by Lamar Giles
“What?”
Her voice sped up. “Not that I’m criticizing. But, I mean, don’t you have a sort of reputation?”
I had no response. I was still processing the Purity Pledge thing myself, and Mya Hanson was vetting my virginity?
The door chimed before I could formulate a solid answer. When I saw who it was, I felt saved.
“I’m going on break,” I said to no one in particular.
But saying “break” was like saying “Voldemort”—Tyrell appeared from the back in a cloud of Trout Breading. “Company policy says employees have to work a minimum of three hours before taking a maximum of fifteen minutes’ rest, and by my count—”
“Or,” said Qwan, my best friend, and former Monte FISHto’s coworker, “you could pass him the mop and let him improve these dirty-ass floors.”
Tyrell waggled a finger Qwan’s way. “You’re not even supposed to be in here. Thief!”
Before those two could really get going, I gripped the nearest mop with two hands and steered a bucket of stagnant gray water onto the main floor. “Call me if you need me.”
Given the nonexistent flow of customers lately, that was unlikely.
Mya looked put out, like she’d wholly expected our conversation to continue . . . or at least officially end. Nope.
At the back of the restaurant, out of Tyrell’s sights, Qwan splayed in a booth like it was his living room couch. Ball cap cocked, blue hoodie jacket, matching LeBrons with laces loose in a way that would make me lose a shoe.
He dripped swag, as usual. Made lounging in a fast-food joint look like a mixtape cover. Made me want to be free of my trash uniform so I could do the same. But, money. I squeezed extra water from my mop and did the thing.
Qwan lifted a foot away from my swishing mop head. “Tyrell really still tripping about those nasty Cra-Burgers?”
“You stole food. You were wrong, dude.”
He flopped back, hands behind his head to support the wide grin on his face. “It was so worth it, though. I bet you wish you’d done it.”
The “it” he was referring to . . . he’d given that food away to a couple of bad Carolina girls who’d crossed the southern Virginia border into our part of the world for . . . reasons. I’d been working the drive-thru the night it happened. Tyrell caught him immediately. Fired him immediately. From my window perch, I watched Qwan stroll into the parking lot, FISHto shirt untucked and flapping in the wind like an action movie hero walking away from an explosion. He enthusiastically accepted a ride from the grateful ladies. What he said happened after that, I want to believe it’s a lie, because if it’s not a lie, it makes him a legend.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I know it’s not to eat.”
“Hell naw. I should whistle-blow on this place. Tell the Environmental Protection Agency or something. I walked all the way up here to find out what happened with Kiera. You make a move?”
A particularly sticky milkshake stain snatched my attention.
“D,” Qwan said. “No.”
My mopping trajectory shifted and I left him in the booth. “I didn’t punk out. Timing wasn’t right.”
On his feet, he paced me. “Timing? If you didn’t do it now, it might already be too late. Kiera Westing is Green Creek’s Most Wanted.”
“You don’t think I know that? It’s different this time.”
“Damn right. Because if you’re not going to step to her, I might. That girl is fire.”
I whacked him across the chest with my mop handle. He raised his hands in surrender. “Joke, joke. I know Bro Code’s in effect here. Alls I’m saying is—”
“I’m working on it. See, we’re both in the Purity Pledge at church now. That’s going to give me some time with her.” Working backward, tracing big wet arcs along the perpetually filthy tile, I left a cock-eyed Qwan stone-still on the other side of a widening soap-and-water moat. He shook off the momentary freeze and stamped alternating sets of Nike swooshes across my floor to rejoin me.
“Purity Pledge?”
“Yeah, it’s when you agree not to—”
He sliced a hand through the air, cutting me off. “I know what it is. I saw a Netflix documentary on that creepy shit. Dads were taking their daughters to the prom.”
“I don’t know about all that.”
“It’s No-Bone Zone, though. Right? Voluntary celibacy.”
“If you’re going to be crass about it, I guess.”
He knocked the mop from my grasp, and the handle clattered loudly. “Worst. Plan. Ever. We already don’t agree about this one-true-love stuff you been on with Kiera since birth. But, fine. You haven’t necessarily let it hold you back. When’s the last time you got some, though?”
I glanced over my shoulder, concerned Mya, my new purity monitor, might hear. My voice low, I said, “What’s it to you?”
“Tanisha Thompson’s basement party. It almost doesn’t count because everybody smashed. And it was two years ago. It’s like you took a Purity Pledge right after.”
A name I hadn’t thought about lately bobbed to the surface of my thoughts, like those Magic 8 Ball answers floating up from black water. Shianne Griffiths. Me and her in Tanisha’s dark, private guest bathroom, a single candle burning on the marble sink.
“Get out the way!” I hit him with an NFL-caliber stiff arm and snatched my mop up. “One of us cares about not being fired.”
“And one of us cares about you using your little wee-wee before you die.”
“Stop thinking about my wee—my dick, Qwan.”
“Somebody got to.”
“Bro. I gets mine. All right? Just because I’m not telling you all my business . . .”
“That’s just sad, D. You told me when your mom found those limited-edition sparkle Pop-Tarts you like. You hit me at midnight about them shits. You’d definitely tell me if you were getting some booty.”
“Dude, I’m good.” I wasn’t.
We were back in front, and Mya was too busy with a drive-thru order to pick up on the context clues about that “reputation” she’d heard about not being all that.
Tyrell leaned over a clipboard, jotting down managerial stuff.
I said, “Hey, Tyrell, Qwan’s trying to convince me to steal a case of Flounder Patties. You should kick him out.”
Tyrell didn’t look up. “Get out, Qwan.”
“Fine. I got ladies to check on anyway. Hopefully the stench of this place hasn’t stuck to me, messing up my game so that it’s like yours, Del.”
My mop became a bat, the mold-smelling drenched end cocked over my shoulder and ready to fling gross water. “You should go.”
He flipped both middle fingers and backed into bright afternoon sunshine. “Later, Mister Clean.”
Though he was gone, Qwan’s evaluation remained. Purity Pledge. Worst. Plan. Ever.
That stung. But it also held weight because, statistically speaking, Qwan was mad successful with girls. Since he lost his virginity three years prior, he’d been obsessed with getting more, more, more. He treated Instagram like it was Amazon, always shopping, always sliding into some new girl’s DMs looking for nothing longer than two-day delivery. He swore he smashed as much as he did because he didn’t do emotion. Told me I shouldn’t do emotion, that girls liked it when you weren’t all soft and fuzzy.
His thinking wasn’t much different than most of the dudes at school.
Qwan thought I was too picky. According to him, if Kiera Westing didn’t exist, I’d be saving myself for some hot actress on TV because that’s the next level of unattainable after Kiera. I let him think it. It was easier than the truth.
Doing it the way he did, the way most dudes talked about . . . I envied it, really. I wished I was built like that. It seemed fun. Somehow easier. Until it went wrong, anyway. Something everyone at Green Creek High had witnessed.
I’m not built that way though, not the smash-on-the-couch-after-school-before-some-adult-got-home type. I liked the way Dad sat on one corner of
the sofa with Mom wedged in his armpit, her feet tucked under her, while we all watched Jeopardy! or Black-ish. I liked watching them hold hands in the Costco before I was old enough to skip the trip. That’s the kind of thing I wanted. With Kiera. And it wasn’t unattainable. I wouldn’t let it be.
I mopped until my arm ached. After, I stowed my bucket. There were three hours left in my shift. Then Tyrell let me know to adjust my math.
“Business is slow. Gotta send you home early, Del.”
Not the news I wanted. Two hours’ work for the whole week wasn’t even a full tank of gas, let alone car insurance money. Mya remained in the drive-thru nook, filling a couple of Whale-Sized cups with ice and Sprite, no signs of slowing down.
“Just me?” I asked.
Tyrell gave me a half grin. “We’ve got the rest of the evening covered.”
My driving privileges were on the line here. “Can I get on the schedule some evenings this week?”
Tyrell held his clipboard to his chest like a shield. “I’ll call if I got something.”
Not down for answering any “why you home so soon?” questions, I caught a movie at the two-dollar theater in Old Town Green Creek, then made my way home around the time my shift should’ve ended.
Mom’s car was MIA when I pulled into the driveway. She was back at church, for the special Sunday-evening worship First Missionary did every other week. Like, seriously, how much praying did you need to do in one day? Dad was zonked out on the couch, snoring, an NFL game watching him. I slipped to the kitchen quietly, huffed down three—maybe four—tacos, then made my way upstairs to the Sanctum Sanctorum, aka my room.
Mom had left my Purity Pledge folder on my keyboard. But, it wasn’t the only item.
There was also a signed permission slip I’d brought home weeks ago and forgotten about, with the Green Creek High crest printed at the top. It said:
Healthy Living Elective Opt-In Form/Grade 11
If you wish to opt your student into some or all of the grade eleven Healthy Living Elective (HLE) lessons, please complete this form and return it to your student’s Health/PE teacher by the Week 1 date on your welcome letter.
PLEASE NOTE: You MUST return this form if you wish for your student to participate in the Grade 11 HLE activities.
CHILD’S NAME: Delbert Rainey, Jr.
Directions: Please check ONLY those lessons in which you want your child to take part.
“Healthy Living” . . . was sex ed. Last year it was “Family Living” . . . but still really sex ed. Why they didn’t call it that had always puzzled me. And the lessons . . .
Below the instructions was a list of lessons, divided up over eight weeks. I skimmed phrases like “strengths of my interpersonal goals,” and “maturity and decision making,” and “A thorough review of STD prevention and contraception.” For some reason, that one was in bold type.
Rocking back in my chair, eyes rolled back, I groaned. Eight weeks of Purity Pledge and this?
Sitting up, I said, “Eight weeks.”
I set the permission slip aside and opened my Purity Pledge folder. The first page had a weekly breakdown of our purity lessons. Immediate phrases that jumped out: “strengths of biblical principles,” and “God’s will vs. my will” and “A thorough review of why Jesus wants me to abstain.”
In bold type.
Snatching up my Healthy Living permission slip, I held the breakdowns of the two classes side by side. Each week, each lesson, was like Bizarro World opposites. Whatever was on the books for Healthy Living, Purity Pledge went the other way. And vice versa.
What the hell?
Or what the heaven? I mean, this definitely wasn’t a coincidence. The parallels were too exact, right down to the fonts. The image that popped in my head . . . tug-of-war.
But, why?
This felt important. I would’ve pondered it more, but I got a text from Qwan.
Qwan: Got a new IG follow for you. MzIndependentNCS. She’s Nigerian, Colombian, and Swedish bro. Bikini shots are bananas!
And then I moved on to Instagram. To explore the nations of the world.
Chapter 4
MORNING
PERSON
THOSE WERE THE TOP and bottom captions in Kiera’s IG story, paired with a Boomerang of her flipping her hair back and forth like a shampoo ad. Back and forth, back and forth. Flip-flap, flip-flap.
It was the latest in a series that posted overnight. Some stills. Some video. A few with the goofy filters that made her eyes cartoonishly big and/or distorted her head. All positive, upbeat. Overly.
She was broadcasting to all of GCHS that everything was fine. Nothing to see here.
The views were in the hundreds and climbing.
I tapped my phone, intending to check Colossus’s story while barreling down the stairs loud enough to trigger a “Walk!” from Mom. At the front door, car keys jingling in my other hand, I felt the rush of unsupervised transportation that still hadn’t gotten old. Before I could escape, Dad’s office door slid open. “Junior, let me holler at you a sec.”
“Dad, I gotta pick up Qwan.”
“Just a few minutes. You’ll be fine.”
My backpack tugged tight on my shoulders, I flopped onto the center cushion of the couch inside his “home office.” Dad had a sweet job writing technical documentation for a company that made productivity apps. He never had to go into a “real office,” like he used to. Now he was “work from home” and a “telecommuter,” terms that he tossed around at family functions when folks asked how things were going.
It was good he could say those things now. Better than when he was out of work and could only mention “prospects” and “you know how the economy is.” He was happier than those days, though he worried about money a lot more.
He parted the drapes, exposing the open blinds beneath, and the laser lines of sunshine beaming through the cracks seemed to slice up the room and everything in it. “Son, what’s up with this Purity Pledge thing at your mother’s church?”
My stomach fell into the crawl space under the house. The same feeling I got on the rare occasion I’d watch a movie with my parents and there’s suddenly a sex scene no one knew was coming. “It’s like, a class. We learn about ways to not, you know.”
Dad took his high-backed desk chair, swiveling to face me. In the tiny space, our knees almost touched. His legs were bare because he was in a bathrobe, T-shirt, and shorts with tube socks pulled just below his knees. His go-to work uniform these days.
The only time we’d ever come close to discussing anything remotely related to Purity Pledge was three years ago. I’d been in my room playing Gears of War and he’d gotten home from work, back when he still wore pants.
“It’s time we had a conversation,” he’d said then, closing my bedroom door. I wondered what I’d done wrong.
Instead of him listing my crimes and passing my sentence, he pulled a shiny wrapper from his shirt pocket. Held it to me, gently, like precious treasure. The impression of a ring was clearly visible through the foil packaging. “You know what this is?”
A condom. Mike Brooks stole some from his brother’s closet and showed us at lunch one day, but I only said, “Yeah.”
“You know how to use one?”
“Yeah.” A lie.
Grinning with every tooth in his head, he said, “My boy.”
He laid the loose condom on my Avengers comforter, popped the latches on his briefcase, and removed the open twelve-pack that the loosie must’ve come from. The box said they were “ribbed,” and all I could think about was summer barbecues. I liked ribs a lot.
He placed the box—one I still had tucked in the back of my underwear drawer—on my bed, too. “Then you know to always keep one with you. Gotta be safe, son. Got any questions for me?”
“Naw.”
He clapped a hand on my shoulder, winked. “Good talk.”
In his office, his face was flat. Waiting. Were we remembering different things?
“
What I’m trying to understand, son, is if this Purity Pledge’s some sort of reset for you? Because I assumed you’d been, you know.” He made a fist, did this weird slow extension punch that was some signal for sex, maybe.
Focusing on the rainbow spines of the various technical manuals lining his bookshelves, I conjured the most plausible response I could manage. “Purity Pledge, it’s a, a volunteer thing. It’ll look good for, like, college applications.”
That hung between us awhile. His next words: “Seems kind of extreme. You could go fold clothes at the Goodwill, right?”
He didn’t mean extreme. That was his “son, this is weird” voice. That tone I’d heard too many times in my life. When I joined the band as a freshman instead of the JV basketball team (like that was my choice; not even Qwan would choose me in a pickup game). Or when he caught me trying to move the TV remote with the Force. Or when he thought I was too slow getting into girls.
Dad didn’t ever say what really bothered him, but I’d learned to complete his half judgments on my own.
He pushed. “Aren’t there other volunteer opportunities at the church, or around town?”
“Like what, Dad?”
“You tell me. I’m not the one trying to get into college.” That was his version of “I don’t know.” Like when I used to ask him what a word meant, he’d say, “Look it up, I can’t do everything for you,” meaning he didn’t know either, but he wanted to seem wise.
Leaning closer, he checked our perimeter. Grinned. “Are you really trying to tell me a Rainey Man doesn’t want to get some?”
God. I blurted, “Kiera Westing’s doing it.”
A slow blink then. He’d caught me eyeing her at a parent/teacher night a bunch of years ago, knew about my thing for her. He pressed back in his chair, his posture was proud, his bathrobe draped his seat like a hero’s cape, and that warmed something inside me. “Oh,” he said. “Ohhhhhhh. I see now.”
With a fist pump, I said, “Rainey Man.”
“Damn straight.” Though he still seemed troubled. It came off him in waves.
