by Lamar Giles
I leaned toward the door, nearly pressing my ear against it, when it swung open so quickly I almost tipped over. Mom thrust her iPhone at me. “Your sister’s on the line. You want to talk to her?”
“It’s six thirty in the morning.” I motioned into the bathroom. “Can I?”
Mom sidestepped and allowed me in. I was so sleepy, and so irritated, it never once occurred to me that Mom talking to Cressie in a locked bathroom when the sun wasn’t up yet was . . . unusual. Before I closed the door, I heard Mom padding downstairs, saying, “I don’t think it’s a great idea. People your age want to put everything online. Seems reckless to me . . .”
Uncapping the Listerine, I swigged the burning blue liquid, swished, and spit. Didn’t give my mother or sister a second thought.
The ride to school with Qwan was quiet. Healthy Living was after lunch, and Jameer’s question was on my mind. It felt dumb as hell to go through all this when I could grab him between classes and look up “wet dreams” on the library computer.
Wait. No.
I abandoned the idea as fast as it had come. Maybe his super-strict parents couldn’t monitor his web activity there, but the last thing I needed was some asshole like Kent Oster looking over our shoulders at the exact wrong time and blasting to the school that me and Jameer were wet dream research buddies.
He’d made it clear that my own internet research wouldn’t do, no Wikipedia printout. So we were back to me asking a “professional” if I wanted his assistance on my Kiera goals.
At a red light, I said, “What are you doing?”
I knew why I was quiet, but Qwan was uncharacteristically silent. “Texting,” he said.
“Who?”
He tapped his screen, but was slow answering. Almost like he was stalling.
“Who?”
“Angie.” He put his phone to sleep, slipped it in his pocket.
“Don’t stop on my account.”
“She about to get on the road and shouldn’t be texting anyway.”
“Huh?” He sounded like her dad. Or my dad. Or anybody’s dad. Weird. The light changed and I welcomed this distraction from Jameer’s uncomfortable mission. Easing us closer to school, I said, “She tell you anything about what went down with Colossus?”
“It’s bullshit. Said she ain’t do nothing with him.”
“You believe her?”
“Don’t know. That’s what she was in detention for, though. Arguing about it with Tiff Burrell in Spanish class. You know Señora Ortiz don’t play.”
“Lucky you, right?” Ever since he got her number, I hadn’t heard much from him. It had only been a couple of days, but the way Qwan ran game, that was like they’d been dating a month.
He grinned. “Remains to be seen. Working on it, though.”
We got to school, made our cafeteria breakfast run, then went for our lockers. We passed Kiera’s locker, where she was flanked by Helena and Shanice from church. Each of them greeted me with a “Hey Del.” Kiera’s expression hadn’t changed from the night before, still icy.
Qwan, as elegant as always, said, “Man, she looks like you farted in her elevator.”
“That’s not an expression.”
“Whatever. I guess that Purity Pledge plan is going awesome for you.”
“Leave it alone. I’m working on it.”
We rounded the corner, on course for my locker. My neck was craned, evaluating Kiera’s reaction to me. Qwan snapped his forearm across my chest, stopping me dead. “What—?”
“Del.”
I followed his line of sight, no explanation needed. Walking toward us, escorted by Vice Principal Terrier, and her parents, was Shianne Griffiths.
Her head was down, like she was trying to ignore the obvious stares or barely concealed whispers of the classmates surrounding her. What they were talking about was anybody’s guess.
Could’ve been the legendary orgy she participated in our freshman year.
Or the fact that I was her partner at said orgy.
Or that she was a charter member of our school’s infamous Baby-Getters Club, having given birth maybe two months ago.
You know, the basics.
As she got closer, her name slipped from my mouth like a gasp. “Shi.”
She looked up, smiled with half her mouth, showing one dimple. A finger wave before she focused on the floor again. Her parents had more to say.
“Hello, Del.” From her father.
Her mother said, “We hope your family’s well, Del.”
Me and the Griffiths family always got along.
Then they were past us, on the way to Terrier’s office, I supposed. When they were far enough away that the gossip could resume at a comfortable volume, the chatter ramped up. Shianne wasn’t the first Baby-Getter to return to Green Creek, but the “glad it’s not me” relief we felt all around didn’t seem to decay.
Me and Qwan kept it moving. He said, “You talk to her since she had the baby?”
“A text here or there.” An overstatement. I sent her a “congrats” when I heard through the Green Creek grapevine that her kid made it into the world. She hit me back a week later with “thx.” That was the most communication we’d had since school ended last year.
“If you ask me—”
Sensing ignorance, I said, “I didn’t.”
“—that’s who you need to be focusing on. I mean, y’all already got a kid together.”
I lunged like I might punch him. “That ain’t funny.”
He threw up his hands in mock shame. “My bad. Too far. I’m saying though, y’all used to smash. I never got why you backed off her at all. Shianne cute as hell.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Because you probably made it that way.”
If only he knew. Me and Shianne had a secret, one that made Mya’s interrogation at FISHto’s, and Kiera’s warning at church about my “reputation,” so much more ridiculous than anybody knew.
Shianne was the only other person in Green Creek who knew that, really, my participation in Purity Pledge was completely aboveboard. Even if involuntarily.
While she went and got a baby, my sexual status remained unchanged. The same as it had always been. Despite the legend.
I, Del Rainey, was, and still am, a virgin.
Chapter 8
I MEAN, I’VE DONE STUFF. Not a lot of stuff. Some stuff.
You can’t go on as many double dates with Qwan as I do and not get physical occasionally. I’ve had a girlfriend or two. I’ve touched a boob. Once.
I just, you know, haven’t had need of my trusty condom. Yet.
Though everyone at Green Creek who had knowledge of the infamous basement party would tell you otherwise. Me and Shianne included.
The rest of the morning became a stomach-twisting blur of guilt, math, paranoia, science, and a bunch of other things I wasn’t excited or prepared for.
Shianne coming back . . . I wasn’t necessarily worried about her, I didn’t think. She’d kept our vow about what really happened (or didn’t happen) in that bathroom two summers ago at Tanisha Thompson’s for this long. But seeing her again mixed with Jameer’s plan, Purity Pledge, and Kiera’s reaction to my so-called reputation hit like an anxiety bomb.
Tanisha’s party had been billed as a barbecue/cake/ice-cream thing; not even my mom had an issue with it. Us kids would play music and watch movies. Mister and Missus Thompson would be there the whole time! No big deal.
Except, the Thompsons’ house was huge, one of the biggest in Green Creek (next to Shianne’s), making supervision this fluid thing. Either the parents stayed in the exact same room as us at all times, or they didn’t exist. Mister Thompson vanished to the golf course early. Missus Thompson lost track of time with her friends over a bunch of margaritas waaaayyy upstairs. And, wouldn’t you know it, the basement door locked from the inside.
Tanisha set it off with the Spin the Bottle app on her phone. That escalated to Truth or Dare. Nobody even fronted like truth was a
n option, so when Shianne was up, her challenge came directly from the hostess herself.
“Shianne, I dare you to lock yourself in the bathroom with . . . Del! And don’t come out until you’re a woman!”
Shianne hit Tanisha with a wide-eyed, horrified look I’d think of later when it got around school their relationship had morphed from sorta friends, to frenemies, to outright enemies (something that took all of a day). But, in that instant, I was horrified, too.
Was Shianne hesitant (Angry? Disgusted?) because it was my name in the dare? Would she have jumped and cheered if it was Qwan, or Mason Miles, or Rashad Jackson?
Though I was braced for a refusal, that horror went away when Shianne hopped to her feet without a word, grabbed my hand, and led me to our assigned location. She closed and locked the bathroom door behind us.
New hope and fear collided: was this happening? I patted my back pocket, confirming the lone condom Dad insisted I carry at all times was there.
Shianne looped her arms around my neck, tilted her chin up, and brought her face close to mine. Not a kiss; she shifted left, and put her mouth to my ear. “Don’t even think about it, Del. Here’s what’s going down . . .”
For five minutes we rustled the shower curtain, and I thumped the door with my sneaker at odd intervals while Shianne issued the occasional Moan of Ecstasy. When the nosy a-holes on the other side of the door applauded, we giggled into cupped hands. Soon, the crowd outside dispersed to what we’d later learn were their own “encounters.” But we hung out in the space we claimed for a whole hour, talking in whispers, enjoying each other’s company in the stress-free wake of fake sex.
When someone knocked—they really needed to use the bathroom—we made our pact. Die with the lie.
After that party, me and Shianne bonded over the ultimate in-joke. We found it hilarious how people spoke about us like folk heroes. The couple that set off the Tanisha Thompson orgy. There was even this short-lived shipping situation—“Shi-Del,” which had no ring to it—that died a quick death once upperclassmen took notice of her.
I’d only ever discussed the bare-minimum false details about our time in the bathroom with Qwan, yet the stories I heard about my own deflowering were way more . . . limber than I could’ve ever concocted. Some of it was flattering, but most of it was about her. How good she was supposed to be at things that never happened. Shianne went from mostly unnoticed to coveted sex goddess.
We got good laughs from that, too. Sometimes. Other times, I could tell that being supposed sex pros was losing its charm. When dudes said wild gross things in the hall. When girls who weren’t in attendance cracked on “the party hoes.”
Last summer, I started seeing less of Shianne. I’d text, but her responses were anywhere from slow to never.
I remembered when her clothes got tighter, her walking around the halls with her stomach poking out extra far while she massaged her lower back. Her belly button protruding a little farther than everything else, like the baby was trying to show everyone at Green Creek its thumbprint. One day, Shianne was gone. Now she was back. With a whole new human to care for.
Sometimes, for like a hot second, I wondered if we hadn’t lied and kept lying, would things have turned out different for her? Or, if I’d just told the truth, snapped on dudes calling her a “party ho” instead of riding the lie, could I have made things different for her.
Would’ve. Could’ve. Should’ve.
The truth wasn’t gonna help anyone now.
At the class-change beep, my anxious thoughts shifted from “lying on my dick”—Green Creek’s preferred phrase for the act of falsifying one’s sexual conquests—to “wet dreams,” and I couldn’t decide which one was worse. I was heading into MJ’s English class, where I’d decided I’d ask Jameer’s question at the end instead of waiting until Healthy Living. That way anyone who saw me hang back would assume it was book related, not, er, penis related.
We were currently reading Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison to discuss next week. But, today, we had presentations on a novel of our choosing. We were supposed to talk about the plot, themes, symbolism, and the work’s relevance to modern society. This was a pretty cool unit because MJ let us pick anything. Novel, short story collection, graphic novel, whatever. I went on Monday, talked about Invincible: Vol. 1, a comic book trade collection where the son of the world’s greatest hero finally gets his own superpowers only to find out his dad really has plans to take over the world. MJ gave me a B plus because he said I slacked on symbolism and relating the story to our real, modern world. I disagreed, but wasn’t salty about it, or anything.
Today, three more people were presenting. Among them, Mason Miles. I steeled myself for what was coming.
MJ said, “Mason, you’re up. What do you have for us today?”
Like he didn’t know. We all knew.
Mason unfolded from his desk, tall and slim, with protruding veins running up his military-pushup-molded arms like drawings. I didn’t think the JROTC guys had to wear army stuff every day, but Mason did anyway. Today it was camouflage pants, tucked into tightly laced tan boots, and an olive-green T-shirt with dog tags hanging over the collar. He smiled at Lacey Bishop on his way to the front, and she showed him every last tooth in her head. A lot of girls got super goofy when Mason looked their way. As if his head wasn’t big enough.
Clutching some papers in front of him, he cleared his throat and said, “So, the book I picked is Factions of Fire, part nine in bestselling author Ron Shapiro’s Jack Jake series. A little backstory: Jack Jake is an ex–Green Beret, Navy SEAL, CIA operative on the run from homegrown terrorists that have taken over . . .”
Lacey Bishop’s grin slipped away. She was new to Green Creek, barely here a year. She didn’t know about Mason’s obsession with the Jack Jake books. She was going to learn today.
Zoning through Mason’s lengthy recap, and the next two presentations, I thought about the least awkward way to approach MJ at class change. My palms were sweating, and I considered abandoning the whole plan until the bell dinged through the PA and I was still zoning, so none of my books were packed and ready. Everyone beat me out of the room, leaving MJ right there at the front, alone.
“MJ?”
He swiped the eraser along the whiteboard, cutting wide arcs through all the topics we’d halfway discussed today. “Del, you’re still here.”
“Yes. I kinda gotta ask you something.”
“About the Ellison reading?” He finished cleaning the board, sat on the desk’s edge.
“Naw, it’s not about English. It’s about the other class.”
“The other—oh. Right.” He scanned the room, maybe making sure we were alone, and that brief hesitation made me want to sprint away. I held my ground.
This better be worth it, Jameer.
“I need to know about dreams. Sexy ones,” I blurted.
“What about them?”
Shit. What about them? Jameer hadn’t specified anything, and I didn’t think to clarify. I tugged a pen and notepad from my bag to make sure I got everything I could, because I was never asking about this again. “I guess, whatever, you know. Like, are they normal?”
“Sexy dreams? I assume you’re referring to the kind that trigger a physical response.”
“Yeah.” My stomach got fluttery, and I focused on a specific brick on a nearby wall.
“The technical term for what you’re referring to is nocturnal emissions. Though I’m sure you’re aware of the more common term.”
I nodded so he didn’t have to say it.
“If you’re experiencing them—”
“This ain’t for me.”
Quick nods. “Sure. Of course.”
“I mean, for real. It’s not for me.”
“Of course.”
My shirt was sticky. Sticky. We were talking about wet dreams and I was thinking of being sticky. Ugh! Had to hurry this up. “Can you tell me anything else about them?”
I was deep in it now, and Jamee
r would not accuse me of half-assing.
“They’re the result of the hormone levels in your—I mean anyone’s—body changing around the start of puberty. You’re producing testosterone, and semen, and when you’re sleeping the body’s doing some test runs to make sure the plumbing’s working, so to speak. Ejaculation is the result.”
Oh God, he said “ejaculation.” Scribbling fast and furious, I asked, “Girls don’t have them?”
“They can. It’s not as common and doesn’t have the exact same result. Obviously.”
“Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you, though? If you’re having them?”
MJ shook his head. “Quite the opposite, really. It’s the mind and body doing what ensures there will always be new humans.”
“Got it. Thanks.” I about dived for the door.
“Del.”
Facing him, I expected an interrogation. Why was I asking him? Was there anyone at home I could talk to about this stuff?
Instead, he said, “Hey, keep this chat between us. I’m not totally sure this is a topic the school board would be happy about me discussing in this context, particularly outside the Healthy Living classroom. Okay?”
This context? What context? Asking would’ve meant more conversation about . . . this, though. I wanted to be gone. “Uh, okay.”
“See you later this afternoon.”
I thought I’d feel better once I was out of the room, job done. Too much had happened today, and I had questions that lingered through lunch, my afternoon classes, another Healthy Living class focusing on the dangers of diseases of sex.
It wasn’t better once I got home. I wanted the night to be dinner, and Xbox, and maybe . . . Lindy Blue?
Aside from dinner, I never got around to the rest of it. Homework—math, history, and English—was a beast. Whenever I switched gears between subjects, MJ’s weird comment came back to me. He was the guy responsible for teaching Healthy Living. I asked a Healthy Living–type question. Why would the school board be mad at him for doing his job?
Thought about it all night. Even in my dreams.
I got to First Missionary a few minutes early the following afternoon, found Jameer waiting alone on the church steps. He met me at my car, read my “nocturnal emissions” notes like he was going to give me a grade. Nearby, somebody was burning leaves. He held the paper in two hands; the torn spiral edges fluttered on the oaky brimstone breeze.
