Purity

by Jackson Pearce

  “Kaycee will probably give you Botox gift certificates for graduation. But speaking of the list and Promises and all,” Jonas interrupts himself, “you’re still planning to go to the wrap party?”

  “I am. Ben will be playing the role of the dashing love interest. I’ll be the prostitute with a heart of gold,” I tease. “Antics will ensue.”

  Jonas chuckles. “Wait, prostitute? You’re getting paid? I get a cut, then, right?” I laugh back, and Jonas sighs before continuing. “The world is thine oyster, Shelby Crewe, that you with sword shall open. Even if that oyster is Ben Simmons, unfortunately.”

  I open my eyes and shrug.

  “The Merry Wives of Windsor. It’s Falstaff speaking, Shelby, come on!”

  It’s only an hour before we head back to the mall, sweaty but filled with some sort of joy that only comes from lakeside parks and Slurpee drinking. We leave the windows down so the scent of sunshine and leaves can pour into the car, and I speed up until the outside world is streaming by, like we’re in some sort of time machine by ourselves. Just us, no one else, no vows, no death, no ball gowns. I think for a moment that surely this is the best thirty-minute car ride I’ll ever experience.

  Of course, that’s until we see the police cars in the parking lot.

  “Oh, shit,” Ruby utters. There are two cop cars parked around the spot where Kaycee’s car was. Kaycee is standing beside the cops, dozens of shopping bags at her feet.

  “We could just turn around,” I say nervously as my stomach flips. “I bet we can make it to the South Carolina border before they catch up to us.”

  “If you run in Grand Theft Auto, you typically get shot even faster,” Jonas answers. We aren’t given much of a choice anyhow. Kaycee suddenly points toward us, practically jumping up and down. Two portly cops turn in our direction and fold their arms over their chests. For a tiny moment, I entertain the notion that Kaycee was worried about me, but then I see the anger on her face. Her eyes scan the car as we pull up, probably checking for dents. I inhale deeply, and the three of us get out.

  Kaycee begins to yell, but her words are so shrill that it’s hard to tell what she’s saying.

  “Yes, ma’am, why don’t you just stand over here for a moment while we talk to your niece and her friends?” one of the cops says through a bushy mustache. He rolls his eyes at Kaycee as soon as he’s turned his back, and he and the other cop—this one a little lankier and younger—step toward us.

  “Shelby Crewe, I presume?” the older cop—Officer Woolrow, according to his badge—says.

  “Yep,” I say through a grimace.

  “And,” Woolrow looks at a notepad, “Jonas and Rosie?”

  “Ruby,” Jonas corrects him. Ruby glares at him, as if to say “Way to blow a perfectly good cover.” She’s so pale that the dark and light facets of her skin contrast more than normal.

  Woolrow doesn’t seem too bothered by it, though. He sighs and hands the notepad to his partner. “Well, Miss Crewe, did you have permission to take your aunt’s car?”

  “We… um… had the keys.”

  “I don’t believe that’s what I asked,” Woolrow says, raising an eyebrow and leaning forward a little. He’s remarkably like a guidance counselor; one heartbeat away from saying “What the hell is wrong with you, kid?” but retaining his composure despite it.

  “Not exactly,” I finally confess. Behind Woolrow, I see my dad’s car pulling up.

  “Then would you admit that you stole this car for a joyride?” Woolrow asks. His partner vanishes to both calm Kaycee and talk to my dad, who has just jumped out of his car.

  “We didn’t mean it!” Ruby bursts, her voice panicky—a tone I didn’t know Ruby could take. “Seriously, officer, we just wanted to go to the lake and Jesus Christ Kaycee is crazy-annoying and we really thought we’d have it back before she even knew.”

  Woolrow nods slowly. “Well, I see what you’re saying,” he says gruffly, and I wonder if he means the part about Kaycee being crazy-annoying. “Was any damage inflicted upon the vehicle?”

  “Nothing,” Jonas says. Ruby and I echo him.

  Woolrow nods and walks away. Ruby, Jonas, and I cluster together for protection. My dad glances my way, a befuddled look on his face as Woolrow and his partner talk to him. Kaycee joins in, still shouting, then suddenly sways and sits down on the pavement.

  “Ma’am, are you okay? Should we call an ambulance?” Woolrow’s partner asks as my dad helps her up.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine!” Kaycee protests.

  “What have you eaten today?” my dad asks, attempting to keep his voice down.

  “Exactly what I was supposed to so far… four orange slices and a half cup of brown rice.”

  “I’ve got some crackers in the van,” Dad says. “Hang on—”

  “No! I’m on day four! Day four of the carb-sugar-fat cleanse!” Kaycee says.

  Twenty minutes later, Kaycee has eaten one cracker, called the cop fat, and thrown the bag containing my dress at me. But nonetheless, the police informed me she doesn’t intend to press charges. Kaycee storms away to her car and peels out of the parking lot, eliciting a few raised eyebrows from the cops. Ruby, Jonas, and I glumly climb into my dad’s van.

  I wait for his reaction as the cops pull away and my dad starts the engine.

  He’s silent. I stare at him from the passenger seat. He doesn’t look at me, just pulls out of the parking lot and eases the car onto the road we’d been joyriding on a half hour earlier. He drops Ruby off first; she bolts from the car like a freed animal. Then Jonas, who turns to give me a hopeful glance as we pull out of his driveway.

  Still silence.

  As we pull into our own driveway, my dad finally speaks.

  “You stole a car.”

  I pause. Best to play it safe. “Yes,” I answer.

  “Why?” he asks, and it’s a real question. He turns to me, confused, and shuts off the car.

  “Because, um…” I think about explaining the Life List, the Promises, everything, but I’m not sure he’s ready for that. I settle on the sub-reason. “Kaycee is… annoying.”

  “You stole a car… because my sister is annoying?”

  “She…” I sigh and let the words fall from my mouth. “She kept throwing all these candy-colored dresses at me and sweeping around, and I just… I just sort of freaked out.” As evidence, I tug the skirt of my ocean fiesta dress from the bag. Even Dad can’t help but cringe.

  “So when you freak out, you steal your aunt’s car?” he asks as I cram Ocean Fiesta back into the bag.

  “I guess,” I answer meekly. Dad tilts his head, and I’m surprised to see a “could be worse” expression on his face.

  “I thought Kaycee would be helpful,” Dad says. “You acted like you needed someone to go dress shopping with. Did you not want to go with her?”

  “No. I… Kaycee and I are very different,” I answer. Read: Kaycee isn’t Mom, stop trying to fool me into treating her like she is. The dress bag crinkles in my hands as I twist it up nervously.

  “Then why didn’t you say something this morning? I would have sent her home,” Dad says.

  “Because, well… I knew you were trying to help and I felt bad. I didn’t want to be mean,” I answer. It’s true. I did it because of Promise One, but also to avoid the disappointed look that he’s giving me right now.

  “So you did something you hate just because you didn’t want to tell me about it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But… Shelby, tell me next time. How am I supposed to know?” Dad says. He presses his lips together. “How am I supposed to know anything?”

  I get the impression he isn’t just talking about Kaycee. I pause for a moment. I could tell him again I don’t want to go to the ball. I could tell him how much I hate this.

  But then I think that this might be the most in-depth conversation we’ve had in ages. I think about the cake tasting and how excited my dad was to help me get a dress. How can I reject
the ball without his thinking I’m also rejecting him?

  Dad watches me; he looks hurt. It makes my heart sink and swell in my stomach. I wish there was something I could say to make it right, but I can’t think of anything now that we’ve all but admitted to the fact that we’ve been ignoring each other for six years. That we’re quietly passing in the night, strangers, two people linked together by a single woman instead of a family of two. And we both know that isn’t right, isn’t good.

  “Anyhow… punishments.” Dad pauses and looks at me. He’s never really had to punish me before. Thanks, Promise One.

  “You could… send me upstairs?” I suggest.

  “Okay. Just, uh, go to your room,” he says with a sigh, and gets out of the car. I follow, leaving Ocean Fiesta on the floor of the passenger seat.

  I’ve felt a lot of things after keeping the Promises. Joy, relief, closeness to Mom. But this is the first time I’ve ever felt guilty.

  15 days before

  Saturday afternoon, Anna comes over to help me get ready—Dad looks a little baffled when she shows up at the door, all highlights and lip gloss, the polar opposite of Ruby and Jonas. It takes four outfits before she gives a jean skirt and tank top the okay—the only thing about my outfit that stays the same are Ruby’s naughty panties, which, I’ll give her credit, are more comfortable than I had expected.

  “You need some jewelry, though. What do you have?” Anna asks. Before I can answer, she’s delving into the open box of jewelry on my bathroom counter. She emerges with a pair of purple earrings that I’ve never worn because they’re exceedingly loud and tend to shed glitter onto my shoulders.

  “That works,” I say, stepping forward to look at myself in the mirror.

  “Can I borrow these?” Anna is holding a set of plastic rings that Jonas once bought for me at a cheap costume-jewelry store for Christmas. It was right when I began wearing jewelry more often, so I wore them to prevent him from thinking he’d wasted his money—not because I like them. Anna, however, has a pleading look on her face, like I might not let her out of my house with my precious plastic rings.

  “Sure,” I say. Anna jumps up and down briefly, grinning. I try to ignore the twang of regret I get when I see Jonas’s rings on her fingers.

  “Let’s go, then! Are you ready for this?” she says, sounding way too much like that sports-game song for my comfort.

  “I guess,” I say.

  Anna drives a much nicer car than Lucinda—something shiny and silver that her parents got her for her birthday. She even has pink windshield-washer fluid. She turns the music up loud and whips the car around corners like a race-car driver. This is the sort of situation that school administrators warn you about, I think.

  Ben Simmons lives on the outskirts of town, in a house that sits on a lot of land. That’s probably good, because it means his neighbors can’t hear the pumping of the bass or shrieks of flirtatious teenage girls that pollute the air when we arrive. The doors are open, letting light flood the front yard. Inside I see half the school dancing or drinking happily. Anna looks at me eagerly, like I should comment on the great work of art before me. I nod and try to look enthusiastic; Anna responds by parallel parking in the worst way, leaving half of her silvery car in the middle of the street. She doesn’t fix it—instead, she leaps from the driver’s side and beckons me forward, like a girl calling a reluctant puppy.

  Anna grabs my hand as soon as I’m within her grasp and practically pulls me to the house. Right before we get to the front door, she drops it, inhales, fixes her hair, and grins excitedly at me.

  “Ready?”

  “Sure.” I guess.

  We walk in through the door, and it’s sensory overload. Music is pounding, the scent of perfume and sweat and summer and alcohol is heavy in the air, and there are people—so many people—packing into every corner of the house. Their conversations mix together into a steady hum broken apart only by the shouts of guys arguing and giggles of girls hopped up on wine coolers. I scan the room until my eyes land on the party’s host.

  Ben Simmons is tall and lanky and—weirdly enough—looks a little bit like the gloriously Caucasian Jesus from the church preschool room. He has long hair that he ties back in a low ponytail, bright blue eyes, and chiseled features that you can tell are going to help him hold on to his looks well past his teen years. And he has skin so flawless that if he doesn’t use seventeen kinds of skin-care products, then there’s no justice in the world. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I’m about to try to sleep with Jesus from a Proactiv commercial.

  “Go talk to him,” Anna says.

  Suddenly I can’t move. I’m not really smitten with Ben Simmons, but that doesn’t mean I’m good to march up to him and say, “Mind having a one-night stand with me, Mr. Jesus?” At least with Daniel I felt semi-in-control.

  “Take this,” Anna says. She grabs two Jell-O shots off a tray sitting on top of the television and hands them to me. I gulp down both, grimacing as the bite of vodka makes it past the cherry Jell-O flavor. It doesn’t make me feel any more confident, despite Anna’s encouraging look.

  “Here,” Anna says. She swallows a Jell-O shot of her own. “I’ll help.”

  She grabs my hand and leads me over to Ben, touching his arm lightly. “Hey, Ben, you remember Shelby—”

  “Shelby!” he says. “Wow, haven’t talked to you in ages!”

  “Hey, I’m gonna go get beers—anyone want any?” Anna asks cheerily. Ben and several guys around him nod and Anna hurries away like a barmaid.

  I sit on the edge of a coffee table because there’s nowhere else vacant.

  “I didn’t know you came to parties,” Ben says.

  “Just not my thing, usually,” I say, though I wonder what his definition of party is. Apparently it means “party he’s at” because I’ve been to a few smaller get-togethers. Much, much smaller. And much, much less alcohol was involved.

  “Cool,” Ben says. “So, what kind of stuff are you into these days?”

  “Uh, I dance a lot,” I say, thinking of my time at Madame Garba’s. I don’t think one class qualifies as “a lot” but what am I supposed to say? I eat at Flying Biscuit a lot? I’m plotting to lose my virginity? I kind of stole a car?

  Ben tilts his head to the side. “Really? You want to dance, then? We have a charming dance floor over by my mom’s collection of vintage clown statues.”

  Shit. Should’ve seen that coming.

  I think I’m way too white to dance to this music. And it’s definitely not a waltz.

  Say no. Cite some crazy foot injury or something. Pulled a muscle. Had too much to drink. Fear of clown statues. Artificial toes. Anything. Say no, my brain repeats.

  “Sure!” my mouth says.

  I really need to get my brain and mouth on the same page.

  What’s done is done—Ben tilts his head for me to follow him to the clown-statue dance floor. I try to watch the other girls dancing, both with one another and with mesmerized-looking guys, hoping I can grab a few tips before I’m forced to start. It seems simple—lots of grinding, basically. I’ve seen enough music videos to get the idea.

  Ben puts his hands on my hips like it’s nothing, and I fight to ignore the nerves that are leaping up in my chest. We begin to move to the music, and I try hard not to count the beat out loud. Someone passes with another tray of Jell-O shots—I grab one. Come on, Shelby. You have to do this—you’ve got to persuade him to sleep with you somehow.

  I’m not as bad as I anticipated. I watch myself as best as possible in the reflection of the TV. I’m not good, by any means—I try to do this move that the cheerleaders seem to have perfected, where they shake their hips and sort of shimmy at once. I abandon that one—it looks more like I’m having a seizure than it does sexy. But that move aside, it’s not so bad. Ben doesn’t walk away, in the very least, and as the night wears on and I get more brazen, I draw closer to him.

  “Want to get out of here?” Ben suddenly leans in and asks me. />
  Yes. Finally. I don’t have it in me to dance another hour. I nod.

  Ben takes my hand and leads me upstairs. I catch Anna’s eyes briefly, and she grins at me. It’s quieter up here; the noise downstairs is muffled and deadened. Ben doesn’t turn on the lights, and the sound of our combined breathing becomes louder as we make our way down the hall. When we reach the last door, he grabs a key ring out of his pocket—there’s a dead bolt on his bedroom door.

  “Pretty intense lock,” I say, somewhat drunkenly. I’m at that stage where I don’t quite think before I speak, it seems. I’m glad I cut myself off when I did.

  “Yeah, I put it on a few years ago, both to keep my parents out and to keep the revelers downstairs from having sex on my bed,” he laughs softly. I notice the master bedroom door is wide open.

  “So, here we go,” Ben says, swinging open the door. His room is small, with a queen-size bed resting unmade in the corner. The walls are covered in theater-performance posters, and the entire room smells a little bit like the drama department’s dressing rooms—of cologne and dirty laundry, but not in an entirely unpleasant way.

  Ben walks in first. I follow, shutting the door behind me, then clutching my purse to my chest like I’m cold instead of nervous. He sits on the edge of the bed, but I stay standing, pretending to be enthralled by his poster collection.

  “So these are, um, all the plays you’ve been in?” I ask.

  “Yep,” Ben says, extending a long arm to pull me toward the bed by my jean skirt belt loops. I stagger forward obediently.

  “That’s a lot of plays,” I add. He lifts the corner of my shirt and kisses the side of my stomach. The place tingles, a sensation that spreads around my body in a matter of seconds.

  “It is,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my skin. He tugs me downward gently, but I tumble onto the bed as if he’d yanked me there.

  “I, um…” I begin a sentence, but I have no idea where I’m going with it.

  “Come on,” he says gently, easily, like he’s said it a thousand times before—a confidence that, oddly enough, doesn’t dissuade me.