by Lori Lansens
“Nineteen.”
“Did he force you?” Jagger Jonze was laser focused.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“He didn’t force you in any way?” There was no judgment in Jagger’s pudding-smooth voice. It felt safe to talk. To tell.
“We sleep on the cots on the back screen porch. He thought I was asleep…” Fee suddenly turned shy.
“He thought you were asleep and…?”
“And he started…um…”
“He started what, Fee?” Jagger asked, though you could see he already knew.
Thank God Jinny Hutsall was not here. Fee wouldn’t have confessed with Judging Jinny in the room. But why did Jinny leave? I mean, really? She suddenly had to pick her brother up? Car trouble? Like, why couldn’t he call a garage or order a MiniCop or car service? I guess I was too preoccupied with what was happening to wonder about that at the time, but now?
Did Jinny know he was filming us? To blackmail us, or our parents? Was Jinny in on it? Did Jagger think one of us might confess a pregnancy, or an abortion, or did he think he might get a lead on some other nefarious story to stir up more Red Market conspiracies? Or were our tender little secrets enough to hold over our heads?
He was filming us. I’m sure of that now. Glancing up at the bookshelf to make sure the red light on his cam was on. Yes. Jinny left because she knew the girls would never open up with her in the room. And open up we did. Like flowers.
Jagger moved closer to Fee on the sofa. “He was touching himself?” It was like a TV show, watching the good cop interrogate a witness, but being all kind and gentle and understanding. “You can tell me the truth, Fee. That’s what we’re here for. And nothing will shock me. Nothing. He forgives all.”
Fee was ready to blow her truth wad. “I could see his shadow against the screen.”
“Did you go to him?”
She nodded.
“And then?”
“I sat down on the bed.”
“Did he keep touching himself?”
“He…took my hand. He showed me what to do.”
Holy fuck. Just, holy fuck. I was shaking.
“And while you were touching him? Did you kiss him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you let him touch you?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“Where did you let him touch you?”
“Under my pajama top.” Fee bursts into tears. “It’s not incest, right?”
“God respects your honesty, and God thinks it’s brave that you risked your friends’ judgment.” Jagger patted Fee’s knee, but he was as thirsty for the rest of the story as we were. “Then what happened?”
“We heard my abuela opening the door to her room. I jumped back into my cot, but she must’ve suspected something, because she made me come sleep with her. And she gave me the evil eye for the rest of the time I was there.”
Fee’s been holding back, pretending to be inexperienced and naive like the rest of us. My bestie stroked a dick and didn’t tell. I wanted to spit.
“What else, Fee? What other experiences have you had?”
I braced myself, sure she was gonna tell about the two of us practice-kissing when we were twelve. Or about how we lifted our shirts for the security guard at the drugstore. Malibu Sunset. Those were our secrets. Ours.
“Do you preach abstinence to boys too, Jagger Jonze?” I blurted.
“I would preach chastity to boys, Rory,” Jagger said, “but teenaged boys won’t attend a Virtue Ball with their mothers—no incentive whatsoever—so God seeks to move through you.”
Fee asked shakily, “Does our virginity really mean that much to our future husbands?”
“It’ll mean a lot to your husbands, I promise, Fee. It means everything to God.”
I go for it. “Is it true what you said tonight at orientation—that you don’t…at all…ever?”
“I am abstinent. Celibate. That’s the God’s honest truth.”
“Does that include self pleasure?” I asked. Bold. I was bold.
“I don’t,” he promised, “touch myself.”
“Never?” Brooky sounded skeptical.
He could see by our faces that not one of us believed him. We aren’t stupid. We have Internet. We know that guys jerk off a hundred times a day. Even Christians.
Delaney asked, “Don’t you ever feel…you know…?”
“The urge? Of course I feel the urge, Dee. I feel the urge many times a day. It’s called temptation.”
“Do you feel the urge right now?” I asked. Did I really want to know? I was playing with fire, drunk on this real talk. It occurs to me now, and did occur to me when I woke up the next day with a wicked headache, that Jinny Hutsall, or someone, had spiked the lemonade.
“I felt the urge five times on my way here tonight,” Jagger said with a laugh. There were five of us—six with Jinny. I was pretty sure I was the one who didn’t make the cut.
I poked the bear. “Just…I guess you’re, like, made of wood? No pun intended.”
The girls busted out laughing. They weren’t mad because it was funny.
Jagger snapped his head in my direction. “I am made of steel. In fact. My strength comes from my Maker.”
“But you never polish the steel?” I asked, setting the girls off again.
“Callin’ me a liar?” The way he said it. Like a punk.
We all stopped laughing.
Zara goes, “Rory, seriously, if Jagger says he doesn’t, then he doesn’t.”
“It’s just, if you get a…you know…don’t you have to, like, do something about it?” I asked.
Dee was curious too. “I mean, doesn’t it hurt? If you don’t…you know…let the air out?”
Jagger twisted his neck this way and that, and you could see he was pissed, really pissed. He goes, “I don’t have to touch myself to get release. I don’t have to do anything. It just…happens. It’s an act of God.”
“Are you saying God, like, jerks you off?” I asked.
The girls exploded with nervous laughter again, but I hadn’t actually meant to be funny. I was fascinated. God always seemed so against sex for all but procreation. Jagger Jonze was suggesting He was all in. And that—what?—God brought him to orgasm through prayer? Okay then.
“Oh my God, Ror,” Brooklyn, still laughing, said. “He doesn’t mean it that way. Or do you?”
We all pretended we had conversations about God and sex with a celebrity Reverend every Saturday night.
“I do,” he said.
“So you just sit there and do nothing, absolutely nothing, and it, like, happens?” Brooklyn said.
“I let Jesus take the wheel,” Jagger Jonze said.
The wheel in this case is his dick, so we laughed pretty hard about that. But I could see Jagger Jonze thought he was being laughed at, and disbelieved, and whatever mask he’d been wearing came off and he was suddenly a hard-ass street rat. He wasn’t who he appeared to be. Not at all.
“Feliza,” he said, “stand here.”
Fee did as he asked.
“Turn away from me.”
She did.
“Bend down. No. Not like that. Not like a whore.” The way he said it. “A little. Just bend a little.”
Fee did as she was told.
We were silent, our eyes locked on the zipper of his jeans, wondering when he was gonna whip it out. But he didn’t.
Then he told Fee to bend just a little more, and she did, and the merest glimpse of her white satin panties peeking out from under her tartan skirt triggered Jagger Jonze’s lump to swell.
We girls didn’t look at each other. No one called foul. No one said we shouldn’t be doing this and what the fuck’s happening here anyway? We wanted to see what would happen. Even if it was weird and gross. It felt something like our collective obsession with pimple-popping vids. We just had to see.
We watched Jagger, the slackening of his jaw, the loosening o
f his lips and the stiffening under his tight Cavalli jeans as he studied our friend. To be honest, I checked his hand to see if he had some pumping device because of the way he grew so big so fast, and the way it moved around—like a ferret under a denim blanket.
He concentrated on Fee’s sliver of white pantie, as we concentrated on the crotch of his pants, and then Fee turned, because she was missing the whole thing, and when she saw the bulge, she looked pretty surprised.
Then, without touching himself or grinding against his jeans, or moving a muscle, he let out a long, low moan, and a wet spot appeared and spread—like a miracle—on his jeans. He shuddered. And so did we.
When it was done, he didn’t look euphoric, or relieved of his load. His face went hard. He didn’t meet Fee’s eyes. He didn’t look at any of us. He got up from the couch and went straight into the nearest bathroom.
We sat there in stunned silence. Frozen, the way people act after cataclysmic events. You see it all the time on TV—people sitting in the smoky aftermath of hurricanes and exploding bombs. And weird sex. Cock-shocked. That’s what we must have looked like. Not because of what had been done to us. It was that, but we also felt shaken and confused by what we’d done to him.
Shame—that’s what it was—ingrained by centuries of religion and patriarchy? Epigenetics again? Maybe shame resides in the DNA of all females? Maybe, even for all of our intellectualizing and marching and certainty, we haven’t found a way to release the idea that we’re responsible for a man’s sexual responses. Or maybe the shame comes because we secretly desire that power?
We were waiting for Jagger to come back, forming apologies for challenging him, and for tempting him, when Jinny came home without her brother, who she said was at an all-night garage dealing with his car. Okay. Well, that didn’t sound right, but after bringing Reverend Jagger Jonze to his humiliating climax, the fact that Jinny’s story didn’t track was just another drop in the bucket of what-the-fuckedness.
When we told Jinny that Jagger was in the bathroom, she knocked on the door. He didn’t answer and he didn’t come out. She didn’t seem to find that odd, which was odd. She called through the door, “The girls are leaving now. Thanks for everything.”
“Thanks, Reverend Jagger,” we shouted in the direction of the bathroom, as Jinny escorted us to the front door. Just. Weird.
Weird also? She didn’t ask what we’d talked about while she was gone. Didn’t ask why Jagger was in the bathroom. She just said she was really tired and going to bed.
We girls left the Hutsalls’ together, although fled is the better word. I wanted the Hive to come back to my house and do a postmortem on the bizarre episode. So much to analyze. What he said. What he did. What we said. What we did. The pond in his pants. Ugh. But Brook said she felt sick, and Delaney was really tired, and Zara’s cheeks were pink with shame, or arousal, and she just wanted to go home too.
We hugged good night, and Delaney and Brook and Zee split off toward their houses, but Fee hung back. Thank God, I thought. When we were alone, I grabbed her hands and said, “Malibu Sunset or what?”
She nodded, but seemed distracted. “I left my phone in the basket at Jinny’s front door,” she said.
“We can’t go back. What if he’s out of the bathroom?”
“He’ll prolly go right back in. That was gnarl. He must feel like such a dick.”
“Ya think?”
“I’m going to get my phone.”
As she started running back toward Jinny’s house, I called out, “Wait, I’ll come with!” But she didn’t hear, or acted like she hadn’t. I could have run after her. Truth is, I didn’t wanna see Jagger Jonze again. I’d had enough religion for one night.
My texts to Fee went unanswered. U coming? ‘Sup over there? I waited in my driveway, imagining that Jinny was talking Fee’s ear off about plans for the upcoming ball, feeling jealous but not overly concerned.
After ten minutes, when Fee still hadn’t come out or answered my texts, I went inside to go spy on Jinny from my bedroom window to make sure Fee wasn’t there bestie-ing up to the Crusader.
My mother was waiting up. “How was it, Ror?”
“Fine.”
“Fine? Not appalling?”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
“And your father?”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Dads mostly hung out with the dads.”
She seemed relieved, but said, “That’s too bad.”
“I’m really tired.”
“And Jagger Jonze? What’s he like?”
“Tall.”
“I mean what’s he like?”
“I don’t know. He’s whatever. He’s a celebrity. So he’s kinda weird.”
“How so?”
It did not once occur to me to share with my mother that Reverend Jagger had creamed in his jeans. I headed for the stairs. “I’m so tired. Going up to bed. Love you, Shell.”
“Love you, Ror.”
In my room, I slipped behind my curtains, in position for my stakeout of Jinny’s room. She was there. Alone. She must’ve been too tired to pray that night, because she just lay on her bed for a long time. I waited and waited to see if Fee might appear in the room, then realized Jinny’d fallen asleep. I looked out the front window. Only Jinny’s Tahoe was in the driveway. The lights were off on the main floor. So Fee must have gotten her phone and left in the time I was talking to my mother?
It’s possible that Fee didn’t forget her phone at all, just used that as an excuse to go back to see Jagger. Or maybe she did forget her phone and when she went to get it, he forced himself on her. Or didn’t force himself. Maybe I’m wrong about Jagger. But I’m not.
We didn’t talk about it. We should have. We should have dissected every word and intention of his, and ours, and disavowed ourselves of responsibility. But we didn’t. We should have screamed about the grossness of his magical spoo. But we didn’t.
Did we think of Jagger as dangerous? Not really. Not exactly. I think we just thought he was muy messed up. And the AVB? Our dresses were on order. Hutsalls had already booked StyleMeNow. We’d bought our strappy sandals and pretty evening bags. We couldn’t pull out now. So, without discussing it, we decided not to talk about Jagger Jonze, and got distracted by pretty things.
Why don’t girls tell? Not just girls, but boys? If you have to wonder, I guess it’s because nothing even close to that has ever happened to you. The decision to stay quiet feels like a decision by default. In our case? Jagger is famous and powerful and beloved. He’s a REVEREND, for the love of fuck. We’re a bunch of spoiled, naive Calabasas virgins. There was no evidence to prove what happened at the Hutsalls’. At least, none that we possessed. Plus—what would we say? He didn’t touch us, didn’t say anything criminally inappropriate if you got down to it. I mean, we were there to have a real talk about sex. Of course the whole thing was fucked—but on paper? You can’t really talk about chastity without discussing what you’re abstaining from.
And if we told, we’d lose too. It wouldn’t have just been the end of the AVB. It’d be the end of us. As we were. We’d be soiled. Sullied. Talked about in hushed tones. Plus, the shame thing. So powerful. Why don’t girls tell? Shame, big-time, and modesty too—like, you don’t want other people to picture you in the sexual situations you’re forced to describe, to wonder about your complicity. You don’t wanna create a visual. So we buried the night together, in a shallow-ass grave.
We should have told.
The sun is setting on this horrible day, bands of orange and red streaking out over the ocean. Actual Malibu sunset, which is nothing like the lipstick shade.
Fee’s curled up like a cat beside Paula, fast asleep. I can’t help but think about what that media expert said about the algorithm and how it’s only a matter of time before they find us. When I looked out the window the last time, I could see the distant plume of smoke from a new fire—they’re calling it the Charmlee blaze—that started secon
ds after a reported power outage in a densely forested area east of El Matador Beach. The news is saying that if the wind shifts, as they expect it to, Malibu will be in the direct path. Jesus.
On the positive front? Paula’s abuelo is still passed out.
Not so positive? My best friend is pregnant. She wants to get an abortion and she won’t talk about it. And I’m pretty damn sure the ratfuck who set us up is her baby’s father. Still, I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I should’ve just listened and not judged, and been empathetic. I’m supposed to be her safe place to land. I’m supposed to support her choice. Choice. I believe in it. I do. And yet this random binding of sperm and egg to make life? Miracle is a stupid word to use when you don’t believe in God, but life is awe-inspiring. Right? And when that choice is growing in the womb of your best friend, it’s confusing. I mean…Fuck. Get your laws off my body. My body, my right. But Jesus fucking Christ. This is Fee.
And now, I realize, there are four of us in the shed. Four innocent lives in this stinky little prison/haven, flies buzzing inside, copters buzzing out.
Paula put her Patriot Girl on her lap so she can change the doll’s clothes to match her own. She wipes a little soot from the plastic mouth and fusses with her wiry hair, and looks up to say, “So much typing. Your hands hurt?”
“They do, Paula. Everything hurts.”
I keep going back to the news, but each time I read something that gives me hope—like about Warren Hutsall being investigated, and how Jagger’s connection to him is being scrutinized, and the AVB tax exemption is being questioned—I think, okay, well, we’re on the right track. Then the next breaking news item is something sick, like that the roads in and out of the valley are being clogged by Crusaders coming to join the protest at the pier at Santa Monica, where Jagger Jonze promised to give his free concert tonight. They showed it on the news. Thousands and thousands of people surrounding the pier, waving American flags, holding up their cell phones with screensavers of Jesus Christ.
Paula’s head isn’t filled with news and information the way mine is. She’s got different worries. She’s looking out the window. Her abuelo will stumble out from under the influence of the whiskey and pills soon enough and he’ll come looking for her here in the shed where he knows she plays with dolls. I hope he doesn’t find his gun under the chair.
