Purity

by Jackson Pearce

  I manage a small laugh as Dad rises and gives me a short clap on the shoulder. Would Mom’s advice have been the same? Does it matter? Guilt overpowers the anger at Jonas for just a moment: Dad is here. Dad is giving me advice from the heart. And here I am, trying to talk to Mom, who isn’t here, instead of Dad, who is.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to talk to Jonas. I want to wait, wait till I know I won’t yell, wait till I know I understand what our relationship is. Because right now? I don’t understand anything.

  Maybe I never did.

  12 days before

  “I’m supposed to pick out stuff for goodie bags,” I say, dropping the heavy catalog onto a wet spot on the well-worn table.

  Ruby ignores the cook calling her order up, balancing a tray of orange juices like some sort of diner circus performer. She peers over my shoulder at the catalog’s table of contents.

  “They sell accessories for these things? Jesus Christ.”

  “Exactly—necklaces with Jesus Christ on them are apparently a bestseller for this sort of thing. But then there’s also weird stuff, like… I dunno, cake tins. Princess Ball–themed cake tins.”

  “Cake tins, huh?” Ruby says, green eyes sparkling mischievously. She sets her tray of drinks down on my table. “Dare I ask what they’re in the shape of?”

  “Castles,” I reply, flipping to a page full of silver castle-shaped tins. “And hearts.”

  Ruby giggles. “I’ve got a few cake tins from my sister’s bachelorette party that would be more fitting for a virgin fest. What’d you pick out?”

  I turn to a dog-eared page in the back of the catalog. “Among other things, this.” I point to a page full of bright red shirts that say things like Always a Princess and Her Royal Highness and, my favorite, the one I’m pointing to, which proclaims, I’m waiting for my prince.

  “Oh, my,” Ruby says. “I see what you did there, Princess Ball. Clothes for the proudly celibate. Which style?”

  “I’m thinking I’ll go with the ‘fitted baby rib’ cutout tee.” I snicker. Ruby laughs loudly, causing a few diners to raise their eyebrows in our direction.

  “Perfect,” she answers, tapping the huge-boobed blond model wearing the “fitted baby rib” style. The words are stretched across her chest in a way that definitely contradicts the cursive message. “But let me know if you want those cake tins, Shelby. You know, just to show the supposed virgins what bits of the male anatomy to avoid.”

  “Will do. I brought Ocean Fiesta, by the way, if the offer for you to turn it into something less… um… ‘frothy’ is still available.”

  “Of course it is. I would never turn down the opportunity to work miracles,” Ruby says, eyes gleaming. “But you can’t be mad at me if I rip some of those sequins off.”

  “Please. Donate them to Kaycee’s Sequins for the Poor cause.”

  “Seriously?” Ruby asks, her eyes wide.

  I laugh. “No, but would you be surprised if I told you she ran a charity about sequins?”

  “Not really. By the way, I still haven’t heard how things went with Ben! Jonas said he hasn’t heard how it went, either—you should seriously call him, by the way. He’s getting worried about you. Anyway, still got your chastity in check?”

  I swallow the urge to ask Ruby if she knew about Jonas and Anna. “Wouldn’t wear a condom. I know that health classes sort of go above and beyond to scare the hell out of people about having sex, but even I understood the whole ‘condom is a must’ rule.”

  Ruby nods. “Maybe Ben thinks condoms are just another scare tactic. You know, ‘Oh, God, if you have sex you have to seal your organs in rubber and it’s awful’ instead of ‘It feels the same and you don’t get the Herp.’ Not that you have the Herp, Shelby, just saying.”

  “Right,” I say, smiling.

  “So you’re on to the next guy on the list?”

  Right. Guy number three. I nod.

  “Who is he?”

  I grimace. “I don’t have one, actually. No one came to mind, and I sort of figured that between Daniel and Ben, something would happen.”

  “I’ve got somebody for you, remember?” Ruby says mysteriously. She points across the restaurant at Jeffery, the guy she mentioned right after school let out. “Jeffery asked me if you were single a few weeks ago.”

  “I don’t want to date him, though,” I say.

  “Yeah, but… desperate times call for desperate measures? And who knows, Shelby. Maybe you’ll end up in love with him.”

  “Maybe,” I say, but I don’t believe it. “Should I talk to him?”

  “I’ll let him know you’re interested. And I’ll imply what you’re interested in so there’s no issue, okay?”

  “Sounds good,” I say slowly, watching Jeffery from across the diner. He’s an attractive guy—dark hair, dark eyes, the kind of guy who might play in an indie band and ride his bike to work. He’s a stranger, though, and something about that renews my worry about the LOVIN plan. Can I go through with losing my virginity to a total stranger?

  “Why don’t you talk to Jonas and see what he thinks about Jeffery?” Ruby suggests at my pause.

  An image of Jonas and Anna together flashes through my head. “No,” I tell Ruby quickly. “No, it’s fine. Talk to Jeffery for me? Maybe we could get together sometime this Saturday?”

  “Saturday?” Ruby pouts. “But that’s the day the Ridgebrook cheerleaders start summer practice. I wanted you to come with me so we could watch them fall out of the pyramids.”

  Before I can respond, Ruby grabs her tray of juices and scoots off to see to another table. I circle things from the catalog. Focus, don’t think about Jeffery, don’t think about Jonas. There’s a whole page of silk flowers—I circle the red rose, because there’s something wrongly sexy about red roses. If I have my way, these will be the most ironic goodie bags ever created.

  I sigh and sit back. I’m making goodie bags for a ball I hate. How lame is that? My thoughts flicker back to my Life List, how it’s languishing in the billfold of Jonas’s wallet. Somewhere on it is Put flowers on every grave in a cemetery. I don’t know where it is without Jonas here to show me.

  I circle the red silk roses again.

  I shouldn’t be so lost without Jonas. I could complete my Life List without him, if I had to. I close the catalog and rise. Ruby catches my eye from near the order-up window.

  “See you later,” I mouth. Because when you have these moments of inspiration, you sort of have to act on them immediately.

  * * * *

  “I need, um… carnations,” I say as I sort through my wallet. I’d like to say roses, but at two dollars apiece I’m pretty sure they’d end up being more than my dad’s credit card limit.

  “How many and what color?” the girl behind the counter of the flower shop says. I do a double take—it’s Christine Juste, one of Anna’s friends. She has long hair that was once pink but has now faded, a nose ring, and dirt smudges on both cheeks. Somehow the dirt smudges made her almost unrecognizable to me.

  “Christine,” I say suddenly, blushing at not realizing it’s her sooner.

  “Hey, Shelby,” Christine says, smiling. “How’s your summer?”

  “So far it’s decent,” I say. “Better than school.”

  Christine nods. “So, you said carnations? How many?”

  “How many do you have?”

  Christine’s eyes widen a little. “We have… fifty or so pink ones, and about two hundred or so white ones. We use whites in bouquets more often,” she explains.

  “I need about… um…” I do some quick math in my head, thinking about the cemetery layout. “Probably about seven hundred.”

  Christine pauses. “Is this for that Princess Ball thing?”

  “Oh. Yeah. For the ball,” I say, feeling stupid I didn’t think of that.

  “Cool,” Christine says, nodding. “I think the idea of it is awesome.”

  “The idea of Princess Balls?” I ask. Christine never struck me as the Pri
ncess Ball type.

  “Yeah,” Christine says, and laughs a little. “I mean, maybe not the dance part—not really my style. But I like that girls and their dads have something to do together. My dad and I are really close, and it doesn’t seem like that’s the case with most girls, that’s all.”

  “Right.” What am I supposed to say? I agree? I never thought of that? That I can’t believe Christine Juste is a better candidate for the Princess Ball pamphlet than Mona Banks? I don’t know why I’m so surprised that people aren’t always how they seem—after all, I probably don’t look like someone questing for a hookup. I nod and make a noncommittal noise.

  “Anyway—carnations. Let me see what we have,” Christine says, and disappears in a flutter of faded pink hair.

  I get lucky and the truck that delivers carnations arrives within a half hour—but that still gets me up to only three hundred. The flower shop employees run around with a sort of giddy gleam in their eyes, collecting daisies and tulips, their second-least-expensive flowers. I make it to seven hundred—but just barely. The total comes to over five hundred dollars. I see Christine’s manager grimace a little when I explain that it’s my dad’s card, but I think that she’s so eager to do big business that they swipe the Visa anyhow.

  They load the flowers into cardboard boxes and help me shove them into the back of the van, and I set out toward the cemetery. Something has come over me, like the scent of the flowers is intoxicating me and I can’t think straight—but it’s wonderful. I feel powerful, amazing even, a sort of high I’ve never gotten from marking off a Life List item before. I’ve never crossed off a list item without Jonas; I consider calling him, but there’s this underlying buzzing in my chest that hums, No. This is for you to do alone.

  So I go on, by myself.

  The intersection is recognizable from this direction, and while memories of Mom’s funeral flash by in my mind, they’re in the background, afterthoughts of the summer day.

  I park the car in the wraparound drive, just beside a giant statue of Jesus. He stands with his arms outstretched, welcoming everyone. Now that I think of it, Ben Simmons doesn’t look so much like Jesus after all. I open the back door and throw the lid off the first box, then grab as many flowers as I can manage.

  I step up to the first row of graves, all topped with a brass or silver plaque instead of a headstone. The sun makes them sparkly, some almost blindingly so.

  Henry Waxman, born 1958, died 2001. I drop a carnation over his name.

  Joycelyn Elders, born 1918, died 2004. A daisy.

  Arthur Caplan, born 1932, died 2008. Another carnation, a white one. I continue along the row, reading each name before dropping a flower on the nameplate. I manage to circle the Jesus statue three times before I run out of flowers and have to go back to the car.

  The names begin to run together in my head, but not in a forgettable way; more like they’re joining forces, encouraging me to keep going even though my arm is tired from holding so many flowers. The sun overhead seems to pulse heat down onto my shoulders, and I can feel the deep burn of them starting to turn red. I ignore it and go back to the car again. The spot, the place where my mom lies, is at the other end of the cemetery; I avoid looking at it. I’ve hardly ever been here without Jonas. Focus, Shelby.

  Late afternoon, and the sun begins to hide behind the thick oak trees that dot the cemetery. It casts dappled shadows across the ground and I’m running low on flowers. I glance up and see the spot as I head back to the car. Only tulips are left, the most expensive of the flowers. The back corner of the cemetery is quiet, the noise from the road almost completely silenced. The sounds of cicadas and birds emerge from the woods on the other side of the cemetery’s glossy iron fence. A tulip for Daniel Savage, one for Karola Siegel.

  I grab the last bundle of flowers as sunset truly hits the graveyard. The world is dark purple rimmed in gold, and the little light that remains reflects off the headstones in a way that makes them look like ripples on water. Her spot is getting closer—it’s unavoidable. But I’m afraid if I stop to look at it, I won’t have the courage to start again and finish the job. I drop three more tulips.

  She’s only four stones away.

  Another, and another. I recognize the name of the woman on Mom’s left side, Maggie Sanger. I remember wondering what she was like, since she got to be so close to my mom for all eternity. I look down and realize there’s only one flower left in my hand; a single pink tulip that’s already wilting a bit in the humidity.

  I take a step over, to the grave beside Maggie Sanger.

  JENNIFER L. CREWE

  MARCH 15, 1969–AUGUST 1, 2003

  ALWAYS LOVING, ALWAYS LOVED

  I always wondered who picked out the line about love but never asked. I stare at the stone, trying not to think about the white coffin beneath it. I bend down and run my fingertips over the image of a lily that rests above the love line. I brush the tulip bloom across her name.

  I used to have this movie idea of death, before Mom died. All you ever really see is the shiny headstones, the beautiful services, the black horses pulling caissons up the road to the cemetery. Bagpipers, priests, dresses—ceremony. But the truth is, when someone dies, you keep thinking of everything else. Once we all left and the funeral home took the blue tent down, I worried that she was cold.

  Surely under all that dirt, it has to be freezing? I remember the first winter after she died, the first truly cold day when the ground frosted, how I wanted, more than anything in the world, to be able to put a blanket around her shoulders. I want to help her; I want to be there for her.

  I drop to my knees between Mom and Maggie Sanger’s grave, and put my hand over the spot where I think Mom’s hand might be. My shoulders are sunburned and the grass is sticky. The air is full of the sort of heat that wraps around me, embraces me. It’s not cold today—not here, not under the ground. Not in the heaven that I have to believe my mother is in.

  That’s the real problem I have with God. When the world crumbled, I couldn’t grab onto him. But I can’t bring myself to deny him completely, because if I do, where does that leave Mom? In heaven alone? In heaven with him despite me? Alone in the ground?

  No. I can’t think that.

  There will always be a part of me that can’t abandon the idea of God, because if I do, I have to abandon Mom. No matter how angry I am with him, no matter how much I doubt he is what the church claims, I have to think he’s there. I have to think he runs a paradise in the clouds. I have to think Mom is with him. Happy.

  I reach over and drop the last tulip on Maggie Sanger’s grave, then run my hand across Mom’s headstone. I lean over and kiss the word loved. Put a flower on every grave in a cemetery—if I had to be one flower short, Mom would want to be the one to go without. Always loving.

  The warm air holds me close even as I walk away.

  9 days before

  It looks like St. Valentine vomited in my living room.

  I am surrounded by boxes overflowing with pink, white, and red trinkets. Goodie bag paraphernalia. I sigh and cram another I’m waiting for my prince shirt into a pink canvas bag. I’ve been at it for two hours and have finished only four bags—I’m not sure if it’s because it’s an arduous task or because it’s a boring one. My mind wanders. I wonder what would happen if I slipped condoms into a few bags? I could even get the strawberry-flavored ones so they match….

  Ugh. I toss a heart-shaped candle in on top of the shirt.

  I thought about calling Jonas to help—it’s a thought that keeps popping up in my head like one of those little Whac-a-Mole games. It pops up; I remind myself that he slept with Anna Clemens and smash it back down.

  And then it pops up again. I suck at this game.

  Truth is, I know I can’t delay calling him much longer. I already had Dad answer my phone and tell him I’m sick, but if I keep this up, Jonas is probably going to show up at my front door. I have to face him sooner or later. I take a deep breath. Just call him.
r />   I grab my phone and dial, fast, before I can change my mind.

  “Finally! I was worried,” he says when he answers, exhaling in relief. “Why didn’t you call? I had to find out from Anna about Ben.”

  Her name in his voice bites at me. Did she tell Jonas that I know about them? Surely not—I’d be able to tell, wouldn’t I? Or does he think it wasn’t that big a deal, either?

  I hope that’s not it.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I was upset.” A half truth, but a truth. “Can you come over? I need help with some ball stuff. I’ve got to put a bunch of goodie bags together.”

  “Of course,” Jonas says, and I hear him grab his keys. “Be there in ten minutes.”

  Jonas actually arrives eleven minutes later—I know, because I counted them down nervously.

  “Hi,” I say when I open the door. Jonas smiles, steps in, and hugs me, his arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders. My face involuntarily breaks into a smile, and I return the embrace. It’s different, though, not the way he and I normally hug. Is it him, or me? The weight of knowing he slept with Anna is amazingly not as heavy as the question of how I actually feel about him, if I actually love him. I hold on a moment longer than normal, hoping something in his arms will answer my uncertainties.

  “Thanks for coming to help,” I say when he releases me.

  “Glad to help and watch your cable,” Jonas says. “I also had to hear from Ruby that you crossed off a list item without me. Flowers on every grave?”

  I blush. “Almost. I was one short, so I didn’t put one on my mom’s.”

  He shrugs but looks strangely proud of me. “We’ll drop one off sometime, so you can cross it off officially.”

  I lead him into the living room, where the television is barely visible among the piles of boxes.

  Jonas gasps.

  “We had to get everything rush-shipped,” I explain as Jonas stares at the dozens of boxes with a look of horror on his face.