by Lamar Giles
Then she drove us inside. The door ratcheted down behind us, and she was quickstepping into the house before I could undo my seat belt, or say thanks, or clarify what she meant by “good man.”
All righty then.
I was waist-deep in the cabinet beneath the FISHto’s drive-thru Coke machine, swapping empty syrup and carbonation tanks for new ones. The sickly-sweet scent of congealed sugar water accumulated in the corners from old spills was gag-worthy, but I didn’t dare complain for fear of Tyrell sending me home again. The checks I was pulling from my shortened shifts could barely buy air fresheners for my car, let alone keep covering gas, or my part of the auto insurance bill.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Already knew who it was and ignored it. This had been the pattern for the last two weeks since Jameer started “helping” me.
My new Purity Pledge coach hadn’t kept all of our secrets. Somehow the other Pledgers got it in their heads that my Healthy Living connection meant all of their weird-ass questions could get answered with no real paper trail for their parents to flip over. Jameer played middleman. With a strong implication that I’d provide the requested information if I wanted his help to continue. Asshole.
“Del,” Mya said from somewhere above me in her fresh-air perch at the drive-thru window. “How much longer? It’s slowing down my fulfillment time when I gotta run to front line for drinks.”
“Do you want to do this?” I unsnapped the Barq’s root beer hose and tossed the empty syrup box at her legs.
“Watch it, mister.” She kicked me in the thigh, passed me a replacement.
Spending time together in Purity Pledge led to more casual conversations here at FISHto’s. I knew the restaurant was her way of saving for college; specifically, for her own apartment, because her grades were good enough for scholarships. I knew she wanted to be a software engineer after college. I knew she wasn’t one of the Purity Pledgers feeding me anonymous sex questions through Jameer because she told me so, and Mya Hanson did not lie.
My phone kept vibrating.
Barq’s was done. I swapped the Orange Fanta, and the Caffeine-Free Diet Coke, then closed up shop, crawling out of the cupboard. “Done.”
Not that there were any customers to appreciate it.
Mya, gracious, said, “Since we’re slow, I’ll take care of the front-line condiments for you. First Missionary Crew!”
She raised her hand for a high five, and I slapped her palm even though I thought the greeting was corny. One of Jameer’s tips was “embrace the corniness.” First Missionary Crew!
While Mya refilled my tartar sauce and ketchup packets, I checked my phone for this week’s haul.
Jameer: New Qs from the PPers
1—What should I smell like? Down there.
2—How long should erections last?
3—Should I get tingly when I watch the morning news with my parents? Specifically when it’s channel 12 and meteorologist Ashley Eubanks is on?
4—What about feet?
“Feet?” The questions had gotten so much stranger lately. I had a gut feeling the weirdest ones were coming from Ralph and Bobby, thus them gushing about how great I was to whoever would listen. Nobody else was entertaining their fetish-y urges.
I wondered how Jameer even managed to do this with his parents clocking everything he did. He proudly explained that their insistence on such a low-tech phone is what gave him the freedom to harass me. They couldn’t put any parental spy apps on a phone that old. All he had to do was delete his messages after he sent them. Sneaky. And annoying.
“You started this,” Mya said, popping open a fresh box of cocktail sauce packets, referring to my Healthy Living double-agent duties.
Pocketing my phone, I knelt with her, transferred packets from the box to the bins beneath my register. “Just because you said you hadn’t sent questions to Jameer before doesn’t mean you didn’t change your mind. For all I know, it’s you asking about feet.”
“Nope. Not even close. I don’t have to tiptoe—pun intended—around my curiosity like the rest of them. I have working Wi-Fi. Also, I guess I’m not that curious about sex stuff. Not the way everyone else seems to be.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “After everything with the pregnancies, I don’t know, sex seems like more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Is that the Purity Pledge talking?”
“No. It’s not. But if it was, would it be a bad thing? I mean, you’ve really been crushing all of the scriptures and activities lately. So sex must not be a huge deal for you either if you stopped doing it and are focusing on a different path.”
“Yeah,” I said, uncomfortable skirting around the topic of my “reputation” pre–Purity Pledge. “You have a point. Is that why you don’t take Healthy Living at school?”
Mya shook her head. “That was Pastor’s call. My mom was going to sign the permission slip until he preached against it. I wasn’t that excited about it, anyway. I like playing basketball during gym.”
Of all the new conversations and connections between me and Mya, we hadn’t really discussed this. “Why did Newsome tell the church not to let anyone take it?”
“He said he didn’t think it was the sort of thing we should be learning about at school.” She moved on to refilling the salt and pepper packets bin.
I said, “Did you know the Healthy Living lessons and the Purity Pledge lessons are kind of, like, opposites?”
“That makes sense. He talked about it in the same sermon where he told the church not to let us take it. He’s part of the board that helps set the curriculum at the school.”
“Wait. What?” A civics class lesson came back to me in the moment. How our country was supposed to be big on keeping religion out of its many functions. Like education. It was a thing. My parents sometimes brought it up when they watched the news after dinner, and I said it the way they would. “What about separation of church and state?”
“This is Green Creek,” Mya said, as if we existed outside of the normal rules of America. “Pastor told us that impropriety had set in over the meetings and was influencing what the educators allowed into our classrooms, and no matter how much he fought, the school embraced an unholy spirit, or something.”
“Unholy spirit? That’s extreme. He really said that?”
Mya stopped filling her bin, a scowl twisting her face. “Del, you were there. It was the first Sunday you and your mom showed up at church. Do you really daydream that much? You don’t remember any of it?”
Welllll . . .
Mya said, “Yes. He really said that.”
“So, did he come up with Purity Pledge like counterprogramming? Something to fight Healthy Living?”
“I don’t know about that. He’s never mentioned the Pledge from the pulpit. At least not that I recall. It always seemed more Sister Vanessa’s thing.”
“What’s up with them? Their relationship seems weird.”
“She’s his niece. Pastor and First Lady Newsome raised Sister Vanessa.”
“First Lady Newsome.” I’d never heard about her before. “Where’s she?”
Mya got bashful, focused extra hard on the condiments in her hand. “She passed away last year.”
“Oh. I’m—I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“It did. Pastor didn’t preach for like a month after. The deacons just rotated, giving short sermons and letting us go home early. Then he came back, the church moved on.” The drive-thru buzzer sounded. Mya popped up, a fish-themed superhero ready to save some hungry stomachs. “Duty calls.”
I stored the condiment boxes, leaned on the counter almost hoping (praying?) for a customer so I had something to do. My phone buzzed again. I slipped it out and found another Jameer text.
Jameer: 5—What is the best way to watch porn without anyone knowing?
I said, “Are you serious?”
Tyrell, emerging from stealth mode, said, “Del.”
Scrambling, I went to slip my phone in my back poc
ket. I missed completely, and it clattered on the floor. Crap. “Tyrell, my bad, I—”
“You’re not supposed to have your phone out while on the floor. We’ve been over this.”
“Yeah, but there’s nobody—”
“It’s fine. As you mentioned, we’re not that busy. I’m sending you home. It’s all good.”
I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t explain to Mom or Dad why my shifts were getting cut short. I’d need to crack the code on this money situation soon. Just not that afternoon.
I shot Qwan a couple of texts before leaving FISHto’s.
Me: Ninja, you up?
Me: I’m coming through
Fool was probably up all night watching Netflix. I’d have to be his wake-up call. Dropping my phone in my cup holder, I set off for his crib.
Qwan lived in a beige, weather-stained townhouse wedged between other beige, weather-stained townhouses in a community called Delany Groves. There weren’t driveways, only designated parking spaces along the curb. Because of the designations, guests like me could only park in spots where “VISITORS” was stenciled on the asphalt. Normally, it wasn’t a problem. The neighborhood wasn’t crowded, and there was typically a prime VISITORS spot right by Qwan’s door. Not so today. An old tan conversion van—the kind that looked like a fat diving bell and had a couch in the back—occupied the space.
The next available spot was a ways down, so I parked and walked. When I knocked, Qwan’s mom let me in. She had curlers in her hair, and a terrycloth housecoat tugged tight. “Hey, baby. You here to study, too?”
“Yeah,” I said, cosigning the lie automatically. There had never been a study session at Qwan’s house. Davonne, Qwan’s little sister, scrolled through Hulu options in the living room, while Ms. Reid returned to something sizzling in the kitchen. I climbed the stairs, anticipating discovery.
Shouldering open his door, I cast hallway light into Qwan’s dim room. Two wrestlers broke apart like they’d heard a referee’s whistle. As I flipped on the ceiling light, my gaze snagged on the one who wasn’t my best friend.
Well, hello, Angie Bell.
They weren’t doing it, THANK GOD. Still fully dressed, but ruffled. They’d been doing something. Angie was more self-conscious of it than Qwan. He’d long given up any shame around me.
She shifted around in his desk chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs in an audition for the part of Nothing-to-See-Here Girl. Even if she’d found the perfect posture, the giveaway would’ve been her body lotion. It had glitter in it, so her skin glistened when the light caught it right. It was most noticeable above the barely-a-collar of her low-cut tee, right where sternum became cleavage. The same glittery lotion was all over Qwan’s face, sparkling, turning his grin into something as magical as a unicorn’s horn.
“D,” Qwan said.
“Yoooo!” I couldn’t hide my smirk.
Angie said, “What up, Del Rainey?”
“Hey, Angie.”
We’d never had a conversation before, me and Angie, but when you went to Green Creek introductions weren’t often necessary.
Qwan eyed my uniform. “Tyrell let you out the shark tank.”
“Kinda. Thought I’d swing through. But, you’re busy.”
Angie stood, catching the strap of her unopened school bag. “I’m leaving. I think we’ve studied enough for one day.”
“I don’t know,” Qwan said, his hand grazing her thigh above the knee, “we could hit the books a little harder.”
“So corny. Bye, Qwan. Bye, Del Rainey.” Halfway out the door, she spun and said the strangest thing to me. “And tell your sister I’m a fan.”
She’d descended the stairs too quick for me to respond. Qwan hustled to my side, looped an arm over my shoulder to watch her go. “I hope your weekend’s been as good as mine.”
“She knows Cressie?”
“Not personally. She talking about YouTube.”
“YouTube? What?”
His mouth stretched into an O. “Shit, D. You don’t know?”
Qwan tapped his phone screen rapidly, then flipped it around so I could see. Yes, that was my sister in a frozen YouTube thumbnail, face frowned, one hand raised in what might be the universal gesture for attitude.
I snatched the phone from him. Above the thumbnail, the video title: “FemFam with Cressida Rainey.”
There were two “episodes” posted for her first season. One called “Allow Me to Re-Introduce Myself,” the second, “The Trouble with College Bruhs.” Each video had netted a couple thousand views, and her channel had a respectable 657 subscribers.
I returned Qwan’s phone.
“You ain’t trying to watch?” he asked.
Truth: I felt weird watching . . . whatever Cressie was doing for the first time with a witness present. Maybe this is what her and Mom had been talking about? Why hadn’t I paid more attention? I played it off. “Not really. I watched her live show for sixteen years. When did Angie tell you about this?”
“I told her. Cressie’s, like, my first bae, so I saw when she posted about her new channel on the Gram. Why you acting salty about it?”
“I’m not salty.” My best friend’s unhealthy obsession with my sister aside, I didn’t expect today to be a Cressie day.
“Well, keep not being salty while I smash you on 2K?” He powered up his Xbox, and rap music from the basketball game start screen bumped through his speakers.
I reached for my preferred controller, stopping short when I noticed a sprinkling of glitter on it. “Dude, what were y’all doing in here?”
He grinned. “Maybe when you’re older, D.”
Qwan took the first game playing as the Milwaukee Bucks, but I was handling him after switching from the Raptors to the Rockets. And we talked. Not about his weekend with Angie. My preferred topic.
Qwan bricked a three-pointer, said, “It was probably smart to back off Kiera with Colossus getting blown up in the BabyGettersToo thing, but, I’m going to keep it one hundred with you, I think you’re a little too casual. Ain’t nobody else trying to run a long con like you. I saw Ricky slip his arm around her waist the other day between classes and start whispering in her ear, in front of everybody.”
“Ricky Nestor?”
“Yep.”
“And?”
“She slipped loose and bounced. Ricky’s game is nonexistent. I’m just telling you nobody else has an elaborate twelfth-dimensional chess game going to get at her. They’re shooting their shot. You should shoot your shot.”
On the screen, I threw a garbage pass straight into his defenders’ hands. Qwan lazy-jogged it to the basket for an easy lay-up.
I said, “It’s different this time. The church and the Pledge are important to her. I’m putting myself in a position, so she can’t slip away.”
“Yeah, but—” He didn’t finish his sentence, focused on a baseline drive to the basket that I blocked with my center.
“You obviously have something to say.”
“Kiera is fire, like easily one of the five hottest girls at Green Creek. That part make sense. Only dudes that aren’t attracted to her, they kinda know . . .”
I paused the game. “Dude, say it.”
“They’re not going to get any. In my experience, in this town, that whole church-girls-are-freaky stereotype is big wrong. I’ve hollered at a couple, and it was all watching Hallmark movies with their parents in the room. Wednesday-night Bible study. It makes me have to ask you flat out—do you not like sex?”
I unpaused the game. “Of course I like sex.” I think. It looked fun when Lindy Blue did it.
“That’s what I thought. That’s why you might need to consider some different goals, D.” He drove the Greek Freak into the paint for a monster, uncontested windmill dunk.
My phone buzzed in my lap. And I paused the game again, freezing my player on the baseline, looking for open guys to pass to. The text wiped all digital basketball concerns from my mind.
Jameer: Code RED! Get to my house A
SAP. Park on Kensey street, and come through my backyard.
My stomach fell through the floor.
Qwan said, “Dude, we doing this or what?”
His voice barely registered.
Me: What’s wrong?
But I knew. Deep down, I did.
Jameer: Someone is at Kiera’s
“I gotta go.” I pushed up out of Qwan’s chair. “It’s . . . my dad. Errands.”
If Qwan suspected the lie, I couldn’t tell. “That’s a forfeit, right?”
“Yeah. You win.”
“It’s the natural order of things.”
Him winning, or me losing?
I made it to my car, and gripped the steering wheel extra tight to keep my hands from shaking. If I was right, the next thing I’d be gripping extra tight might be Jameer’s neck.
The neighbor whose lawn I had to cut through to get to Jameer’s was on his knees, in his flower bed, pruning something. I was so mad that I stomped across his grass, gave a semi-polite wave, and kept on through his backyard like me trespassing on his property was our old routine. Nearby, loud and annoying, a lawn mower motor snarled.
Jameer waited for me where the property lines met, leaning on the short chain-link fence that enclosed his family’s yard. I planted two hands on the top rail—extra tight—and hopped over. When me and him were eye to eye, I said, “Who is it?”
For the first time, he looked rattled. Couldn’t tell if it was from the rage radiating off me, or something else. I hoped it was me. His little fake mastermind ass should be terrified.
He said, “Come inside and keep your voice down.”
“Tell me who it is, Jameer. Who’s the new boyfriend that didn’t wait around for you to deliver like my dumbass did?”
“There is no boyfriend.” He looked at my shoes instead of my face. “Not yet. Come on.”