Not So Pure and Simple

by Lamar Giles

  “My mom yelled a little, but she’s never come down on me hard,” she said while we unpacked the new shipment of Cra-Burgers in the FISHto’s deep freezer. “She told me I do more right than wrong so she’s a little relieved when I step out of bounds.”

  “Since you’re still free, maybe you can bring me more comics to read.”

  “You checked out Shuri?” She sounded skeptical.

  “I did.” As of last night. With no connection to the outside world, I would’ve read the laundry tags on my shirts to keep from going stir crazy.

  “And?”

  “It was dope.”

  She sighed all dramatic. “Guess I gotta read some Batman now.”

  “That was the deal. You should have your Tuesdays and Thursdays free, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

  She stopped unloading patties. “That’s not funny. Believe it or not, the Pledge meant something to most of us.”

  I believed her, but felt an accusation in her tone, so I let the conversation taper off and made no special effort to pick it back up that night. I didn’t twist anyone’s arm on the road trip—hell, I actually told most of them not to come. It wasn’t my call to cancel the whole damn Pledge. All that, and she still wasn’t mad at Newsome? Not my problem.

  In any case, we were all accounted for with our individual sentences known, except for Kiera. I asked Jameer how the Westings were treating her. Because his parents were keeping such a tight leash on him, he had no clue.

  “All the parents have been consistent on this,” Jameer said, “the Pledgers aren’t allowed to talk to each other. Everyone thinks everyone else is the bad influence.”

  I barely saw her in the halls at school, and when I did, Mason Miles was always near.

  That made it hard to concentrate in English, and in gym where I spent the most time around Mason. An angry flip-flopping of two questions. How you, Mason? Why you, Mason?

  In the midst of my stint in purgatory, Cressie dropped a whole damn series of videos calling out Green Creek High for allowing the harassment of the Baby-Getters, not providing a curriculum that educated the students in safe sex practices, and essentially calling our whole town a puritanical pothole. If anything, I could thank my sister for taking half the burden of Mom’s wrath. I might’ve shamed her out of the church she’d grown accustomed to (sleeping in Sundays was the only bonus from all this), but Cressie made it so Mom had to answer questions about her daughter throwing dirt on the town’s name.

  Qwan told me Cressie’s subscribers had jumped to like fifteen thousand, so I imagined Mom’s irritation was a price she’d been more than willing to pay.

  With no other time away from my parents’ scowling and school, I found myself embracing FISHto’s. Really throwing myself into the shifts. I used to wish for the clock to speed up so I could leave the oblong Flounder Fingers and Cod Crisps behind. Not anymore. With no other distractions, little stuff became obsession. The straw dispenser could never be more than half empty. The condiment cubbies beneath the counter could not be in disarray. When I found out the shrimp fryer oil was a week overdue for a changing, I lost my shit, to the shock of my wary coworkers, who remembered I’d once wished for a grease fire to take the whole building down.

  Tyrell took notice of my newfound initiative.

  The night before Thanksgiving, he caught me dragging two trash liners through the back entrance before dinner rush, the plastic bins bopping against each other while I worked the heavy latch with my free hand.

  “Del,” he said, lurking in the shadows like a serial killer. “What you doing?”

  “Cleaning.”

  He leaned over the bins, scrutinizing. “You hosed these down?”

  “Yes. We’re expecting a crowd, right? Night before Thanksgiving, everyone’s cooking for tomorrow. I do something wrong?”

  “Not at all. Feel like taking drive-thru?”

  That froze me. Drive-thru was, like, running point. The quarterback. The captain’s chair. Qwan was still working here the last time I had a crack at it. During dinner rush, Tyrell often ran it himself because he was obsessed with wait times and didn’t want any backups.

  “You want me”—it was hard processing this handoff of responsibility—“to do it?”

  “Grab a headset. If you’re up for it.”

  I was.

  When the dinner rush hit, it hit! For an hour straight, I was taking orders, and cash, and cards, while filling drink cups, and bagging up Cra-Burgers hot off the grill. Not only was I rocking the NFL coach–style headset, I’d donned the FISHto’s parka, crimson like our swashbuckling mascot’s waistcoat, because Virginia was acting appropriately seasonal for once, and opening the window for each order was like cracking the airlock on a ship in frigid space. Icy gusts slapped my cheeks and forehead, which I kind of liked. It kept me sharp. Focused on getting the orders right. So focused, I didn’t recognize the voice in my ear ordering two Fun Flounder meals with extra cocktail sauce and Whale-Sized drinks.

  I scooped ice, poured Cokes, dropped sandwiches and Clam Clusters in a bag, layered on some napkins, and placed the extra sauces on top. When I popped the window to pass them out, Mason Miles waited, a debit card extended while he chatted with his passenger.

  Kiera.

  I froze. Not from the wind. I couldn’t feel the cold anymore. Couldn’t feel anything.

  Mason’s neck twisted. “What up, Del?”

  My attention was on her. Her eyes flicked down, though she managed a squeaky “Hey Del.”

  “Hey.” That wasn’t me speaking. Was it? I felt outside of myself, like my soul was leaving my body and watching all this from the outside. One final torment before moving on to a (hopefully) better place.

  “Del?” Mason said. “You good?”

  I still hadn’t taken his card. Kiera wouldn’t even look at me.

  Muscle memory unstuck me, got me through. I swiped his card, returned it with his receipt, then passed him his order. All on autopilot. A robot performing a programmed task. Even mentioned, “Be careful with those drinks,” as I pushed the cardboard cup holder to him.

  “Thanks, man.” He peeled away. No “the best man won” posturing. Nothing disrespectful. It was too cold for all that.

  “Del!” Tyrell shouted, unmistakable disappointment in his voice. “We’re backing up! Can you handle this or not?”

  “Sure,” I lied.

  But he was talking about drive-thru, wasn’t he?

  “Hey, could you pass that cranberry sauce?” Cressie asked.

  I’d barely tasted any of the food as my family chatted at the table Thanksgiving Day. Couldn’t concentrate on the Cowboys game with Dad. Or Cressie and Mom’s annual The Wizard of Oz viewing. My body was present, but my mind was still in that drive-thru window, catching a cold slap to the face.

  The next morning, at 4 a.m., when Mom knocked on my bedroom door, asking if I was venturing out with her and my sister to watch the Black Friday retail brawls, I was awake but declined. What if Mason had Thanksgiving dinner with the Westings?

  What kind of moping troll I looked like, I didn’t know. The couple of times I glanced in a mirror, patches of my face alternated between oily and ashy. My shower game was not on point and Cressie wasn’t shy about letting me know. On Saturday, when it was time for my evening shift at FISHto’s, Dad lounged on the couch, enjoying some alone time since Mom and Cressie had taken a long drive to Richmond for hot yoga and lunch.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Dad.” I was fresh and clean simply because I didn’t need Tyrell getting on me about BO. “But I need to get to work soon.”

  He didn’t look away from the screen. “Talked to your mom about it. It’s been long enough. You can have your keys back. You’re on probation, though. Any slipups, and I might sell that car.”

  I noticed my confiscated possessions on the end table next to his sweaty cup of sweet tea. Keys. Phone. Laptop. Like the coveted power-ups in some video game that’d been kicking my ass. Snatching them, I ran from the house, f
earing some trick or reversal. My drive to FISHto’s was the most disciplined I’d done since testing for my license.

  With twenty minutes before my shift, I powered up my phone and saw two weeks of missed texts pop and scroll. There weren’t as many as I’d hoped for. Mostly everyone who would text knew I couldn’t respond, so aside from a single “you still on lockdown?” message from Shianne, there was nothing.

  So, I hit up Kiera.

  Me: Hey, I’m off punishment. What have you been up to?

  The response bubble popped up. The ellipses danced as she typed her reply.

  The bubble vanished.

  I waited, stomach twisting. Fifteen minutes later she hadn’t responded and I needed to clock in.

  My entire shift, my phone bulged in my pocket. A few times it vibrated while I was ringing up a customer, and as soon as the order was complete I’d check it right there on the front line, even though that was against the rules. No return text from Kiera, only notifications from apps like ESPN and SoundCloud.

  On my break I resisted the urge to text again, though I checked her IG. No new posts since before Newsome busted us. Old pics of her and her brother Wes, her and the Purity Pledger girls. The formerly prominent pics of her and Colossus had been scrubbed from her page. There was nothing new with Mason. That was motivation enough to get through the rest of my shift without having a total meltdown.

  After my shift, I gave in and hit her up again.

  Me: You’re really quiet. Hope you’re okay.

  An immediate response came through.

  Kiera: I’m fine. Thanks. Hope you’re well, too.

  Nothing more. No dancing ellipses, no questions about my well-being. I was salty the rest of the night. Feeling like, somehow, my punishment continued on.

  No FISHto’s shift, and no church, made for a Sunday that stretched like rubber. Mom drove Cressie back to school, Dad spent most of the day in his office doing work stuff. I escaped, hoping to see Qwan. He wasn’t responding to texts, and when I went by his crib, Ms. Reid was like, “He at that girl’s house.”

  Qwan was trying to fix things. Good for him, I guess.

  I got away as fast as I could, and pulled over at the 7-Eleven to text Shianne.

  Me: I’m out on parole. Feel like some company?

  Shianne: Zoey had the worst night last night. So I had the worst night, too. Maybe later this week.

  I toyed with the idea of texting Jameer. Naw. Knowing how his parents rolled, he was probably in a prayer closet at that very moment.

  Already bored with my reclaimed freedom, I couldn’t stand the idea of returning home. I drove, aimless at first, but quickly recognizing I’d picked a destination, if only subconsciously at first. The library.

  There were authors whose names were drilled into me because of MJ. Gloria Naylor. James Baldwin. Walter Dean Myers. Tiffany D. Jackson. Kwame Alexander. Nic Stone. Meg Medina. Jason Reynolds. Gene Luen Yang. Lilliam Rivera. Cindy Pon. Before long, I was balancing a stack of books and duck-walking to an armchair, lowering the stack to the floor. Sampling a chapter or two, I worked through the pile, then revisited the volumes that struck me most.

  When the PA announcement said the library would close in fifteen minutes, I checked out three books, and took them home to find Dad placing delivered pizzas on the counter. Mom joined us, and I told them about my reading. It was the first conversation I’d participated in that wasn’t church related, job related, annoyance related in . . . I couldn’t remember. Time passed quickly; by the time I got upstairs, and Kiera slammed back into my head with the force of a tossed kettlebell, dazing me, I recognized there was light beyond the all-consuming maneuvering to be in her world.

  That light winked out.

  Me: You home?

  Kiera: Yep.

  Me: I hope this doesn’t sound weird, but, even though we don’t have the Pledge anymore, I thought we could still hang out. Be friends.

  Kiera: Friends sounds good.

  Me: That’s awesome. Glad to hear.

  Kiera: Yeah.

  The texts went on like that for the better part of an hour. Her responses slow and erratically spaced. The drive-thru chill hit me again, and I couldn’t take not knowing what to say, or do, or feel about it all. So, I went all in . . .

  Me: I gotta ask you something important. I hope it’s all right.

  Kiera: What is it?

  Me: The night I saw you with Mason at FISHto’s . . . are you two together now?

  My worst fear was no response. The bubble appearing, then gone, with no more contact tonight. I’d probably die and decompose in my bed. But, her response was quick and direct.

  Kiera: lol

  Kiera: Me and Mason together? He’s a friend. Nicer than I thought he could be, but, nope. No way.

  I could’ve floated to the ceiling.

  Me: Yo, let’s hang out this week.

  Kiera: Maybe. We’ll see.

  Mason wasn’t her boyfriend and maybe wasn’t no. That was something I could work with. Given the hours I’d been putting in at FISHto’s, I had a nice check coming. Maybe we could get out of Green Creek. A road trip like the kind I’d originally planned. Without the burden of Purity Pledge, or Newsome, or Mason, or anything hanging over us.

  We’d gotten through the worst of things.

  It’s what I thought then.

  Chapter 24

  SOUND CARRIED IN THE BOYS’ locker room, so Qwan spoke low, filling me in on his Angie situation while we dressed for Monday’s gym class. He tugged his extra-tight gym shirt over his head, talking through the thin fabric.

  “A brother’s been straight-up begging,” he said. “I never thought I’d do it, but it’s killing me that she’s staying so distant.”

  I tugged on my faded sweats. “It’s working?”

  “I think she enjoys watching me grovel. She’s grinning a lot as I do her various chores while her dad works his evening shifts. I’ve done the dishes, raked the leaves, cleaned the gutters.”

  “Her dad makes her clean gutters?”

  “I don’t think so. She be adding stuff to the list to see if I’ll do it. But I get to be near her and she seems less mad at me every day. It’s worth it.”

  Loud belly laughs erupted on the other side of the locker wall. Mason and his JROTC not caring about the amplified acoustics. I hadn’t been paying attention to their conversation before. That changed quickly. One of Mason’s extra-loud soldiers said, “So what they say about them church girls is true!”

  Thunderclaps from high fives. More laughs. My jaw clenched, and Qwan must’ve sensed the wrongness here. He said, “D?”

  I was already moving. Slow, listening. I peeked around the corner, saw four guys leaning into Mason.

  “Bro!” Mason said, volume lowering in a conspiratorial kind of way. “They. Ain’t. Never. Lied.”

  More whoops and encouragement.

  “In your car, though?”

  “What you want me to say?” Mason wolf-grinned. “She’s flexible.”

  Qwan grabbed my shoulder. Whispered, “Come on, let’s get out on the floor.”

  I shook his hand off. “In a second.”

  Another of the JROTC guys said, “Don’t let Colossus find out.”

  “Her and that dude are crazy done. She won’t even mention his name. After last night,” he paused, dramatic, “she probably don’t even remember it. Feel me?”

  “Bull. Shit.” A new voice in the conversation. Mine. I rounded the corner fully.

  “D, stop,” Qwan said, tagging behind me like he was connected by an invisible tow chain.

  All the bragging joy swirled from the room like dirty water down a drain.

  Mason stood, smirking. “Huh?”

  Volcanic rage unlike anything I’d ever felt bubbled in my chest, over my tongue, into the world. “Everybody know you be lying on your dick. I’m not going to sit here and let you throw dirt on Kiera’s name like that.”

  Mason looked perplexed, the way people in street magic vi
deos do when they can’t figure how the trick works. “Del, my dude, you need to stay in your lane. This don’t have nothing to do with you.”

  “The hell it don’t.”

  Mean laughs from the spectators, as crisp as cracking bones. Mason closed the gap between us. Meaner than I’d ever seen him. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I ain’t the one.”

  Qwan, from over my shoulder, said, “Back up, Mason.”

  “Get your boy, Qwan.”

  Qwan tried for my shoulder again. I shook him off again, jabbed a finger toward Mason’s nose, a half inch from poking him. “Tell the truth. Tell them Kiera’s not what you’re saying.”

  Mason’s shoulders slumped as if he’d grown suddenly exhausted. He stepped even closer to me, clamped a hand on my arm, almost comforting. “I can see this is bothering you, and I don’t know what to say other than she was so, so good.”

  He stretched out the last word like a singer would, glancing back at his boys for clownish approval before facing me again.

  I hit him.

  It wasn’t a great punch, or even a good one. As I clipped his chin, he rolled his neck in the same direction as my swing, so my knuckles only glanced off him.

  He leapt backward, looking down his own body as if I’d vomited on him instead of attempted to kick his ass. “The fuck, bro?”

  He leapt forward, his punches quicker and harder than mine. Body blows, a left-right-left combination, had me folding at the hip, gasping. Mason caught me mid-collapse and flung me into the locker. My body generated a percussive blast like warped cymbals.

  Qwan wedged himself between us, shoving Mason back so no more punches landed. His crew was gathered around, in case this became a group brawl—one where the odds weren’t in me and Qwan’s favor.

  “Chill,” Qwan told Mason.

  “He’s the one you need to be talking to.” Mason glared at me.

  “If Coach Scott even suspects y’all were fighting, we might all get suspended. Nobody says anything. Okay?”