by Lamar Giles
“Is there something else, Dad?”
“One thing, and don’t tell your mother I asked this.”
Uh-oh.
He said, “How much does this Purity Pledge cost?”
“Ummmm. Nothing. I think.”
His widest grin yet. “Exactly what I wanted to hear.”
“I gotta go, Dad. Qwan.”
“Of course.” He stood before I did, like he needed to show me the door. “You two. I remember those days. Best time of your life, son. Enjoy it.”
Enjoy what exactly? Dad was hard to read, never ever said precisely what he meant, and the whole conversation was mad weird. On my way out, I almost asked for clarification. But, when I faced him, he winked.
And I didn’t want to ruin that.
“Ninja,” Qwan said, reclined to near horizontal in my passenger seat, his phone held so close to his face I wondered if he needed glasses, “shit’s getting crazy on Snapchat.”
Despite Kiera’s cheerful social media show, the rest of Green Creek High was treating her breakup like the small scandal it was. Qwan viewed and reported while I made the slow drive to school. He had to be my eyes and ears because my driving privileges were also dependent on me never doing any of the following things:
Texting while driving.
Web surfing while driving.
Talking on the phone without a hands-free setup (currently unavailable in my used economy Nissan—I was lucky to have air-conditioning) while driving.
This was one of the many topics on which my parents were a united front. “It only takes a second to make a fatal mistake, and if you don’t concentrate fully on the road, you don’t deserve your own transportation,” they often said. In unison. As if possessed by twin safety demons.
Never mind that there was barely a street in Green Creek with a posted speed limit over 45 MPH. Whatever. Since gas money was always an iffy proposition with him, it gave Qwan a chance to earn his keep.
He said, “People acting like they died.”
That wasn’t surprising. Not that breakups weren’t a thing at Green Creek High. We had couples get together before lunch and be exes by final bell. Kiera’s breakup strayed from the standard because of her relationship’s length, intensity, and effect on school morale. So, the grieving was real.
Her and Colossus had been class couple every year since they got together. There were dumb rumors of them getting married at our graduation ceremony. Like the principal’s gonna be all, “Here’s your diploma, you may kiss the bride.”
The point was people rode hard for “Kee-Lossus.”
Yeah, that was a thing, too.
I said, “Kiera post anything new?”
“Naw. Still that same Molly Sunshine mess. I been on Colossus’s account.” Qwan giggled. “He singing love songs.”
“Stop playing.”
Qwan turned his phone speaker to max, and I got a sample of some off-key screeching.
“Turn it off.” Surely that horrendous sound violated one of my parents’ Driving Don’ts.
Colossus had always been on some true romance stuff with Kiera. Flowers on Valentine’s Day. Stuffed animals on her birthday. Most dudes got clowned for such PDA. Most dudes couldn’t put you in a chokehold that’d have you sleeping through college.
When either Kiera or Colossus posted pics of them bowling, or strapping on helmets at the Go-Kart Village (always coordinated to hit both of their accounts simultaneously, maximizing exposure), mad girls would repost those joints like they were celebrities. #relationshipgoals or #BAEenvy. For them, “Kee-Lossus” was a Green Creek fairy tale.
Guys—myself included, with the couple of not-so-serious girlfriends I’d had—saw a hard standard to live up to. As Qwan once put it, “Colossus take Kiera to Outback Steakhouse, then every girl I’m trying to holla at need a Bloomin’ Onion. He must be stopped.” I agreed.
We finally got our wish.
We parked in the student lot and made our way into the building with fifteen minutes to spare before homeroom. Enough time for Qwan to cop one of the brick-hard sausage biscuits from the cafeteria (I stuck to chocolate milk, thank you very much), and for us to absorb the latest drama in real time.
I’d hoped to catch a glimpse of Kiera at her locker, but she was nowhere in sight, though a few of the more gossipy girls hovered in the general vicinity like paparazzi waiting on Rihanna.
At my locker, Qwan stayed at my side, giving me a running report of all new info.
“Angie Bell is catching it,” Qwan said, swiping and scrolling. “There are like eight different versions of what she did this weekend. ‘Angie knew Colossus’s people were out of town and showed up at his house in nothing but a trench coat.’ ‘Angie saw Colossus at the Sonic Drive-In, climbed in his backseat.’ ‘Angie has always been into Colossus, and wore him down after he had a fight with Kiera.’”
He kept going, kept indicting Angie. Everybody liked Kiera. So, what happened to the girl who did her dirty? All the girl hate got aimed at her.
Qwan said, “The comments, bro.”
I could imagine, but didn’t have to. Neck-deep in my locker, excavating for my books, I heard a shady, cough-shout, “THOT!”
That Ho Over There.
I turned around as Angie passed us. Head down, face mean. A bunch of people laughed so I couldn’t tell which asshole said it. People took it too far going at her like that. Way I saw it, I owed Angie Bell a fro-yo.
Qwan’s head swiveled with her, leering, tracking her movements until she turned the corner. He said, “It’s amazing how you be around someone for months and never notice their inner beauty.”
“Oh my God.” I knew where this was going. I slammed my locker, and we joined the foot traffic to class. Approaching from the opposite direction was Antoinette Petrie, who was low-key hot in her tight sweaters and bright green glasses. She was a current Qwan work-in-progress.
“Nettie, you get my DM?” Qwan said.
She giggled. “You wild, Qwan.”
“All I’m saying is we should hang.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Then she was gone, and with the attention span of a hummingbird, he flitted back to the previous subject. “Anyway, Angie. I hear she’s got a sensual soul. Real deep.”
“Never use the word ‘deep’ like that around me again.”
“I’m trying to appeal to your delicate nature, D. If you want the real . . .”
Qwan began a rapid-fire, triple-X version of what supposedly transpired over the weekend. Information that couldn’t possibly be accurate, though when has that stopped anybody at Green Creek. He was still telling me about what Angie did, what Angie could do, and what Angie invented (like something called a “Yorktown Pancake Bend” that involved syrup and tremendous dexterity) in excited whispers as we took our seats in social studies. While our teacher wrote on the whiteboard, he continued his recap on sheets of loose-leaf with crude stick figure drawings.
I was happy for a break during English—my favorite class, with my favorite teacher, Mister Jay, aka “MJ”—because Qwan’s schedule differed from mine until lunch. By then, his perv battery had run low, and he moved on to the day’s other significant topic. Healthy Living. We both had our signed permission slips.
“Why you think they’re all parental approval with it this time?” I asked.
Qwan said, “I don’t know, but I should be the one teaching it. Bet I know more than Coach.”
He was probably right. Coach Scott never struck me as much of a ladies’ man, particularly with those Mickey Mouse prayers at First Missionary, but the point was moot. For the second time that day I was face-to-face with my favorite teacher, MJ, waiting in the door of Health Sciences Room 1.
Beyond him, at Health Sciences Room 2, was one of the guidance counselors, Mrs. Gaither. Without being told, boys with permission slips handed them over to MJ, while the girls with permission slips continued on to the second room. Anyone without slips kept on to the gym, where they’d probably
run laps for the next forty-five minutes.
“What up, MJ?” I handed over my slip, then engaged in a fist bump. His calloused knuckles always hurt a little, but I made sure not to flinch.
“So we meet again,” he said.
MJ’s English class wasn’t exactly fun. He made you work, and you better not be behind on the reading and trying to focus on your desk so he didn’t call on you, because then he’d call on you first. I don’t know, though, it was still better than most everything else in school. From day one he told us his class wasn’t one where “old dead white dudes” (MJ’s actual words) rule. We still had people like Dickens and Steinbeck—Of Mice and Men was dope—on our summer reading list from before the school year started, but there was also Gloria Naylor, and Walter Dean Myers, and Meg Medina, and graphic novels by people like Gene Luen Yang to pick from now that school was in. Writers I didn’t know about before I knew MJ; writers I couldn’t wait to read.
None of that had a thing to do with Healthy Living, I didn’t think. So why was he here?
Inside the Health Sciences room, another oddity. The rumpled gray suit that was our never-happy vice principal. Mister Terrier. He hovered in the corner, scowling at nothing in particular, his cheeks and crinkled forehead an irritated red with beige splotches peeking through. He usually lurked in the halls, giving people detention for the most minor infractions or yelling at them to go to class. I’d never seen him in a class before.
Qwan and me took seats among classmates who were all going for different levels of aloofness as we filled the twenty-plus available desks, the same dudes in the same general sectors we’d occupied for most of our school careers. Slouched weed-heads gravitated to the center of the desk grid, stretching legs into the aisle, playfully tripping those walking by. Burnouts settled on the back row. The JROTC crew, led by future supersoldier Mason Miles, came in all buttoned up in their olive-green uniforms, and took seats at the front. Me and Qwan were in the row closest to the door, him ahead of me. Slack, annoyed facial expressions were set. Any visible interest—even though I was hyped about MJ being in the mix—was unacceptable.
“Settle down, guys,” MJ said. That command from any other teacher might’ve needed to be issued a couple of times, but MJ, with his shoulder-length dreads, and his sweater sleeves rolled up revealing the various tattoos running up his ripped forearms, never had to issue any orders more than once. “I know you’re probably wondering why I’m the one teaching this course instead of Coach Scott. The simplest answer is I volunteered.”
He let it hang, his gaze sailing to Mister Terrier, whose chin cocked like some kind of silent dare in the back of the room. MJ rolled his eyes, kept going. “The more complicated version has to do with there being some changes to the approved sexual education—”
“Healthy Living, Mister Jay,” Terrier interrupted.
MJ heavy-sighed. “—Healthy Living curriculum. When my colleagues and I were informed, and some of the physical education faculty expressed discomfort with the changes, I felt compelled to step in. This happens to fall during my free period, so it worked out.”
Qwan’s hand popped up.
MJ said, “Yeah, Qwan?”
“What changed? Healthy Living seem the same as when it was called Family Living last—”
“That’s enough with the interruptions,” said Terrier.
“I didn’t interrupt anything. I raised my hand and MJ called on me.”
“You know that tone doesn’t fly with me, young man.” Terrier unstuck himself from the wall, trudged toward us, reaching into his jacket pocket. Damn Qwan.
“What tone? All I’m doing is asking a question.”
Terrier’s pad of detention slips appeared like a gunslinger’s six-shooter.
“That’s not necessary.” MJ’s words dripped disgust.
If Terrier cared about MJ’s assessment, we couldn’t tell. He scribbled Qwan’s name and particulars on the slip, and handed over a carbon copy. “For disrupting class, Mr. Reid. See you this afternoon.” Then, to MJ, “Continue.”
When Terrier turned away, Qwan mouthed What the fuck?
MJ’s scowl was ice. “Regarding the change, there’s been a push to augment the abstinence-only aspect of the program formerly known as Family Living. So, while topics will be similar to the old format, there will be some additional direction on contraception, STD prevention, and resisting peer pressure up to, and including, any sort of ill-advised pacts.”
I straightened in my chair, understanding. Others did too, evident by the chuckles around the room.
Pacts. It all made sense now.
MJ was talking about The Baby-Getters Club.
To be clear, there was no pact. Or outbreak—another word the TV stations ran with before they settled on the most popular term for what happened. All of that conspiracy BS was fiction. The simultaneous pregnancies were real, obviously. All nine of them.
Nine girls of different grades—freshman to senior—different races, family income level. Nothing in common except aspirations to have a diploma from Green Creek High School someday. How’d it happen? That was the part the adults couldn’t wrap their heads around. To be honest, I don’t think they tried very hard. When bellies swelled, and the state of things was impossible to ignore, the town mostly discussed the pregnancies in whispers. As if speaking on them too loudly would spontaneously create another baby.
The mystery/crisis/apocalypse reached critical mass one morning last spring. My bus turned onto the road leading to the school, and there was a city cop directing traffic with one of those Slow/Stop signs you flip when part of the road’s blocked and cars coming from both directions gotta use the same lane. Usually it’s because of road work, or a breakdown, or a storm knocking down a tree. That day it was news crews from Richmond.
All of the major networks sent blimp-like vans parked half on the road, half on the shoulder, with satellite arms stretched high. Reporters in suits held their big lollipop mics before bulky cameras wielded by bulkier cameramen.
We nearly tipped the bus when everyone rushed the side closest to the cameras to see what was up. Of course, we got no direct info. During homeroom, Terrier announced that we should not let the media disrupt our school day, and though he couldn’t make us avoid the reporters once we were off school grounds, we should consult our parents before wah-wanh-wah-wah . . .
It took all of five seconds for people to get the scoop on their phones. When we did, it was a letdown, because it wasn’t news to us.
The word was a bunch of girls made a strange, strange pact to get pregnant because of their music, or something they saw on TV, or video games. The word was some epic unknown threat had come to Green Creek and corrupted the minds of the youth in one of Virginia’s most peaceful towns. What else might the kids be plotting? The horror! Dun-Dun-Dunnnnh!
That word was trash. I’d never heard a song, or seen a movie, that made me make a baby. And, what senior’s conspiring on anything with a freshman?
If they wanted the truth, they should’ve asked Freya. That was the name of the out-of-nowhere freak blizzard that blanketed our part of the state in snow last October. School got shut down for a week. But parents still had to go to work. A lot of boredom set in. It was that simple.
When Cressie was still at home, we tripped out about how wild the stories got. How it became about everything but time and opportunity.
My sister said, “Sometimes I think simple hurts worse. So people make stuff complicated because there’s more ways to toss around blame.”
The news, and on some level, I think, our town, liked the pact angle most, though. Enough to run with it for the better part of a week, throwing “alleged” in front of it, until they managed to get class clown Kent Oster on camera.
Reporter: “Young man, do you know anything about the alleged pregnancy pact that took place at your school?”
Kent: “Pact? Oh, you mean The Baby-Getters Club?”
That’s how Green Creek became the home of The B
aby-Getters Club.
We weren’t great in sports. Our academic ratings were middling. Graduation rate was only slightly above average. But, where Green Creek reigned was highest per capita teen pregnancy rate in the state of Virginia. So, we were the best at something. Go team!
MJ brought up a video player on the smartboard. “We’re going to watch a short introductory film, guys.”
Someone on the other side of the room yelled, “Is Lindy Blue in it?”
Cheers and claps. Lindy Blue was a porn star. I knew because, you know, I’d heard it around.
When the applause ceased, Terrier issued more detention slips.
MJ dimmed the lights, and a dull movie-guy voice began talking over stats about diseases, and pregnancies, and lifetime income of teen parents versus people who don’t have babies until after college. At some point Terrier slipped from the room—probably as bored as we were—and by the time the lights went up and class was dismissed, I debated whether running laps with the kids who didn’t have permission slips would’ve been a better use of my time.
In the hall, Qwan revved up, crumpling the detention slip in his fist. “Terrier, bro. I’m gonna be late for conditioning over this. Coach is gonna make me run hella laps. Yo, you listening?”
Kinda. But Jameer from church leaned on the bleachers by the half-court line, grilling me with his stare. Kiera, coming from the general direction of the girls’ locker room, smoothed wrinkles in her blouse, a moment that felt worthy of slow-motion and love songs in my opinion, and joined him. She didn’t see me, or even look in me and Qwan’s general direction. Too busy being chased.
Colossus skulked behind her. The Green Creek G on his letter jacket stretched across his broad back, ready to tear if he flexed any harder. I couldn’t hear what he was saying this far away, but I didn’t need to. He was expressive, emphasizing each word with his open, stubby paws. “Please, baby, please” in bootleg sign language.
Kiera shook her head, not having any of it. He reached for one of her hands, which she snatched away. Jameer pushed off his bleacher perch like he might intervene, and I took a stupid step forward thinking, What if I . . .
