Not So Pure and Simple

by Lamar Giles

  He sat at the foot of my bed, clasping his hands together. “I get that you’re pissed over a lot of stuff right now, but I’m going to ask you to come down and listen to your mother and sister. It’s something I haven’t been very good at. Me and you have work to do.”

  I sat up, confused. “Cressie’s home?”

  “FaceTime,” Dad said, holding his phone like a talisman. “Our family meetings are high-tech now.”

  I swung my feet to the floor. “Fine.”

  Mom waited at the table, her fingers tap-tap-tapping. I sat, determined not to be bullied here. She got Cressie on the screen.

  I said, “So what am I getting yelled at about now?”

  Mom didn’t answer—I thought this was her show—but looked to Dad.

  He said, “The morning after you joined the Purity Pledge we talked. Remember?”

  “Yeah, Dad, I remember. You reminded me like an hour ago.”

  “I was mad at your mom. We talked about you and that pledge, and she suspected you weren’t doing it for the right reasons. I, basically, told her she was the one who dragged you to church with a bunch of crackpot Bible-thumpers and she shouldn’t get mad at you for wanting to do something with the young people there. I—”

  “Told me,” Mom cut in, “I needed to stop overreacting. I was wrong. I didn’t know what I was talking about because he knew his son so well. What harm could you possibly do?”

  “Me? What about Newsome. He’s the one—”

  “Stop it, son,” said Dad. “We’re not debating Pastor Newsome. I mean, he sounds kind of like an asshole—”

  “Del!” Mom snapped.

  “Sorry, he does. That’s a different conversation, though. We’re talking about you. Your behavior.”

  My behavior. “Of course we are.”

  “That’s what I mean, Del. It’s scary sometimes,” said Mom. I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me, my dad, or both of us.

  Cressie chimed in, her voice tinny through Mom’s phone speaker. “Guys, maybe we should back off the intervention vibe here.”

  Mom said, “What would you call it then?”

  Cressie said, “Enlightenment.”

  I said, “This feels like you’re about to induct me into a cult.”

  “Show him, guys,” Cressie said.

  Mom produced her MacBook from the bag at her feet, woke it, then passed it to my dad. He glanced at whatever, shook his head, then passed it to me. It was a YouTube video. Cressie’s show. The second episode she ever posted on her channel, an episode I never watched: “The Trouble with College Bruhs.”

  “Why do I need to look at Cressie’s show?”

  Dad said, “Press Play. You’ll get it.”

  I tapped the icon and my sister was in motion.

  CRESSIE

  Hey, everyone, it’s Cressida. The feedback for the first video has been awesome, and there have been a lot of great suggestions. I don’t think I’ve seen a topic that I don’t want to cover yet. However, something strange happened in the comments of my last video when “SarahThePatriarchy Slayer” mentioned telling scary stories. I thought she meant ghost stories, like at a sleepover. Until I read her example. Trigger warning, y’all. It said: “This guy asked for my phone number at a coffee shop. I politely told him no. He asked if I had a boyfriend, and I said no. He smiled, and placed an order for an extra-hot latte. When he got it, he took the lid off and tossed it directly on me. It hit me in the chest, so my shirt saved me from a first-degree burn. When I screamed, he said, ‘It could’ve been your face,’ and ran out of the shop. Now I give guys fake names and numbers. So it’s not my face next time.”

  I paused the video, startled. “What is this?”

  Dad said, “Keep going, son.”

  “But—”

  “Do it.”

  CRESSIE

  Y’all caught on faster than I did, because the replies were harrowing, but not surprising. Like “TaKeisha5219’s” story about the strange guy who hopped into an Uber with her before she could close the door, because she was so beautiful. And when she told the Uber driver she didn’t know the stranger, the driver said, “Well you ARE beautiful, learn to take a compliment.” She had to endure a ride to her friend’s house with two strange creeps, her only other option being to dive from the moving vehicle.

  That thread is still there, and the stories range from frightening to grotesque, with more than a few heartbreaking tragedies among the tales. One reply that stood out to me came from a woman whom I consider a mentor now. Jaylan, of the Jaylan Knows channel. She wrote, “These are scary stories, but also entitlement stories. In every one of them a man felt entitled to a woman’s time, attention, body because . . . reasons. And to appease their entitlement, we get left with scars. The wariness of animals who only want to forage but who always have to watch for the shadow of a predatory hawk, or slithering viper. No space is safe where toxic male energy is permitted, or simply invades. But, we all knew that, didn’t we? It’s the other gender that seems ignorant to their toxic colonization of a woman’s right to breathe, and sunshine, and solace. Too bad they aren’t reading these stories, too.”

  But—BUT!—that’s not exactly true. At least one man read Jaylan’s response. “CharlesSnarkly666” wrote, “Don’t show ass if you don’t want attention! #Yogapants”

  My sister stared into her camera, blank-faced.

  CRESSIE

  Moving on. The replies to the one comment are well over three hundred. I’ve seen more than a few coming from some fellow CU students. It’s very brave of you to share any of this. I know because I’m about to tell my own story, and it scares the shit out of me. But you’ve inspired me, sisters. Nothing changes if we stay quiet.

  My first day on this campus, right after my parents dropped me off, I went to a dorm mixer and met a cute guy. I was very interested, as was he. We talked, exchanged numbers, then kept mingling. I met a second cute guy, and was very interested. What can I say? There are some fine men here on the CU campus. Well, guy #1 observed me flirting with guy #2. I didn’t know this until I went to the restroom, and came out to find guy #1 waiting for me. I was startled but initially I thought little of it. Maybe he’d come from the men’s room. That’s how we rationalize, right. Then he says, “So, you’re one of those.”

  I was confused. Remember, I didn’t know he’d seen me flirting with guy #2, and that shouldn’t have mattered anyway. I’d just met this dude.

  Grinning like he’d cracked some kind of code, he says, “Should’ve told me you were a freak. I like that better than the nice-girl act anyway.”

  At that point I got nervous, and realized in this bathroom corridor there’s only me and him. The party was back the other way, the way he’s blocking with his body, and the music’s loud. No one’s hearing anything happening in that moment. I say, “Excuse me.” And try to slip by him. He grabs my arm, pulls me right up against him. “Hold up. We ain’t friends no more?”

  I told him to get off me, but he clamped down tighter. I’m talking pain; he was a big dude. Then he pushed me against the wall, snaked his free hand under my skirt, rubbed my thighs, said, “I saw how you were throwing it at that pretty boy. If you want it that bad you don’t have to shop around. I’m willing.”

  I . . . was not.

  I hit him in the chest, and I sucked in breath to scream, when three more guys came around the corner. We saw them at the same time, and Mister Assault let me go, trying to play the whole thing off. He was smiling, and asking the guys what’s up. They had guilty looks on their faces; they’d seen enough to know what they’d interrupted wasn’t cool. But, eventually, they smiled too. Comfortable with whatever they’d walked up on being over.

  Pushing my way between them, I made it back to the party, then told my roommate I needed to leave, then spent the rest of the night in my dorm room, under my comforter, shook and confused. Questioning all the things I’d done wrong. I went to the bathroom by myself. Stupid me. I socialized with strangers. What was I th
inking? I gave two boys my number. I’m a monster. All this internal second-guessing leading to an ever-growing checklist of things I’d never do again in an effort to stay safe. A checklist I shouldn’t need.

  I know my near miss is relatively mild compared to the stories of uninterrupted assaults and rapes posted here. And I now know I haven’t lived up to my responsibilities by simply running home and chastising myself. Not after all you’ve been through, dear viewers. That guy could’ve done that same thing to a dozen other girls by now, and maybe no one showed up to give them a window of escape. My comfort in silence might be helping him assault other women, so I’m not being silent anymore.

  I reported him to campus authorities this morning. Passed on the name and phone number he gave me when he was pretending to be nice and sweet. I’ll keep you posted on what CU does to protect women in this case. If you’re a CU student and want to know more about the reporting process, DM me. For those of you not on campus, but still want help, DM me. And if you’re a man who isn’t a piece of shit like “CharlesSnarkly666” then check other men. Y’all don’t listen to us, maybe you’ll listen to each other.

  That’s enough for one night. Until next episode . . .

  I paused. Closed the MacBook. Stunned.

  Mom said, “I’ve known that story since the day after it happened.”

  “Dad?” I said.

  “Since last night, when your mom showed me that video.”

  “Why?” My voice cracked and I took Mom’s phone so I could talk directly to my sister. “Why didn’t you say something when you were home?”

  “I wasn’t ready for Dad to know. I knew it would hurt him. I knew once you knew, he would, too.”

  “But it’s online? It’s got like”—I reopened the MacBook, checked—“like fifteen thousand views.”

  “You’re not one of them. Or you weren’t. So I was safe.”

  Something in that made me feel supremely shitty. More so than any conversation I’d had over the last two days. Which was saying something.

  “It’s hard to talk to you two about anything,” Mom said. “You’re never really concerned about what we think, or do, beyond half-assed criticism. All these months I’ve been going to church, neither of you asked me why the sudden change.” To Dad, “You made it very clear that you thought it was silly.” To me, “I was dragging you, I was a nag. You never considered there was a reason I sought a renewed faith in the Lord.” She pointed at the MacBook. “It was that. My oldest child—my girl—would be leaving my home and encountering any number of things, and there was nothing I could do to protect her. It consumed me. Because I know what it’s like for a woman. Doesn’t matter age, looks, what we wear, where we go. There’s always danger, because of, well, you.”

  You, meaning men. Hearing my mom say it made me bristle, even after what I saw.

  Tears leaked from Dad’s eyes. Mom didn’t soften. “I know you’re upset, Del. But it shouldn’t have taken something like that happening to your daughter for you to get close to understanding what I’m saying.”

  Isn’t that what MJ told us during that last Healthy Living? Did it matter?

  “Do what you need to do. Talk to him.” She pointed at me, and my anger blazed.

  “Mom. You don’t think I’m like the guy who grabbed Cressie. That’s crazy!”

  “Is it? I see more than you think, son. I’ve seen you trying to force a situation with the Westing girl.”

  I stood so fast my chair almost tipped. “I didn’t force anything!” I felt the need to be absolutely clear with my sister, who’d endured an attack in a loud hallway. “Cress, I didn’t do anything like that.”

  “I believe you, baby bro. I don’t think you’re anything like my attacker. But there are degrees to this. Maybe he wasn’t always like that. Maybe he got denied too often. Angry too often. I don’t know. Maybe he built up to what he tried with me. But buildings have foundations. They start somewhere. Are you angry about anything Kiera’s done recently?”

  I didn’t answer that.

  Dad said, “Junior. It’s not all your fault, because I’ve been encouraging you in a way that my father and my uncles and a bunch of other guys I looked up to encouraged me. It felt good-natured, like a rite of passage. ‘Go get that girl.’ But all I can think about now is that animal who put his hands on Cressie was probably getting good-natured encouragement from his dad, and his uncles, and all the guys around them. ‘Go get that girl.’”

  My hands shook. They were being so stupid about this, like I’d cornered Kiera in some dark alley.

  Then Shianne’s words came to me, ghosts in the room. Del, who told you you were nice?

  Voice low, I said, “Can I be excused?”

  Dad looked to Mom, and Mom looked disappointed. I didn’t want to know what Cressie looked like on that tiny phone screen, so I turned away.

  Mom said, “Go on.”

  Alone in my room, the anger got worse. Not in intensity, but in focus. Who was I mad at? Mom? Dad? Cressie? Kiera? Shianne?

  Hours leapt by. I didn’t eat dinner, or do homework. I tried texting Qwan, but felt petty when I thought about what he’d been through with Angie, so I deleted those texts. Then I tried locking my door, opening the private browser tab, and searching for new Lindy Blue videos. They were there, but they felt different now. Everything did. What was insatiable nymphomania before was now bad acting. What used to look like rough fun seemed painful. The hottest porn star on the planet looked way younger than I’d ever noticed. Take off the makeup, maybe she’d blend in at Green Creek High.

  I had the hot and bright urge to snap my keyboard in half.

  Who you really mad at here, Del?

  My eyes burned.

  Why Mason?

  Why didn’t Kiera pick me?

  Why wasn’t I good enough for her?

  I cried, full on, in more pain than when that basketball smashed my face.

  At least I could blame someone else for that.

  Chapter 27

  THE LAST WEEKS OF SCHOOL before Christmas break proved to be my most studious ever. After the Enlightened Intervention, I made sure not to have time for much else. When it wasn’t algebra systems and inequalities, the Clinton impeachment from government class, or dissection prep for biology, I was snatching up every FISHto’s shift I could get. I’d been a much better and focused employee, so Tyrell put me on the schedule way more. I didn’t complain. By the time I got my mid-December paycheck, I had enough for my part of the car insurance bill and some left over for Christmas gifts.

  Another Baby-Getter returned to school, even though it was late in the year—she apparently had kept up her studies at home—and she became the gossip that drowned the Me/Mason/Kiera drama. I saw Kiera, of course, even though I tried to look the other way. When she wasn’t in the corner of my eye, she was in the back of my thoughts. So I worked harder, anything to stay occupied. Focused. Idle hands were the devil’s playground.

  The Wednesday before the holiday break, after the dinner rush at FISHto’s, I crouched behind the front-line counter organizing condiments, when above me, I heard a cheery, “Good evening, Del.”

  Popping up, I was greeted by the eternally sunny face of Sister Vanessa. She was bundled up in a leather jacket with a bright blue Hampton University hoodie beneath it. She seemed to be waiting on something.

  “Are you looking for Mya? She’s off tonight.”

  “I know. Choir rehearsal. She has a beautiful voice, doesn’t she?” Her gaze angled up and over my head, perusing the menu. “What’s good here?”

  “The platter is cool if you like a more traditional seafood meal. You get fish, fried or broiled, some shrimp, an ear of corn.”

  She stroked her chin. “Think I’m in the mood for something a little bolder. How’s that Sriracha Crabcake Sandwich?”

  “It’s good. Spicy, obviously.”

  “Let’s do that. The combo. For here.”

  I rung it up, took her money, and asked, “Do you like hush pupp
ies?”

  “Sure. Do those come with the combo?”

  “Nope, just fries.” I held up a finger, approached the food rack between me and the kitchen, signaled Stu. “Throw some hush puppies on, too.”

  “That is very generous of you, Del.”

  The freshly arranged condiments beneath the counter became super interesting. “It’s the least I can do.”

  The order was up. I added a drink cup, plus the proper sauces, to her tray.

  She said, “You wouldn’t be able to take a break right now, would you? I’m not a fan of eating alone.”

  “Ummm . . .” My stomach churned with new nerves. I shouted, “Tyrell, can I take a break?”

  “Go for it,” he called from somewhere in back. Turns out he was a kinda cool boss when you actually showed up to do real work. We’d had no problems lately.

  She filled her cup with sweet tea from the silver cylinder by the Coke machine, then joined me in a booth. Immediately, she bit into one of the hush puppies. “Ohhh, these are good.”

  “Thank you.” Like I made them. This was awkward.

  “Haven’t seen you in the church lately. Your mother either.”

  “Didn’t go so well the last time I was there.”

  “For either of us.”

  Then you shouldn’t have snitched!

  That . . . was not the proper response. I bit it back. She bit into her sandwich. Took her time chewing. The silence got to me. “How are they?” I asked.

  Sister Vanessa dabbed crumbs from the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Ralph and Bobby joined the Ushers’ Board. They look very handsome in their dress clothes and those white gloves. Helena’s found her way into the choir stand with Mya. Shanice has been talking about starting a praise dancing team. My uncle’s not so enthusiastic about it, though.”

  That last bit was flat. Monotonous. Lacking any of the inherent joy of most things out of Sister Vanessa’s mouth.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I may not be able to sit here for long. I feel like you came here to say something to me.”

  “I couldn’t just be curious about the cuisine?”