Not So Pure and Simple

by Lamar Giles

  The video ended, and I tugged out my earbud. Unsure what to think, I focused on my friend, because other phones were out too, and I felt a lot of eyes on me.

  “Is this bad, Qwan?”

  “I think for some. I don’t see Colossus being real happy someone in Ethiopia is probably calling him a deadbeat. But, that ain’t on you.”

  “Could you inform the rest of the school?”

  Jameer, the voice of reason, said, “Del, I believe you can keep your head down and this will blow over. It doesn’t really have anything to do with you.”

  That was good advice. That’s what I’d do. It didn’t have anything to do with me.

  School wrapped up, and I pulled a short shift at FISHto’s, pushing the Cressie/Taylor crossover episode from my mind. But that evening, before bed, I got some uncomfortable texts:

  Cressie: Hey baby bro! My latest FemFam episode has been BLOWING UP. You should watch it if you haven’t already.

  Cressie: Need to ask you something though.

  Cressie: Got an anonymous comment from a girl saying that the faculty at Green Creek High canceled the sex ed class and I should do a show on it.

  Cressie: Have you heard anything about that?

  I didn’t respond.

  And I muted my sister’s texts.

  Chapter 19

  AS JAMEER PREDICTED, in the days leading up to our road trip, the furor over my sister’s video died down. Or was snuffed out, depending on how you looked at it.

  Vice Principal Terrier couldn’t do anything to Cressie—she wasn’t a student—and though I caught him staring at me with murder in his eyes a couple of times, he couldn’t do anything to me either. Through some tense PA announcements, he did make it clear that anyone caught with their phones out during the school day would lose them. Typically, that was a rule applied to the classroom only, but something was bubbling beneath the surface at Green Creek. So, things were changing fast and on the fly.

  Fine by me. I could do without all the attention-by-association over Cressie’s channel. Like, sis, you did your four years here. Don’t make mine harder.

  The week settled into the mostly normal routine.

  Purity Pledge had its own difficulties as word about the CU trip spread to the group, and disappointment when I told them everyone couldn’t come—I could only fit four in my car—spread faster than that. I was surprised by all the pouting over my denial, mostly from the Burton Brothers, who, for some reason I couldn’t comprehend, thought I’d allocated two spaces for them.

  In the church lot, our breath puffing in the autumn air, Jameer expressed some personal concerns about how his parents thought we’d all be studying together at the library on Saturday.

  I said, “Look, we hit the road fifteen minutes after the library opens. We’re at the university in time for the panel, then we’re back here an hour before they pick you up. Who’s going to tell them different?”

  He motioned toward the sanctuary, to the chatty bunch that wouldn’t be going with us.

  “So what do you want to do about it?” I asked.

  “What if I could find a way to get everyone there?”

  “Whatever you need to do.” I was going, and my passenger seat was reserved for Kiera. I wasn’t concerned with the other logistics.

  I should’ve been.

  Wednesday night, I managed another Shianne “tutoring” session to get some pocket money before we made the drive to CU. Thursday, I pulled another (short) shift at FISHto’s—I’d forgotten my belt, stupid, I know, and my pants were too loose, so I took orders one-handed and with the other hand kept them from falling and showing my customers what color boxers I had on. Tyrell sent me home, but with a warning. “No more messing up,” he said. “It hurts everybody when you aren’t doing what you’re supposed to do.”

  It pissed me off. I had a lot on my mind, and the belt thing was an honest mistake. Maybe next week I’d see if McDonald’s was hiring.

  By Friday I had tunnel vision. All of the uncomfortable feelings from Tavia baring her soul, Cressie turning into Green Creek’s Oprah Winfrey, and Taylor continuing to scorch the earth had subsided. Some. It wasn’t on my mind, anyway.

  I washed the ride, copped a crisp Hawaiian Breeze air freshener, and stayed up late putting together a perfect shuffle-ready playlist, nothing overtly romantic, but nothing super ignorant either. Sleep was a rough affair, the anticipation of Kiera time somewhere Mason, or Colossus, couldn’t pop up felt, well, divine.

  The next morning I showered, dressed, and was on my way to the library when I got a text from Mister Rules Tyrell.

  Tyrell: Del, hey, you’ve been asking for more hours, and Stu called in with the flu. Could really use you on the day shift.

  Me: That’s a pass for me, Tyrell. Got plans.

  All those times he sent me home and I’m supposed to be On-Demand Del now? Naw. Didn’t give Tyrell or FISHto’s a second thought. I arrived at the library five minutes after opening, thinking I was being early, but found the Purity Pledgers had beat me there. All of them.

  Kiera sat on the library steps chatting with her girls. Ralph and Bobby hovered to the side, slapboxing childishly. Jameer greeted me as I approached. I said, “What’s this?”

  “I worked it out.”

  “Worked what out?” I’d forgotten his proposition of finding transportation for all. Still didn’t get it until the van showed up.

  The dull gold-and-maroon paint job, faded down to gray splotches in some spots, was unmistakable. As it coasted over a speed bump, the suspension squeaked and set the whole thing bouncing like a soap bubble on a breeze.

  Qwan leaned from the passenger window, slapping the door like a set of bongos. “What up, peeps!”

  The van came to a full stop. Angie clutched the wheel, smiling wide, and then not. Taylor and Colossus had been the hot drama in the Green Creek halls, but Taylor wasn’t the reason Kiera’s long-term relationship ended. That . . . was Angie.

  Kiera stood among her girls, arms crossed. Jaw clenched.

  I said, “Jameer. What did you do?”

  “Made a way.” He slid the van door open on a squeaky track.

  The younger Pledgers looked to him, to me, and, for the final verdict, to Kiera, with the glossy, hopeful looks of kids asking if they can have ice cream.

  “Go on,” Kiera said, little enthusiasm in her voice.

  The girls piled into the van, as did Jameer. Knowing no other option existed but to roll with this, I moved to my car.

  Kiera . . . did not. She approached the van.

  “Kiera?”

  “I’m going where my girls go, Del.”

  “But . . .” My Hawaiian Breeze air freshener! Hey, it’s what I thought! What I actually said, “Is that a good idea?”

  She patted my chest, determined. “It’ll be fine. It’s only an hour drive. We’ll see you there.”

  Kiera climbed into the van, closed the door behind her. Leaving me with the Burton Brothers, who vibrated with excitement as they rushed my car.

  “Just the fellas!” Ralph said, clutching his backpack to his chest instead of utilizing the shoulder straps like a normal person.

  Bobby said, “Yo, Del, we can play our mixtape for you. We got bars!”

  “Your mixtape?”

  Oh God.

  I stopped counting time and began measuring the infinite trip in songs—nine so far—as the “R&B” (get it?) mixtape stretched on and on. It was everything I feared and more. Trash raps, off-key singing, amateur homemade beats. One song—a love song—was called “Blood Ain’t Thicker Than Booty.”

  Yeah.

  “This one’s like a story,” Ralph explained. “We’re both in love with the same woman, and it’s causing a rift between us.”

  “Got it.” The van, visible in my rearview, fell behind a few car lengths, and my gut twisted with the possibility of Kiera and Angie at each other’s throats. Colossus was trash, a fact that had been well established and documented. Was that enough to form a
bridge between the girls, or an octagon around them?

  “That line,” Bobby said. “‘She slayed me, but you betrayed me, I don’t know which is worse . . .’ I wrote that, Del.”

  “Okay.” Both brothers watched me, eager. They wanted my approval. Flatly, I said, “It’s fire.”

  With thirty minutes of driving left, upon the announcement that the next track was “Blood Ain’t Thicker Than Booty, Part 2,” I decreased the volume and asked, “I thought you two were church dudes, born and bred. These songs raunchy as hell. How and why?”

  Bobby said, “We know what’s up.”

  In that moment, I knew what Qwan meant when he said some half-ass, untrue boast about my sexual conquests sounded sad. “Try again. For real, where y’all getting this stuff from?”

  Ralph, a little more honest than his brother, said, “We listen to other music. If we like it, we kind of imitate it.”

  “‘Blood Ain’t Thicker Than Booty,’ though? Who are you imitating with that?”

  “Everybody,” they said together. Which was a glum assessment on the state of urban music.

  Ralph said, “We’re getting good enough to make songs that can sound like anybody.”

  “Why don’t you make them sound like you?” I asked.

  They sort of shrugged. Kind of their own answer. They were still figuring that part out.

  “Our music’s gonna be fire one day, Del. Everybody gonna be listening. Watch!” Bobby said, real slick.

  Ralph smirked and nodded, still clutching his bag to his chest all weird.

  I decided I did not want to know what that was about, and switched for the AUX input to radio.

  “Hey! We still got seven more songs to—”

  “Radio!” I said.

  He pouted, and finally flung his backpack aside. I thought I heard it swish.

  We got off the highway, and my phone navigation guided us into the heart of downtown Richmond. Plenty of traffic accompanied us into the city, which was already showing signs of seasonal cheer in the form of red “Happy Holidays” banners adorning lampposts and the “Come See Us on Black Friday” signs in stores.

  We found a campus parking deck, and a couple of empty spaces. We all spilled out of our vehicles. Everyone who entered the van still appeared to be alive. There was no blood. Angie and Kiera, both smiling.

  The entire group gathered at the van’s rear bumper and moved in the direction of the parking deck elevators with only me and Qwan dragging. I sidled up next to him. “What happened?”

  “What you mean?”

  “Angie and Kiera. The Colossus thing. What happened in that van, Qwan?”

  “They talked. I gave up shotgun to Kiera and rode in back so they could have their say.”

  “Talked? No screaming. No threats.”

  Qwan sneered. “Look, everybody ain’t caught up in that silly shit the way you think. They were fine.”

  Whoa, whoa, whoa! “What’s up with all that bass in your voice?”

  He shook his head, then jogged to catch up with Angie, leaving me alone and confused.

  I sped up, passed them all to take the lead. We came to the student union, the only building bustling with activity on a Saturday morning.

  The whole walk over, the Pledgers chatted among themselves, Angie and Kiera most of all. It was benign stuff, admiring how pretty the campus was, and how tough certain teachers back at Green Creek were. How they got there from those icy stares this morning was a mystery for me, one nobody seemed eager to help me solve.

  Inside the student union, where the marble floors were like mirrors under the streaming sunshine, and signs pointed us toward the auditorium where the event would be held, Angie said, “Is there a restroom nearby?”

  Mya spotted the facilities, and all the girls drifted in that general direction. Bobby, Ralph, and Jameer announced a pit stop, too. Qwan’s attention stayed on tall windows near the exit, the clear sky beyond. Though my bladder pulsed lightly, I took the opportunity to talk one-on-one, something we hadn’t done since . . . when? “Hey, what’s with you? I know something’s wrong.”

  He blew air through his teeth, whistling slightly.

  “Things not going good with Angie?”

  “Yo, you think Tyrell might give me my job back? If I apologize?”

  Now that was out of the blue. “Naw. You stole from the restaurant. It’s like on tape. He probably told corporate and everything.”

  A grim nod. “I figured.”

  “Bro, you won that battle. A few Cra-Burgers to go with two girls and—”

  “Those girls robbed me, D.”

  At first I thought it was some new slang I wasn’t up on, not literal. Then, I thought back on that night. How Qwan had been working the front line by himself. I never saw how it all went down. “At gunpoint? They must’ve been starving.”

  “Naw. I gave them the food, and rolled out with them thinking it was about to go down. They were talking all slick like we were gonna get real freaky. Lindy Blue shit, you know. When we got to the edge of town, they pulled over, made me give up my shoes and any dough I had on me.”

  “The Jordan Elevens?” I always wondered why he didn’t wear those anymore. “But you said—”

  He threw his hands up, defeated. “I lied on my dick, D. Okay? You got me.”

  Qwan . . . lied on his dick? The cardinal sin? Him, too?

  Some warm blossom of hope bloomed inside me. Maybe I could tell him the truth about Shianne finally. No more secrets. Except, why was he admitting this now? I said, “Have you always lied?”

  “I wish.”

  Cryptic. Okay. “Why’d you lie that time?”

  “Because I was embarrassed. It was stupid to mess up that gig over it. I been going around trying to get work, and ain’t nobody hiring for real.” His hands spoke his frustration, his fists balling and unballing with no target.

  “Did your mom get laid off?” I asked, knowing how fast that could happen, how real it could get.

  He shook his head. “Angie’s late, bro.”

  “Late for—?” Oh. Shit. “She’s pregnant?”

  Qwan shrugged hard, exaggerated. His shoulders bouncing high like he was trying to crush his own head and put himself out of his misery. Then he walked to a different section of the floor-to-ceiling windows. To be alone.

  Jameer appeared at my hip, squeezing a dab of hand sanitizer into his palm. “It’s starting soon, guys. I think we better grab seats.”

  The crowded foyer thinned, people grazed into the designated space.

  “Go get the girls,” I said. “We’ll see you in there.” I never took my eyes off Qwan.

  “But—”

  “We’ll see you in there.”

  The Burton Brothers bobbed closer; Jameer intercepted them and angled them toward the ladies’ room, where the girls had emerged. I couldn’t help but examine Angie from a distance, smiling at something Kiera said, looking no different than every other time I’d seen her. You never knew what was happening underneath, not with anyone.

  I went to Qwan. “How?” I said.

  His eyes narrowed. “Bro, it hasn’t been that long for you, has it?”

  “I mean . . .” I recalled my lone condom. “Y’all ain’t use nothing?”

  “Not all the time.”

  Then it was MJ in my head, day one of Healthy Living. Birth control, and diaphragms, and a bunch of other stuff. I didn’t bring that up because what good would it do? Instead, I asked, “What’s Angie saying about it?”

  “She scared.”

  So was he. It came off him like heavy cologne. I grasped for something, anything, to comfort him. “Are you sure? Because her period’s late? I heard my mom and sister talking about monthly stuff before. Sometimes it can be off, right?”

  “I—we—know that. But we’re Green Creek, D. Babies are in the water.” Qwan waved me off. “I didn’t tell you so you can try to solve it. I had to say it, is all. You’re the only one I could say it to. Let’s go do what we came for.”<
br />
  He joined our crew, slid an arm over Angie’s shoulders and pulled her into him, like shielding her from bad weather. She squeezed his hand like she was grateful.

  Falling in beside Kiera, my vibe was all wrong, and she sensed it. “What’s the matter?”

  Everything. This wasn’t the plan. Every time I go for a moment with Kiera somebody else’s shit gets in the way. Mason at Harvest Fest. Colossus at Mama Marian’s. Now my own best friend was throwing salt in my game? I know he didn’t mean it, but damn.

  I told Kiera, “I hope this was all worth the trip.”

  Because I had my doubts.

  Our line snaked through a set of double doors. We inched forward and inside; ushers directed us to seats arranged like rows in a theater. I watched the group closely, particularly the younger kids, in case they got noisy. Excited. They couldn’t have sat more still if this was a church service and Newsome was on the stage.

  Shortly after the room filled to capacity, the lights dimmed. I slid to the edge of my seat when a speaker emerged on the dais and gave the mic two thumping taps. Cressie.

  My sister cleared her throat. “Good morning, everyone. My name is Cressida Rainey, and I have the tremendous honor of introducing today’s lecture series guest. She’s an internet sensation. A social media dynamo. A sharp-tongued, proud ‘nasty’ woman. Above all of those things, she is a lifesaver. If you don’t believe me, listen to the excerpt from a letter our guest received yesterday.

  “Aunna G from Clarksville, Tennessee, writes: ‘I didn’t think I belonged on this earth. I dressed different than people in my town dressed. I spoke different than people in my house spoke. Inside, I felt different than what my body expressed to the world. I was so many things—Goth/liberal/Girl—different than what everything around me said I should be. It got hard to live that way, so I sought other solutions. When I put “painless suicide” in the search bar, I expected having to skip over the prevention hotline numbers, and the articles about how to deal with temporary depression. I was prepared for resistance. But, the second search result from the top was a bright colorful thumbnail for a YouTube video. The girl in the picture was gorgeous, beaming. Two things I wanted for myself so badly. The title of the video was “That Time I Almost Killed Myself, and Why I’m Glad I Didn’t Succeed.”