Not So Pure and Simple

by Lamar Giles

  Inside a linoleum-floored mudroom, he stomped his feet on a woolen mat, shaking loose a few blades of grass. Then we were in a kitchen where every wall was covered by stainless steel appliances, or darkly rich cabinetry. Every horizontal surface was some kind of exotic rock with the edges left rough on purpose, a chosen imperfection in the flawless room. Even their cereal was in foggy, perfectly aligned glass canisters so the cornflakes and raisins seemed frozen in a glacier.

  “Your people here?” I asked. There was a slight echo.

  “No.”

  He took me through a museum-quality dining room with unused place settings and fancy paintings of gangly, exaggerated black folks playing piano and trombones on the wall. A front foyer. Up wooden stairs with a thick carpet runner on the risers so it felt like climbing mattresses. We ended up in a bedroom. At a glance, I wasn’t sure it was his. It was so plain. Something was off here, and I was too mad to see it right away.

  The walls were bare, except for textured wallpaper lining the room in vertical pastel patterns that looked like bars. There was a desk, and a bed with a comforter that matched the wall. A dresser with a porcelain dove perched near the edge. That was about it. No computer. No TV. No games. Maybe a guest room?

  A Bible I recognized sat in the windowsill. The one he lent me that first night of Purity Pledge. On the floor under that window, the satchel that bounced on his hip when he walked the halls at school. The closet door was cracked, and I spotted some familiar plaid shirts on hangers. This was his weird-ass room.

  He walked me to his window, shoved binoculars into my chest before I had time to ponder. “Look! But don’t stand too close.”

  Like a sniper. I was thinking in Call of Duty terms. My mind prepped for war games. Or, maybe just war.

  Standing where Jameer directed, I raised the lenses, then adjusted the focus until I had line of sight on cars parked in front of Kiera’s house. Two crammed the driveway. A Cadillac and a Chevy SUV that often served as Sunday vehicles for the Westings. Along the curb was a Ford truck that did not belong to the Westings. Stenciled on its door: Handy Lawn Care Company. Hitched to it, a long trailer with the ramp lowered, presumably for the riding lawn mower doing the last few passes. Its driver was an older man in a straw hat, and at first I fooled myself into thinking this was the threat that had Jameer call me over. Then I panned the binoculars right.

  “Oh my God!”

  Near the porch steps, where the manicured shrubs began, was Kiera sipping a can of lemonade, chatting with the second man on the Handy Lawn Care Company crew. This landscaper was in an army-green shirt, soaked dark with sweat. An oversized pair of shears was tucked under his arm as he enjoyed a lemonade as well. It had to be the best damned lemonade on earth the way the two of them were cheesing between chugs.

  I mumbled the words. “No. Not Jack Jake.”

  Jameer said, “Who?”

  “Mason. Miles.”

  Their conversation stretched, she fanned the collar of her blouse like it was hot—it wasn’t—then casually tugged the rubber band off her ponytail, shaking her hair out in a way that made my knees weak from equal parts desire and jealousy.

  She was flirting. Flirting! With Mason f’ing Miles.

  “You said it was all about timing.” I lowered the binoculars. “That’s what you told me.”

  This was supposed to be my time. He didn’t bother to say what we both knew.

  My time had run out.

  Raising the binoculars again, I strongly wished that I could read lips. Since that wasn’t one of my actual skills, I superimposed my own dialogue over Kiera’s and Mason’s magnified image. My words matching their lips as closely as the English in those badly dubbed kung fu movies Dad watched sometimes.

  Him: So, hey, look at my abs.

  Her: I can’t see them with your shirt on, silly.

  Him: We’ll have to do something about that.

  Her: Oh yes we will.

  “Argggh!” I tossed Jameer’s binoculars on his bed, my fury nearing the point of eruption.

  “Del, listen.” He raised his hands to chest level, palms out, like he was going to hold me in place, but stopped an inch shy of actually touching me. A wise decision. “This isn’t necessarily an endgame for us. You need to relax.”

  “Relax?” I saw myself storming out, slamming the door so hard it shook the foundation.

  Except there was no door.

  Like, at all.

  There was the rectangular frame that we walked through. There were three evenly spaced impressions along the door frame where hinges had once been. No. Actual. Door.

  Who didn’t have doors?

  This detail, oddly, was the thing that got my mind off the nuclear assault on my dating life taking place on the Westings’ lawn.

  Slowly, I spun in place, taking in my surroundings undistracted. Plain walls. No door. Not even a mirror—how the hell did he tie his ties? “What’s up with your room, Jameer?”

  His gaze bounced about the odd space. His shoulders slumped; I wondered if he preferred me yelling at him about Kiera. Shamefaced, he said, “I told you my parents can be strict.”

  My emotions shifted. I was in danger of feeling sympathy for the dude who’d failed me, so I looked out the window again. I didn’t need binoculars to reignite my rage. “I can’t with you right now. I’m gone.”

  “Del, wait.” Jameer chased me down the stairs, my feet sinking into the thick carpet runner.

  We hit the first floor, and he hissed, “Crap!”

  The front door swung inward. His mom and dad were silhouettes backlit by the setting sun.

  Mr. Sesay crossed the threshold, blinking rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the house’s oppressive gloom. He stopped cold when he saw me. Mrs. Sesay walked right into him, knocking him forward like a softly tapped billiard ball.

  They probably didn’t recognize me. My FISHto uniform and all. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Sesay, it’s—”

  “Del,” Mrs. Sesay said, with zero enthusiasm. She peeked around her husband’s shoulder. “Jameer, what’s going on here?”

  The way she talked through me made me feel like I wasn’t all the way present.

  Jameer said, “Del’s in Purity Pledge with me. He came by—”

  Mrs. Sesay squeezed Mr. Sesay’s arm. He said, “You’re not allowed to have company if no one’s here. You know that.”

  “It’s about the Pledge, Dad.”

  Mr. Sesay said, “Uh-huh.”

  The glances his parents exchanged were the kind I’d seen Mom and Dad give each other when a more miserable discussion was being scheduled for later. Succumbing to politeness, Mrs. Sesay held up a plastic grocery sack, fragrant with the garlic twang of rotisserie chicken. “You can stay for dinner if you like, Del.”

  It was supposed to sound like an invite. I felt no more welcome to sit at their table than if I’d actually been the Count of Monte FISHto himself, flopping wet and stinking of the deep sea.

  “No, thank you. My dad’s cooking.”

  “Well, then.” Mr. Sesay stepped aside, and his wife did the same, allowing me full access to the exit.

  Okay. “Later, Jameer.”

  He didn’t respond. The Sesays closed the door, but before it slammed shut, I caught a “What the hell do you think you’re—?”

  Followed by a deadbolt clacking into place.

  I was mad at Jameer for . . . everything. I was also worried about him. His room . . . no doors, no mirror, as bare as frontier cabins we sometimes read about when MJ couldn’t get around state-mandated book lists. It creeped me out.

  So, I didn’t leave. I lingered on the shadowy porch, listening intently for danger sounds—yelling, crashes. After a few minutes of nothing, I decided he probably wasn’t in physical danger, and I was totally overreacting. It was okay to go back to being mad at Jameer.

  Cautiously, I glanced next door to the Westing home. The man on the riding mower finished his last swath of cutting while Mason trimmed bushes, in the landscaper zone, the
white cable from his earbuds snaking from his head to his phone.

  Qwan said it; I was playing this too casual. That had to change. It would change. I wasn’t about to let another dude come along and take what I’d been waiting so patiently for.

  I traversed stepping-stones that led to the street. When I touched asphalt, I circled the block to my car. Moving fast, with purpose, but no plan. What now?

  I still had an hour before my original FISHto’s shift was supposed to end, so I drove slowly around Green Creek. Sulking, really.

  How was this going so wrong again?

  Toward the end of my drive, my phone began vibrating steadily. When I parked in the driveway, I found a series of texts from Jameer.

  Jameer: Del, I know you’re mad. But I have a plan

  Jameer: And the other Purity Pledgers are going to help

  Jameer: I’ve got two words for you

  Jameer: Harvest Fest

  Was I supposed to know what that meant?

  Me: Explain

  And for the next half hour I sat in my car, watching the details of this new plan arrive in short, slow text bursts—his flip phone wasn’t built for speed. But, the wait was worth it. Me and Jameer were on the same page, throwing the “too casual” approach aside.

  Now, all I needed was a disguise.

  Chapter 10

  WE HAD A FEW DAYS until Jameer’s big play, and things were not uneventful in the meantime. On Monday, Taylor Burkin, the founder of #BabyGettersToo, returned to school. The hall was electric with her presence. From the time her mother let her out at the drop-off lane, to her stepping foot into the main foyer, to trekking the halls to her locker, all manner of social media buzzed.

  Taylor’s back!

  Taylor’s here!

  Another Baby-Getter returns!

  The biggest attention-grabber was Taylor’s locker position. A mere three doors down from Kiera’s.

  That hall became unusually thick with spectators—more students than had ever hung around that particular set of lockers and classrooms. MJ once told us about this story by a science fiction writer named Ray Bradbury. In it, this crowd would show up around car accidents and other tragedies. Not a general crowd. The same crowd. Every time. Like the way crowds appeared around fights, or other hallway drama at Green Creek.

  But I was no different from that ever-present crowd. I, too, was curious as to how Kiera would react to Taylor, or how Taylor would react to Kiera, or if one of them might postpone their locker stop until a less stressful time.

  No. Both girls were present. Kiera lingering at her locker with Helena and Shanice, as usual. Taylor approached from the south hallway, with new additions to “The Crowd” in tow.

  Murmurs became silence, and the air crackled as Taylor spun her locker combination while flicking glances Kiera’s way.

  Obviously, Kiera was aware of the drama leeches waiting to feed on something, despite her best efforts to maintain a casual presence. Some instigator squealed, “She smashed your man!” Attempting to spark a fire.

  Kiera’s lips pinched, and she stared directly at Taylor, who stared back.

  “Ohhhh!” said another instigator.

  Kiera shook her head, looked skyward, mumbling. I recognized this now. It was a church move, a quick prayer. She closed her locker door gently, approached Taylor with Helena and Shanice at her flank.

  Taylor closed her locker door, too. Faced Kiera, radiating wariness.

  Everyone in attendance leaned in, determined not to miss whatever jab—verbal or otherwise—came next.

  Kiera reached striking distance, eyes focused on her target, and said, “Welcome back.”

  She reeled Taylor into a bear hug that took her, and the entire hall, by surprise. Kiera was taller than Taylor, seemed to yank her onto her tiptoes for the embrace, but there was no malice. Taylor hugged her back, and disappointed parties at the edge of the crowd dispersed, irritated as if they’d purchased expensive boxing tickets only to see the champ go down in the first round.

  Kiera said, “I’ll walk you to homeroom.”

  “They’re staring,” Taylor said.

  “Let them.”

  Kiera passed me and gave me a slight nod. In a less tense situation, this acknowledgment might have been the First Missionary Crew! high five, as had become the custom among us Purity Pledgers. Instead, she kept it moving . . . until she passed Mason at the hallway intersection. He got a fist bump.

  Qwan said, “Yo, since when does Kiera fist-bump Mason?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Should we be concerned?”

  “Don’t know.”

  My truncated answers did the trick; Qwan didn’t push. Instead, he utilized the best of his best friend instincts to swerve around the topic slightly. “I heard Mason be lying on his dick.”

  Lying on your dick was a cardinal sin in Green Creek. The falsifying of sexual conquests. The fictionalizing of lovemaking statistics. It was a crime I was, technically, guilty of too, but my Shianne lie was mutual and consensual. Not like the story that got around eighth-grade year when Mason said he’d smashed April Benoit, and she said she didn’t even know him. I hadn’t heard of such infractions from Mason since, but I appreciated Qwan reminding me of dude’s darkest moment.

  In English class I found myself eyeing the back of Mason’s head. Sizing him up. He was taller than me, slim, and clean-cut. He wore street clothes today, but in his JROTC uniform he looked like he could teach a class. I imagined Deacon and Deaconess Westing enjoying the company of someone who looked like him. He seemed like the kind of guy they’d be happy to see their daughter bring home. That twisted my stomach until I imagined Qwan beside me, specter-like, Obi-Qwan Kenobi to my Luke Skywalker, yelling, “Lies on his dick!”

  After English, I fell into the established routine of asking MJ off-the-record sexual questions from the Purity Pledgers (except that one about feet, I vetoed that). He answered, with his usual reminder to keep it between us. Then got on with the rest of my day. By the time we got to Healthy Living, I felt more relaxed. Even though this was yet another class with Mason. Maybe it was because of the subtle adjustments MJ made to the topics.

  Like in English, he let us know there were things we had to do. Even if it seemed dumb and unrelatable, like the session when he broke down “Social Gathering Safety Zones”—places you could go and not be tempted to have sex. The mall, or the movies, or an ice-cream shop.

  You know what . . . the movies, sure. Me and Qwan did that plenty. The mall, though? Every one I’ve been to got age limits, and curfew restrictions, and scared security guards who’re ready to Tase you for walking in groups of three or more without a chaperone. At least that’s how it was for the black kids. I’d seen white boys looking like a whole soccer team get a smile and nod from the mall cops.

  Also, where the heck was an ice-cream shop?

  To keep us manageable during those lessons, MJ made us a promise. Last five minutes of every class, if we were good, he’d answer whatever random questions we had. It wasn’t lost on me that he started this practice shortly after I’d broached the topic of wet dreams for Jameer.

  Checking his watch, MJ said, “It’s time, guys. What you got?”

  A hand went up in the back row. “MJ, you know about the BabyGettersToo hashtag?”

  “I’m aware. It’s hard not to be.”

  Back Row followed up with, “What you think about Taylor coming back to school after blowing up Colossus like she did?”

  MJ shifted uncomfortably. “Nice try, but you know I’m not about to discuss another student with you. Somebody else give it a shot.”

  Mason’s hand went up. “How’d you meet your kid’s mom?”

  “Wow, nice pivot.” MJ stroked his chin. “It was college. I was a junior. She was a freshman.”

  He stopped like we were going to let that ride.

  Qwan said, “What else? Was it at a party or something? How’d you run your game? Tell us how the OGs did it.”

 
“I’m not that OG, Qwan. I’m only twenty-eight.”

  The class got raucous, egging him on.

  “Okay, okay. Settle down. It happened like this. This gorgeous girl’s parents knew my roommate’s parents. Her people told her when she got on campus, go visit him and say what’s up, so she’d know somebody. The girl came to our apartment with three of her friends. She’s wearing this denim outfit that looks really good, and I immediately make a fool of myself. I say something like, ‘You are really rocking that skirt, ma. If only I could be denim for a day.’”

  MJ posed with his back stiff, arms crossed, a b-boy stance. We cracked up partially from his boldness, partially for the corny line.

  Returning to a more relaxed posture, he said, “That didn’t go over well with any of the girls, and my roommate looked like he wanted to apply for a reassignment that second.”

  Mason said, “Why were they mad, though? You were telling her she looked good in the skirt. It was a compliment.”

  “Was it?”

  Mason opened his mouth, then closed it.

  MJ said, “Show of hands, who thinks what I said was all good?”

  Most hands went up. Including Mason’s. Including Qwan’s. Including mine.

  With a wave, MJ signaled all hands down. “There’s a room full of girls next door. I’m willing to bet if we asked their opinions, the majority would think differently from y’all.”

  “That’s because they’re stuck up!”

  I don’t know who said it, but it got a few cheers, claps, and chuckles.

  MJ face-palmed, shook his head. “Guys, it took me a long time to get it, too. You wanted to ask real questions, so I’m trying to give you real answers. Almost everything you think you know about girls and women is wrong. That incorrect information can be dangerous.”

  Mason said, “Ain’t no girl going to hurt me, MJ.”

  As serious as I’ve ever seen him, MJ said, “I don’t mean dangerous for you. A lot of women have been hurt and will be hurt because we—men—are mostly still operating on a caveman’s script.”

  The room was quiet. I didn’t know what to make of his words. I’m not sure anyone else knew either. The bell rang.