiling fan. “For real, school going okay for you?”

  “School is school.”

  “That’s real disappointing. I always thought college supposed to be fun. Are you doing college correctly?”

  “How’s school for you, big-time junior?”

  “You already know. Ain’t nothing changed at Green Creek.” Not exactly true. But I wasn’t about to get into the latest GCHS drama with Mom a dozen feet away. Plus, I’d give my sister some credit; what interest would a college student really have in the petty nonsense happening in my high school’s hallways?

  “No girlfriend?”

  I almost said “soon,” but, again, Mom was right there. “On that note, I gotta get to the gig.”

  “You know you can always ask me for advice when you need it, little brother.”

  “Cold day in hell, big sister.”

  “Del!” Mom barked from the closet.

  “Now you care about bad words?”

  Cressie said, “Love you, punk!”

  “I know.” I passed Mom the phone and made my way to my room.

  Inside, door closed and locked, I peeled off my church clothes and excavated my closet floor for faded jeans, my wrinkled official company shirt, and my catfish-stenciled hat. After suiting up, I grabbed my phone, earbuds, and car keys to pull a paper chase at the least appetizing restaurant in all of Green Creek.

  “Welcome to Monte FISHto’s! What are you casting your hook for?” I was on autopilot, immune to the clotted smell of Old Bay batter.

  My register’s touchscreen glowed, and I tapped in an order of two Cra-Burgers with extra Sea Sauce, Filet Fries (they’re regular fries, but the FISHto brand insisted on everything sounding extra), and drinks. “That’s twelve ninety-eight.”

  I’d been there an hour; my first customer of the day, reeking of musty weed smoke and problems, handed me a crumpled, expired 50-percent-off coupon.

  “Sir, I can’t take this.”

  “What you mean you can’t take it?” He expected his red-eyed gaze to be the tiebreaker in our little dispute.

  I said, “It expired last year.”

  “No it ain’t.”

  “Sir, this coupon is no longer valid and I, literally, can’t do anything about it. It’s got a bar code, and the system won’t even let me scan it.” I showed him the error message on my register—like it’d matter.

  “Hell, naw.” Now he was loud. “I ain’t come here to be cheated out of my dough, lil’ man. Where the manager?”

  “Tyrell!”

  My manager, Tyrell, waddled around the corner, his belly stress-testing his button-up boss shirt that had a fancy version of the Monte FISHto mascot “The Count”—a red cartoon catfish dressed all British with a sword—stenciled over the heart, fronting like the Ralph Lauren polo horse. Tyrell had fat fingers, fat knuckles, and the kind of hair like the seats on public toilets. U-shaped, rimming the side of his head, while the rest of his scalp was completely bare. His eyebrows were raised so they were the closest things to a hairline he’d had in a while. “What’s going on, Del?”

  “This customer wants to use this coupon.” I handed the flimsy, faded paper over.

  “I’m sorry about the inconvenience, sir.” Tyrell punched his manager’s code into my register, taking half off the meal. “Go grab his order, Del.”

  “Yeah, go grab my order, lil’ man.” He paid his $6.50 with a fifty he peeled from a thick wad of bills. I turned away to meet Stu the Cook at the counter between the kitchen and the front line.

  When the food was claimed, and Weed-Douche bopped out with World Champ swagger, I waited for Tyrell to give his usual spiel. “Customer’s always right, Del.”

  “Except when they’re wrong. Dude cheated us.”

  “True. He seemed like a troublemaker though. What do we not want in our restaurant?”

  He wanted me to say trouble. I said, “Roaches. Might be too late, though.”

  Stu cackled, but my other coworker gave a slow headshake from her post in the drive-thru hutch, then went about polishing up the Coke machine with a damp cloth.

  Mya Hanson had made the transition from First Missionary Holy Youth to Fish Flinger same as me. A FISHto’s uniform was not flattering, and Mya didn’t put any effort into enhancing the look. Her shirt was a size too large, her pants too baggy and dusty with batter. I mean it was the same deal with my uniform, but she’s a girl. Don’t get me started on that sloppy ponytail sticking through the back of her signature Monte cap. In church you could tell she tried a little. Here? I don’t know. To each his, or her, own. I guessed.

  Our shifts often aligned because we had the same school (and now church) schedule. We never talked much, despite all that overlap. She was a nose-to-the-grindstone, on-to-the-next-task kind of person. Killing herself like she didn’t recognize FISHto’s for the joke that it was.

  Tyrell disappeared to the back, doing whatever the manager of an unappetizing Long John Silver’s knockoff did, leaving Stu, Mya, and me to our respective stations.

  Except Mya crossed the imaginary border between drive-thru and front line, wiping crumbs off a counter that was technically my responsibility. I never felt possessive of FISHto squalor until that moment. Well, maybe possessive was the wrong word. Judged?

  Quickly, I snatched a clean cloth from a bin on the wall, soaked it in the nearby sink, then began scrubbing the opposite end of the counter while eyeing her. “I was going to get that, you know.”

  “It’s slow right now. So we help each other.”

  It’s always slow at FISHto’s, and I’d never helped on her station. Something was off here.

  Mya Hanson was—how to say this? Like the out-of-focus ghost in the background of a quiet horror movie. There, but not. I most
ly only ever saw her out the corner of my eye.

  With a second dry rag she produced from her apron pocket, she went back over the streaks she’d left on the counter, buffing the tiles to a glossy shine, really exercising attention to detail while working closer to me. I was focused on her, barely paying attention where and how I dragged my sloppy wet cloth. “There’s something you want to say, Mya. I can tell.”

  The gap between us closed to whisper-distance. She did this exaggerated glance toward the back like we were coconspirators. Stu was the only possible witness, and he had his chin propped in his hand, dozing. A dangerous thing to do over the hot grill, but he’d beaten the odds so far.

  Mya, hushed, but excited, said, “Purity Pledge!”

  “What about it?”

  “We’re doing it!” Her brown cheeks turned rosy. “I don’t mean doing IT. Obviously. We’re on the same journey.”

  That’s what she wanted to talk about?

  With the Mya mystery solved, I abandoned counter cleaning completely, shooting my rag toward the sink like a Steph Curry three-pointer. The wet cloth smacked the floor about a foot short of the basin. Mya flinched at my horrible miss.

  “I didn’t warm up.” I rotated my shoulder, wincing like I might be injured. “Go on. Purity Pledge.”

  “I don’t know if you know this, but me and my mother are part of the First Missionary Welcome Committee.”

  I did. Mrs. Hanson had been cozying up to Mom about us transitioning from frequent visitors to official church members. My mother was one of those use-the-entire-trial-period kind of people, so she was taking her time on the decision. “That keep you busy?” I said.

  “Not exactly. There aren’t a ton of new people coming to our church.”

  I nodded, well aware.

  “As someone with a mandate of making all who step through the church doors feel a part of something bigger than themselves, I was very happy to see you so eager to be a part of PP . . .” Her voice trailed off, a weird hesitation. “. . . though, I do have a question.”

  “Okay.”

  “I was . . . under the impression . . . that you weren’t exactly,” she did another glance toward the back, embarrassed to look me in the eye, “pure?”