Purity

by Jackson Pearce

  “Okay,” I answer breathlessly, dizzy from alcohol and the close scent of his skin. With Daniel, I was the one driving, I was the one leading things. But with Ben, he’s in control, a gentle sort of power that I like.

  He kisses the side of my stomach again and begins to move up. Remember the Promises, remember the Promises. Ben’s hand slides down my side and comes to rest on my hip. He moves it up again, this time reaching under my shirt.

  Come on, Shelby. Do this, I tell myself in a voice that sounds a lot like Ruby’s. I grab the edge of my shirt and yank it over my head. Ben’s eyes widen and a schoolboy-type grin spreads across his face.

  “Shelby…” he says almost accusingly. “God, if I’d only known—” And then he eagerly grabs for the buttons on my skirt.

  God, if he’d only known. Seems appropriate that a guy who looks like Jesus would reference God while trying to undress a girl. Or maybe horribly inappropriate. I need to remember to tell Jonas about the Jesus comparison; it’ll crack him up.

  “Here,” I say, and swing down to where I dropped my purse on the floor. I dig through it quickly, before emerging with a “strawberry sensations” condom. I kiss Ben and press it into his hand.

  “A condom?” Ben asks. I nod and move to kiss him again. He backs up. “Aren’t you on birth control or something?”

  “Um… no.”

  “Oh. Most girls are these days. Well, when was your last period?”

  Let me log it away that there is nothing—nothing—more unsexy than talking about your bleeding vagina. Seriously—nothing more unsexy. The warm, dizzy sensation is swept away and replaced by the realization that his room is a bit chilly.

  “A few weeks ago?” I say hesitantly; my face heats up in embarrassment.

  “Then we don’t have to use a condom anyway,” Ben says, a grin replacing the concerned look on his face. He pulls me closer, but the heat of his body isn’t warming; it’s invasive. Ben tosses the condom over me onto the floor.

  “Wait, uh—” I don’t get to answer, as his lips are on mine again. They’re persuasive, convincing, and I don’t protest when he slides a hand down the front of my underwear. But then he presses toward me, and I feel the erection under his pants. I snap out of the lull.

  “You have to wear a condom,” I say, thinking of the LOVIN rules and my own desire to not have to explain to Dad how I got pregnant.

  “I don’t like condoms,” Ben says, his voice a little irritated. “Trust me, it’s better without them.”

  “No,” I answer, this time firmly. I focus on the words must wear condoms on Jonas’s list, like they’ll give me power. “Seriously, I’m not on birth control and I just don’t want to risk it.” Fear of pregnancy seems kinder than saying “Who knows what I could catch from you.”

  “Okay, okay, how about this—I’ll pull out beforehand.”

  Um. Ew.

  “Come on,” I plead, trying to sound sexy or desirable or anything but frustrated. “Just wear it, and we can have sex. It’ll be great.”

  “I hate condoms.”

  We stare at each other, and suddenly the passion filters away. I don’t feel warm and dizzy; I feel annoyed and irritated. Ben contracts away from me so we’re barely touching. I stand up so quickly that my vision blacks out for a second, then grab my shirt. I ignore the burning of tears in the corners of my eyes.

  “Where are you going?” Ben asks as I begin trying to negotiate my skirt back up my legs.

  “I’m leaving,” I huff, leaving off the bit “before I cry, you jackass.”

  “Come on, Shelby,” he says. “We can just kiss or do other things. We don’t have to have sex.”

  “All I wanted to begin with was to have sex,” I snap back. Ben looks taken aback, both delighted and confused by a girl saying that to him. I don’t give him any clarity, though, and I grab my purse as I work an arm through the strap of my tank top. Something is welling up inside me, something angry and hurt and bitter. Before Ben can say anything else, I fling open the door to his bedroom and make my way down the hall.

  There’s a bathroom at the far end. I swing into it and lock the door. A coconut-scented jar candle is burning, and it provides all the light I need. I sit on the edge of the bathtub and stare at the blue and violet seashells that adorn the shower curtain.

  Guy number two, failed. At least this one wanted to have sex with me, I try to tell myself, but a deep feeling of failure is rising through my chest and into my throat. A choked sob emerges but doesn’t become full-fledged tears. I’m still willing to have sex, but still unable. I suck.

  Dumbass Jesus look-alike. Just as disappointing as the one painted in the church classroom. No wonder I like the historical Jesus Jonas described to me better—dark hair, dark eyes, bearded, more Persian than Caucasian. I wonder if he ever tried to have sex. Was he human enough for that? You’re not supposed to think about that, I guess, the same way you aren’t supposed to think about your parents having sex.

  How is it possible that God understands what’s best for me, what I should or shouldn’t do, if he isn’t human? If he hasn’t loved someone, hasn’t lost someone, hasn’t wanted someone? Why did I reach out for him when the world crumbled, out for the hand of some being who doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a mother?

  Because I was told he’d have the answers. I was told he was what I needed, when what I really needed was Mom. What I really needed was a person, a real person, not an invisible being, who could show me that everything would be okay again, that I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life crying. A person like Mom.

  A person like Dad, I think. I’ve always thought Mom was the only one keeping the ground from crumbling, but maybe Dad was part of the glue holding it together, too. Maybe he needed someone to grab onto as badly as I did.

  A sharp rap at the door scatters my thoughts.

  “Shelby? It’s Anna! Are you okay? Open the door!”

  I inhale the scent of coconut, trying to clear the misery from my head. I rise and open the door. Anna prances in, slams the door behind her, and locks it. She lowers the toilet lid and sits down, crossing her legs and leaning forward, first with enthusiasm, then concern when she sees my face.

  “What happened? Are you okay? You look upset,” Anna says, and her eyes are so genuine that it almost takes me by surprise.

  “Nothing happened,” I say with a shrug. “I’m not upset. I mean, I am, but… never mind. Nothing happened.”

  “Because if he did anything, you tell me, Shelby. I can start a rumor about him having crabs or something. I’m great at rumors,” she says, looking proud.

  I laugh but shake my head. “It’s okay. Really. I wanted to have sex with him, but he wouldn’t wear a condom, so I said no.”

  Anna nods. “Naturally. Ugh, I hate it when guys are like that. I don’t get what the big deal is about condoms.”

  “Me neither,” I say. “Especially when I was practically throwing myself at him. I mean, it’s just a condom!”

  “I got lucky,” Anna says. “First time I had sex, it wasn’t an issue at all. I mean, he actually had condoms. I didn’t need to bring them. They were even the ‘for her pleasure’ type.”

  I raise an eyebrow—it’s not exactly surprising news to hear Anna isn’t a virgin, but it’s still a tidbit I didn’t know. “Who was it with?” I ask.

  Anna frowns at me, uncrosses her legs, and sits back. “I… oh.”

  “What?”

  “I just thought… I dunno, I thought you knew.”

  “No,” I answer, sighing and trying to hide my irritation that Anna thinks everyone else keeps hookup charts with the intensity she does.

  Anna bites her lip, squirms, then speaks. “Sorry, Shelby. I really thought he’d have told you. I mean, God, he tells you everything.”

  Wait. Something in my stomach tightens. My head feels hot and my throat thick.

  “Who was it, Anna?” I ask.

  Anna shrugs and picks at the toilet seat cover for so long that I want to scre
am. Just say it, Anna. Say it.

  “Jonas.”

  14 days before

  A clock in the hallway chimes midnight. I listen to it through the wall, trying to focus on the tinny sound of fake bells so I don’t have to think about what Anna just said. And I don’t have to think about why it makes me feel this way. So…

  Hurt.

  It hurts—it hurts everywhere. My brain tries to reason with me, reminds me that Jonas isn’t mine. We’ve never dated, never been together, never even suggested it to each other. But every fiber of me shouts something different—that Jonas is mine, somehow, in some strange way. Some way that means it isn’t okay that Anna slept with him, and it’s even less okay that he didn’t tell me. Something is burning in my chest, slowly eating away at me, something I can’t name.

  “Shelby?” Anna says meekly.

  “Huh? I…” I grasp for words.

  “Sorry. Is that okay? I mean, that I slept with him?”

  “Um… I just didn’t know. I didn’t know he’d had sex at all,” I mumble.

  “He hadn’t before me,” she says. “It was just this thing. It was last year. We were hanging out after school while you were hanging out with some other guy, Danny or David or Daniel or something. And then he offered to give me a ride home and… I don’t know. I mean, I think he’s cute. And it just kind of happened.”

  “I don’t understand—were you dating?” I ask, words finally coming a little easier. Now that the shock is passing, my mind is flooded with questions, things I don’t want to know but have to know at the same time.

  “No.” Anna shrugs. “We talked about it. I mean, we’d been hanging out a little more often since you were with Daniel.”

  Why did he keep it from me that long? Why didn’t I realize it on my own? Did he know I’d be mad?

  Surely not. I didn’t even realize something like this would make me so mad.

  “So just… just the once?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but he acted like it was. And then you and Daniel broke up, and he and I kinda stopped hanging out, for the most part.” She pauses, watching me carefully. When I take too long to sort the tangle of words in my head, she speaks again. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal, Shelby.”

  “It… it isn’t,” I say, shaking my head. “It totally isn’t. We aren’t together.” I’m lying, I can tell, but I’m not sure about what.

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured. I mean, I wouldn’t have done it if you were,” she says.

  “Yeah…” We aren’t together, why does it matter if he slept with someone? How is it any of my business who Jonas is in bed with? It’s not. It shouldn’t matter.

  But then, why does it matter so, so much?

  “I need to go,” I finally say. “I need to leave.”

  “You sure?” Anna says with a small pout.

  “Yes,” I say firmly. “I just… I need to go home.”

  “I’ll take you. Let me go find my purse.”

  I slide into Anna’s car, trying not to think about her and Jonas. About her naked, about him naked, about them kissing, together, touching in ways I can’t understand. She didn’t think it was a big deal—did that bother him? Why didn’t he talk to me? Why didn’t he tell me? I’m not sure what’s making me feel so betrayed—the sex or the secrets.

  “Hey, Shelby?” Anna calls out twenty minutes later as I step out of her car into my darkened driveway. It’s the first we’ve spoken since leaving the party—I was too preoccupied with thoughts of Jonas to break the awkward silence that hung over the car.

  “Yeah?” I answer faintly.

  “Sorry things didn’t work out with Ben. There are more fish in the sea,” she says optimistically.

  “Sure,” I answer, and turn to trudge away without saying good-bye. I hear Anna’s car backing out of the driveway and squealing down the street.

  That’s right. Things didn’t work out with Ben. I’d almost forgotten—my head doesn’t have room for failed sex and the news that my best friend slept with Anna Clemens. My head doesn’t have room for anything else. I slip inside and hurry upstairs to my bedroom.

  Relax. Calm down, Shelby.

  What do I do? Do I call Jonas? Yell at him? Ask him to tell me the truth? Should I mention it at all? Should I forget it and focus on the LOVIN plan?

  What do I do, Mom?

  I squeeze my eyes shut and picture Mom the same way I always do, us in her bedroom, me lying across the bed while she casually folds laundry. Talk to me. Tell me what to do.

  Mom smiles and pauses at pairing socks to stroke my hair, but she doesn’t answer.

  And so I recite the Promises to myself, because they’re the only thing I know for certain anymore.

  13 days before

  The next day, the heavy feeling in my stomach dissipates into quiet anger. I’ve been avoiding Jonas—he’s called seven times, but I sent them to voice mail, and when I talk to Ruby, I hurry her off the phone. How can I talk to either of them about anything but the fact that Jonas slept with Anna Clemens? How am I supposed to explain why it bothers me when even I don’t understand?

  Dad is sitting at the dining room table when I clunk down the stairs in my pajamas. “We have to make goodie bags. The lady who was supposed to won a trip to Cabo off the radio and doesn’t have time to do them,” he says upon seeing me. He rubs his temples and yawns.

  “Goodie bags? Is the cake and dress and ball not enough of a prize?” I ask.

  I’m almost surprised to be reminded of the ball—Jonas and Anna have taken the priority position in my head to the point where I can’t focus on much else.

  “It won’t be so bad,” Dad says, a poor attempt at cheerfulness. “There’s a catalog with all sorts of Princess Ball stuff in it. We can just pick it out and put it in bags. We’ll have to get it rush-shipped, though….”

  I sigh and sit down at the other end of the table. “All right.” Dad slides the catalog across the table to me.

  “And…” he begins again.

  “Not more,” I groan.

  “We have to come up with a symbolic activity. Something that shows the, um… bond… between the fathers and daughters.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s different every year. Like, at some balls, the father and daughter actually exchange rings,” he says, coughing a bit. I flinch, so he tries another route. “There’s also a thing where the fathers stand on either side of an aisle holding up swords, and you put down a white rose—”

  I blink. “Swords?”

  “Awfully medieval, isn’t it? I’m not sure programmers are supposed to even touch swords,” my dad says, and I laugh a little, then pause.

  “What did Mom do at hers?”

  Dad inhales and looks down. “If I remember correctly, I think she said they all read a poem or excerpt aloud. Something they thought symbolized their relationship with their father. We joked around about it all spring, our friends, because your mom said she was going to read something from a romance novel as a joke.”

  “Did she?”

  Dad laughs a little. “No, because she was afraid they wouldn’t realize it was a joke, and her father would get arrested. I don’t think she ever really planned on doing it.”

  “What did she read from, then?”

  He thinks for a moment. “To Kill a Mockingbird. But I don’t remember which passage.”

  I try to remember the book, try to channel my mom and figure out which line she would have chosen, but all I can remember is failing the test on it in ninth grade. It makes me feel guilty, makes my stomach twinge.

  “What if we did that, then? The readings?” I say.

  “Sounds good. Well, then. After we make the goodie bags, I confirm the cake order, and we go to that second dance lesson, I’d say we’re finished, Shelby. Except the questionnaire—we’re supposed to go over those….”

  “Right… yes.” My questionnaire isn’t entirely complete—to be honest, I’ve hardly thoug
ht about it lately.

  “Is…” Dad looks at his hands, takes a long swig of orange juice. “Is everything okay? We don’t have to share the questionnaires if you don’t want to….”

  My eyes widen a bit in surprise—well spotted, Dad. I’m not sure he’s ever been that tapped in to my mood before. I open my mouth, try to find a way to explain without actually explaining. I’m not horrified by the idea of talking to Dad anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to spill all the details of Jonas and Anna, much less how I found out about them. “It’s not the questionnaires. Just some stuff with Jonas,” I finally say.

  “Like what?” Dad asks, and his voice is so real, so curious, that I can’t imagine not answering.

  “I found out he was dating this girl from school and didn’t tell me.” When I say it like that, it sounds so stupid. I half expect Dad to laugh or shrug it off.

  “Oh,” Dad says instead, nodding seriously. “Have you asked him about it?”

  “No,” I say. “I’ve been avoiding it, really.”

  Dad frowns. “You can’t just hold that in. You’ve gotta be honest with the people you love.”

  Wow. Love. The word leaves his mouth so easily that I inhale, unsure what it means. Does he think I’m in love with Jonas? Is that why I feel so betrayed? Am I in love with him and just didn’t realize it?

  Whoa. I guess deep down, I must have known that was a possibility—why else would Anna’s news bother me so much? But thinking it so directly makes it different, makes it possible. Makes me think it might be true.

  “You think I love Jonas?” I ask Dad faintly.

  Dad raises his eyebrows, surprised. “I mean, he’s your best friend. I assume you love your best friend.”

  “Oh.” Platonic love, that’s what he meant. “Right. Of course I love him.” There’s never been any doubt that I love Jonas in that regard. Though now I can’t shake the wonder: Are my feelings stronger than even I thought?

  “That’s my advice—for what it’s worth, anyway,” Dad says. “Your mom had to tell me the truth about how she felt. I’d never have believed she could love me if I hadn’t heard it from her.”