by Lamar Giles
Someone on the basketball court yelled, “Qwan, no look!”
There was time to register Qwan swiveling at the hip, dodging, right before a spinning orb eclipsed my vision and smashed my nose. A bright white starburst exploded my world, and the pain followed quickly.
Bystanders emitted a collective “oohhhhh.” I went from upright to sprawled on the floor like a kindergartener at naptime.
“D?” Qwan said. “D, you good?”
I was, definitely, not good.
The blinding white from the collision faded to gray then to a fuzzy, pulsing view of beams and ventilation shafts overhead. I touched my fingers to my nose; they came away wet and red. With each thumping heartbeat, an invisible hatchet chopped me between the eyes.
Don’t. Cry.
The weapon, a basketball that might actually be made of iron, lazy-rolled away from me.
Qwan said, “D, my bad, man. I should’ve caught it.”
The dumbass who threw it said, “Yeah, you should’ve!”
I rolled to my side, then to my knees, red drops leaking between my fingers to the floor. I sniffled, bit back a whimper. Do not cry.
Every agonizing move I made getting to my feet was confirmation that I wasn’t crippled or dead. Lack of permanent injury gave my classmates permission to crack up. Murmurs became snickers became deep-throated, knee-slapping laughs. I was their ridicule highlight of the day.
Hunched, I pressed my shirt to my nose, ruining my outfit but, literally, saving face. I smeared blood into my leaking tears so my cackling peers wouldn’t know the difference.
Qwan gripped my arm. “I’ll help you to the nurse’s office.”
A solid plan, but I had other concerns. Were Kiera and Jameer laughing, too?
I peeked over the bunched, stained fabric of my shirt to where they’d been before my mauling. Though Colossus had come closer, smirking with the rest of my audience, my church mates were nowhere in sight.
The school nurse screwed cotton into my nose, and I drove home breathing through my mouth with a pinkish swab protruding from each nostril. I arrived to an empty house, my voice echoing. “Mom! Dad!”
My phone shook as I made my way upstairs. Qwan.
Qwan: Yo, did the nurse amputate your nose?
Me: No. Dick. What you want?
Qwan: Angie was in detention with me. Got her number. Gonna see what’s up.
Me: You don’t care people treating her like typhoid mary right now?
Qwan: Ty-who?
Me: Damn dude! Read. Something. I’m saying you don’t care that she’s like shunned?
Qwan: Maybe by the girls . . .
I mined cotton from my nose, and tossed the swabs in my trash can.
My phone kept buzzing, more of Qwan’s schemes, no doubt. I had the house to myself, though, and I needed to feel something other than the pain behind my eyes, and the lingering embarrassment from getting my face smashed.
I threw my phone on the bed, and locked my door to be safe. At my computer, my Purity Pledge folder rested on top of my keyboard. Tossed that aside, too. I opened a private browser window, turned the volume low, and searched for Lindy Blue.
Chapter 5
GRAVEL CRUNCHED UNDER MY TIRES the following afternoon when I pulled into the church lot for the first day of Purity Pledge. With the exception of a couple of cars in reserved spots near the main door, the place looked deserted. Haunted-house creepy. There had to be another way to get time in with Kiera. I considered bailing on the whole thing and driving home.
Before I could jerk my gearshift into reverse, a car turned into the lot, rocks crackling beneath it. It was a newish Buick, dark green, three passengers. Jameer opened his door and ejected from the backseat before it came to a full stop, rolling his ankle slightly but not considering, even for a minute, waiting until the car was actually not in motion before exiting.
The day was cool, so I had my window down. I heard everything.
From the car’s passenger window, Mr. Sesay yelled, “This conversation isn’t over.”
“Oh yes it is,” Jameer said, on a beeline for the door, limping slightly.
His mom turned the car in a wide arc as if angling back toward the road, but stopped short of a complete turn to lower her window and yell, “You better remember what Proverbs 6:20 tells us. ‘My son, observe the—’”
Jameer spun on his heels and stood at attention like a military man. “‘—commandment of your father and do not forsake the teaching of your mother.’” He snapped off a salute paired with an exaggerated smile. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am! Sir, yes, sir!”
“God don’t like ugly, Jameer,” his mother said. “Go in there, let Vanessa knock some of that sin off you, then get your disrespectful butt straight home. You hear?”
He didn’t respond, simply hobbled up the church steps while his parents’ car spit rocks on its way to the road.
I intended to wait until he went inside, embarrassed to have even witnessed whatever the hell that was. But he lingered on the porch landing, rolling his shoulders, as if bracing himself to go in. Was I not the only one having a change of heart?
Suddenly, like he heard my thoughts on the breeze, he turned, eyes pointed my way. I fought the urge to duck.
He quickstepped down the stairs, still limping, and made his way over to the passenger side of my car with the intense purpose of a Terminator; I pawed at the power lock button out of reflex. I actually hit the power window button, and while the glass sailed up, Jameer yanked my door open and flopped into my passenger seat. “Are you a spy now?”
“Man, I was just sitting here.”
“You heard that.” He leaned across the console between our seats, too far in my personal space.
“Maybe. I guess. Yo, you need to relax with that energy right now.” For the second time in as many conversations with Jameer, I wondered if we’d have to fight.
His chest heaved slowly, then he sat back, stared straight ahead. “We should go in.”
Exiting my car, Jameer limped back toward the church. I snatched my bag from the backseat and scrambled after him. “Hey, we’re not going to discuss what happened?”
“Nothing to talk about.”
“Dude, you did like a John Wick roll out of your people’s car and they weren’t even concerned. Your ankle might be broken.”
“It’s not broken.” He climbed the steps gingerly. “Slight sprain at most.”
“Okay. I feel like we’re not addressing the core issue here.”
“How’s your nose, Del?”
“My—?” Crap. He did see me catch that basketball to the grill. Did that mean Kiera saw, too?
“As I thought.” Jameer twisted the knob and let us into the warm church sanctuary. “Let’s discuss something other than our injuries then.”
“Fine.” I chased him down the aisle between all the empty pews. “What’s up with Kiera and Colossus?”
“A lot of him begging. A lot of her not having any of it.”
I felt a rush, and a grin lifted my cheeks. The incident with Jameer and his parents flitted to the back of my mind, when I grabbed his arm and spun him toward me. “You and her are tight, then? Can you put in a word for me?”
He scoffed. “Like a college reference letter? ‘Dear Kiera, Delbert Rainey is a fine student and an innovative thinker.’”
No. I mean, yes. It sounded dumb when he put it that way. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
At that, he flinched. I didn’t know if it was what I said, how I said it, or that I’d said it in church, but he squeezed his eyes shut a second, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, “Look. Let’s get through this class first, then we can talk about it. Can you give me a ride home?”
“Cool.”
In my head, I heard his mom yelling, “Get your disrespectful butt straight home.”
So, I’d probably have to drive fast.
“Welcome to Purity Pledge!” Sister Vanessa bounced on her toes in front of a wall-to-wall whiteboard, a blue dry
-erase marker in her hand, uncapped and ready.
We were in a wood-paneled Sunday school classroom at the back of First Missionary. Mostly empty corkboards lined the walls with the exception of a giddy cartoon Jesus poster that had Our Lord and Savior sitting on a rock, surrounded by cartoon kids of at least three ethnicities. There was a white kid, a brown kid, a Simpsons-yellow Asian kid and, for some reason, a happy goat. There was an aggressively bright sun with sunshine spokes shooting over Jesus’s head, and a rainbow. The bubble print overlaying the blue sky read: Jesus Loves Me, Yes I Know! It seemed encouraging, blasphemous, and racist all at the same time.
Rows of worktables aligned in a way that mirrored the pew setup in the main sanctuary, creating an aisle in the middle of the room, separating all the Purity Pledgers by gender. Boys on the left, girls on the right. Sister Vanessa said, “Who wants to lead us in prayer?”
No one raised a hand.
I didn’t know any prayers other than the “God is great, God is good” one I learned as a kid, and wasn’t confident I could go off the top of my head like a bunch of people in the church seemed to do. It’s like being at a party and someone asked you to rap when you’re not a rapper.
The tense “no volunteers” moment stretched another half second before Kiera rose from her neatly organized workstation that occupied most of an entire table on the girls’ side of the room. She had a fresh white binder with P. Pledge written on the side in black Sharpie, three different highlighters, and multiple pens—all making my single dull pencil feel inadequate. She joined Sister Vanessa at the front of the room, clutching her worn Bible with colorful tabs protruding from the pages like the flags of tiny pastel countries. “Dear Lord, thank you for this opportunity to gather and discuss the temples you constructed, our bodies, and . . .”
Everyone’s heads dipped, their eyes sealed. I slipped my phone from my pocket and checked Instagram.
I scrolled through several of my favorite model accounts, and saw a couple of funny memes while Kiera got winded by such fervent prayer. “. . . oh Lord, please guard over all the innocents in the room, so that they won’t be corrupted by the predatory influences around them . . .”
Something about her tone, something pointed, drew my attention. When I glanced up, my stomach clenched. Kiera did not have her head bowed, or her eyes closed. She stared directly at me.
My phone slipped from my hand, clattered to the floor. My neck craned, searching for any other witnesses. A few chins tilted in my direction, but all other eyes remained squeezed shut. Just me and Kiera, in an uncomfortable staring contest.
“Let us all be faithful to the vow we made before you on Sunday,” she said, sneering, “as Ephesians 5:6 states, ‘Let no one deceive you with empty words, for because of such things God’s wrath comes on those who are disobedient!’ In your name we pray. Amen!”
Sister Vanessa’s eyes popped open, her smile crooked and confused. “My, that was certainly passionate. Amen.”
Kiera continued staring me down, and something stubborn in me refused to look away. Did others in the room see this? How could they not? Sister Vanessa definitely did a double take, though I was unsure what she read in the moment. I was unsure what I read in the moment. Whatever she saw, she felt compelled to beckon me over. “Del, would you come up for this next part, please?”
Helena, one of the younger girls, giggled when I stood. The sound became a contagion infecting everyone on the girls’ side of the classroom except Mya, who looked as confused as I felt.
Kiera crossed her arms tight over her chest, and she had the stern teacher’s look I’d expected from Sister Vanessa. Our Purity Pledge leader remained sunny while I dragged my ass to the whiteboard.
“Where’s your Bible?” asked Sister Vanessa.
“Uh, I left it in the car.” So that was a lie, in church. I didn’t have my own Bible. I always read from the old, cracked-spine copies in those cubbies on the back of the pews.
Something hard and angular pressed into my palm. Jameer stretched over our table to pass me his Bible. I took it, grateful.
Sister Vanessa said, “Can one of you find Psalm 51:10 while the other turns to Matthew 5:8?”
Kiera flipped her Bible open, leafed through a few pages. “Got it.”
I was still on the table of contents. “Which one did you do?”
“Psalms.”
“Sweet. Love those Psalms.” I struggled to find the book of Matthew—was that in the Old Testament, or the New? Sister Vanessa prompted Kiera to read.
“‘Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.’”
“Del?” said Sister Vanessa.
“Right. Matthew 5:8.” I was in the book, but overshot the chapter and verse. I flipped pages and tried not to look up, though all eyes were on me. “Got it. ‘Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.’”
“Excellent,” Sister Vanessa said. “Why do you think I asked you to read those verses? What do they have in common?”
The question was tossed out casually; anyone could’ve answered. Kiera said, “I’m sure Del knows.”
The hell?
It wasn’t what she said, as much as how she said it. Her voice as cold as summertime A/C.
Sister Vanessa waited on my response. I’d already forgotten the verses, so how was I going to BS my way through this?
Jameer came with the save. “They’re about pure hearts, and that’s what we’re all here for.”
If Sister Vanessa minded the interruption, she didn’t let on. “Excellent, Jameer! Pure hearts lead to pure souls lead to pure bodies. Please, you two, sit down.”
Kiera re-joined the still-giggling girls, scowling at me. I returned to my seat.
“We’ve got much to cover in our sessions,” Sister Vanessa said. “We’re going to have so much fun.” She lifted a cardboard box that had been resting against the wall. Starting on the girls’ side, she circled the room, passing out glue sticks and colorful plastic kid scissors.
Hush-voiced and a little frightened, I said, “What is this?”
“Wait for it,” said Jameer.
Sister Vanessa put the box away, approached a table stacked with the kinds of magazines you see in doctors’ offices, about gardening and world events. Several pieces of blank poster board sat beside them. “Everyone, I want you to grab a poster board and a magazine. We’re all going to find pictures of things we think represent purity and make Covenant Collages!”
Across the room Mya squinted, and turned an ear toward Sister Vanessa like she’d misheard the direction. Her nose crinkled like she detected a bad smell. Jameer smirked and shook his head, the smug look of someone who’d predicted the worst possible outcome and been proven right. Similar cool, confused reactions played on everyone’s faces, with the exception of Kiera. She obediently led the charge, rallying the girls. “Come on. Like Sister Vanessa said.”
They complied, and it occurred to me that me, Kiera, Jameer, and Mya were the elders of this purity class. All of the other girls were underclassmen at Green Creek High. Ralph and Bobby were still eighth graders at Baldwin Middle School.
Kiera’s intense gaze swept my way. Not as angry as before, probably because she wasn’t looking at me. Her attention was on Jameer. She made a jerky nod toward the magazines.
Jameer heavy-sighed, and pushed up from his seat slow, like a weightlifter squatting his max. “Come on, little duckies. Follow the leader.”
He lined up behind the girls, the twins followed, then me. We collected our arts-and-crafts materials for an activity that felt suited for seven-year-olds. With Thanksgiving coming up, maybe we’d get to do handprint turkeys, too.
DEL
Written in graffiti-styled block letters at the top of my board, headlining snipped photos of a man jogging on the beach at sunrise, and a sweet red Mustang, and a business meeting. After flipping through the magazine three times for those pictures, I started cutting anything that didn’t have a hot girl in it.
&
nbsp; The door creaked. Pastor Newsome stepped into the room. I’d seen him up close before, but always in the burgundy Emperor Palpatine robes he wore in the pulpit, towering over the congregation. In his high-waisted khakis with the tucked-in golf shirt, he looked like a professor. A tiny one.
“Well, isn’t this a blessed sight,” he said. “There’s nothing sweeter to my eyes than young people showing their obedience to the Lord.” He folded his arms behind his back, and walked the center aisle, greeting the others and reviewing their work. Most everyone met him with a “Hey, Pastor” or “Good afternoon, Pastor,” to which he nodded his approval. When he reached Kiera, he placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Your collage is lovely, dear. Deacon and Deaconess Westing have done well with you.”
“Thank you, Pastor.”
He turned his attention to the boys’ side of the room, tipping his head toward the twins. “Nice job, young men.”
“Thank you,” they said in unison, then gave each other dirty looks—also in unison—for the unintentionally harmonized response. Pastor Newsome kept it moving to me and Jameer’s table.
Jameer didn’t make any special effort to acknowledge Pastor Newsome. He focused on his poster board, rolled his glue stick along the back of his final picture. He flipped it over and it wasn’t a picture, but a block of text from some article, too small for me to make out. His whole poster board was that way. No actual photos. Only text, under his name, which was spelled in individually clipped letters like ransom notes in movies.
Pastor Newsome’s previously jovial warmth chilled considerably. “Mr. Sesay.”
“Pastor.”
Newsome stared at the mass of letters that was supposed to be Jameer’s collage. It looked more like something a serial killer would put together, something full of secret messages only he could decode. I glanced around the room, and everyone seemed to be holding their breath.
Pastor Newsome said, “Perhaps there was some confusion about your project.”
“I like words better than pictures.”
“It’s not a writing project, Jameer.” Pastor Newsome looked to Sister Vanessa. “Perhaps you weren’t clear.”
