This Little Light

by Lori Lansens

  We didn’t say anything more until we neared Sacred Heart, and that’s when Sherman sighs and goes, “Jinny Hutsall seems like a real sweetie. You could learn a thing or two from her.”

  A sweetie? Learn a thing or two? Little did he know all the things I could learn from Jinny Hutsall. I kinda wanted to tell him what I knew about Jinny Hutsall and see if he’d still call her a sweetie. I thought if I had to listen to him breathing in the seat beside me for one more second I’d drive into a wall.

  I was shaking when I pulled up beside the white limo in the parking lot beside Sacred’s Grand Ballroom, but tried to act casual when I rejoined my girls. Fee was antsy even then, come to think about it.

  I whispered to her, “Can you believe I had to drive with the Sherminator?”

  “That was stupid, but whatever.”

  “Whatever for you. You weren’t the one left behind.”

  “You weren’t left behind, Ror. You’re here. Don’t be all like that tonight,” Fee said.

  “Like what?”

  “You-ish.”

  It was only hours ago, and with all that happened afterward it should feel like a blur, but I remember every detail from the second we walked into the ballroom—the twinkling fairy lights strangling the pillars near the stage, the flames from hundreds of candles dancing on either side of the long aisle where we’d stand to take our vows, the bleached tablecloths and gleaming dinner plates, snowy roses in porcelain vases and clouds of pale gardenias on pedestals around the dance floor. Girls in gowns. Celestial. But even before anything went wrong, I could sense a vein of malice slicing through the whiteness of it all, hiding, like a razor blade in snow.

  Right away Sherman noticed that the photographer had just set up in a corner of the room and there was no one yet in line. We could be first. Just the way he likes it. So he dragged me over to the booth, where the guy posed us in front of the romantic waterfall backdrop. Sherman was positioned behind me and I could feel his breath on the top of my head. The photographer told my father to get closer. Which he did. And to wrap his arms around my waist. Which he did. The photographer told me to fold my hands over Sherman’s. Which I did not. The photographer told us to smile. Which Sherman did. Snap. It was over in a second. That picture is all over the Internet now. And my face says it all.

  Our portrait taken, Sherman started scouting the room for Warren Hutsall. Despite what he said, I knew my father wasn’t there to bond; he was there to network. He patted my arm and said he’d just be a minute and why didn’t I go find the girls. Standing there, watching him walk away? I wished he were dead. It’s not that I wanted him to die. It’s just, it’d be a comfort to be able to grieve the loss of him officially, and get a few casseroles and some trays of coconut squares outta the deal. The father I knew is dead, for real, and I’m gonna take a pass on a relationship with the man he’s become.

  I wish Shelley could take a pass too, instead of trying to reel him back to who he used to be, or whatever she thinks she’s doing when they fight on the phone. When this is all over, I’m gonna find a way to convince my mother that she needs to have a funeral for her marriage, find a job outside the house and put a freaking profile on Tinder.

  Brooky had gone off hand in hand with Big Mike to check out a display of photographs taken by the official photographer on orientation night a few weeks earlier. Mr. Ro and Zara were making plates at the appetizer buffet. Fee and Delaney were waiting in the photo line for daddy/daughter, but Tom Sharpe wasn’t with them. I couldn’t see where Jinny’d gone. So I parked myself at one of the cocktail tables near the back of the room, watching, like I do.

  Jagger Jonze was in a corner of the room, set apart in his T-shirt and jeans, taller than the other men. Right beside him was Tom Sharpe, his rosacea face blooming from the neck of his white tuxedo, his mouth moving a mile a minute. Figured he was prolly pitching the Reverend on the silver Maybach in the showcase at his dealership, like he’d done with Big Mike the week before.

  Jinny slithered up behind me, going, “Are you watching the fashion parade?”

  I didn’t like what she implied. “Yeah.”

  “Stay here. I’ll get us something from the appi table.”

  I figured she’d bring back a plate of cheese and crackers or something, but she came back with these three little ganache ball thingies in a paper napkin. Whatever. Jinny sunk her teeth into one and had an orgasm, but I said no thank you, because I was just so sick of following Jinny Hutsall’s lead. She pushed, “You have to try one, Rory.”

  I did not have to try one.

  Just then Fee swished over to the table looking less than ecstatic in her beautiful gown. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” She saw the chocolate balls on the plate, grabbed one and popped it in her mouth, hardly chewing before she swallowed. Then she grabbed the other one and did the same.

  I could see Jinny was annoyed that I hadn’t eaten one of the stupid chocolate balls. She didn’t seem to care that Fee ate two. When Dee and Zee and Brooky eventually joined us, she didn’t offer to go get ganache thingies for them. I didn’t think that much of it at the time. We just stood at the little table waiting for the festivities to start, watching all the virgins waltz in with their dads, listening to Jinny snark.

  “Look at that one with the braids. She must know we can totally see her huge areolas through that polyester disaster. Does she think that’s sexy? Reverend Jagger hates that.”

  Um. No. Jagger doesn’t hate that, was all I could think. Those big nips would prolly, literally, make him spoo in his jeans. I tried to catch Fee’s eye, but she was staring at the floor.

  Jinny looked like a goddess in her gossamer gown. Minimal makeup, soft updo. Next to Feliza Lopez—just my opinion—the most beautiful virgin there. Why couldn’t Jinny just leave everyone else the fuck alone? I definitely wondered what she’d say about me if I walked away.

  We daddies and daughters from Oakwood Circle were going to sit at the head table with the Reverend Jagger Jonze, which made all of the other girls hate us, which is not always a terrible feeling. I mean, if I’m being honest, when you’re hated on for being rare, or having something special, it kinda makes you feel legit. When we were called to go take our seats, Jagger Jonze did not look any of us—except Jinny Hutsall—in the eye. I wanted to ask the girls if they’d noticed, but discussion about Jagger Jonze had become verboten after what happened at the Hutsalls’ on orientation night.

  The dads didn’t know anything about that, though. As far as they were concerned, Jagger Jonze was the perfect bro. He could talk sports, music, economics, politics and God, and when a guy goes to the bathroom, Jonze will not be hitting on his daughter or wife or sister. His celibacy is part of what makes him so appealing.

  Fee leaned over and whispered to me that her stomach felt weird, and I thought maybe she was sad or whatever about her real father not being there. I wondered if I should offer to drive her home, but just then Jagger Jonze grabbed his guitar and jumped up on the stage to sing “Thank God for American Girls” as throngs of virgins gathered around his designer high-tops.

  The Hive hung back at the edges of the crowd, all except Jinny, who stormed the stage with the rest, singing along at the top of her lungs. The rest of us, without discussing it, kept our distance. None of us, well, except Jinny, I guess, could see the Reverend as anything more than a fraud, not to mention a freak. On orientation night—well, Gloryentation is what he called it—the rehearsal for the virtue ceremony, Jagger Jonze showed the Hive who he really is.

  But I didn’t know that when I first agreed to the whole AVB thing. I was jumping off the cliff just to go along with my friends. Stupid. Just like Shelley always said. I do suffer from fear of missing out, but more than that, I’ve been suffering from fear of losing my best friends to Jinny Hutsall. Look what happened tonight, with Brooky and Delaney and Zara. I mean, it didn’t happen overnight, but it did happen over time. I’d been right to worry.

  Reverend Jagger Jonz
e must be stopped. To save the world from his music, and from other, darker things that I will definitely be writing about. I’m done being quiet about liars and frauds.

  Tonight at the ball he debuted a new song, “Marry Me, Merilee.” ‘Nuff said. When the screaming and applause died down, it was time to take the chastity vow. Fee was looking really pale at that point, but she gave me a thumbs-up.

  We made two long lines on either side of the white-carpeted aisle—daddies on one side, daughters on the other. Baby brides and daddy grooms lit by romantic flickering candlelight. Reverend Jagger instructed our fathers to reach across the aisle and take our hands. Tom Sharpe turned so he could take Fee’s hand in his left and Delaney’s in his right, then whispered to my father, standing beside him, “We are favored, brother. Praise be.”

  My father nodded. I tried not to wince.

  I couldn’t really look at Sherman. The whole pledge thing made me itchy, but honestly, I thought if I looked at him, saw a hint of the daddy I used to know, the one I still kinda ache for, I might start bawling and never stop. I just wanted to get the vows done, not eat the dinner, make some mental notes for my AVB blog and go home. I kept thinking of my mother’s words. My whole life feels like a lie.

  Fee and I squeezed fingers before we recited the puerile—that’s what Shelley called it—pledge we’d memorized in the weeks leading up to the ball:

  “I vow to respect my Father in heaven. I vow to respect my father on earth. I vow to respect the body He gave me. I vow to treat ME” (this is where we covered our hearts with our palms) “like I have worth. I vow to save, till the day I’m wed, my virtue for my marriage bed. To stay chaste in my heart and pure in my soul. Father, keep me safe and whole.”

  At this point we stopped to embrace our fathers before we said the final lines: “You’ll always be my daddy. I’ll be your baby girl. One day you will share me. Until then I’ll wear your pearl.”

  Fee looked nervous, or maybe it’s just because she was sick. She blinked to hold her focus on Mr. Tom as the dads said their vows, also in unison.

  “I vow to raise you with the Lord our God, and Jesus Christ His son. I vow to head a wholesome home, free from temptation. You are my light. You are my love. And I promise heaven up above, that I’ll keep you pure as the driven snow, till the day I have to let you go. I’ll always be your daddy. You’ll be my baby girl. One day I will share you, but until then you’ll wear my pearl.”

  Here the dads put these sweet little pearl rings on our wedding fingers. But as I said, Fee’s ring wouldn’t go on. It became a bit of a thing, as Jagger Jonze saw Mr. Sharpe was having trouble and paused the ceremony while he tried and failed, and finally just handed the ring to Fee, looking super-annoyed.

  There’s been a shit-ton of Twitter talk about the symbolism of the pearl rings. One user said our daddies should have given us pearl necklaces instead of pearl rings because we’re a bunch of incestuous cunts. His tweet included a link to pearl necklace images. I didn’t get the reference, so I clicked. In case, like me, you don’t know either, the term pearl necklace describes a beaded string of jizz ejaculated onto another person’s body, often the face or neck. According to the pics? Accurate description.

  The Manhattan cocktails Warren Hutsall served at the house beforehand, along with the free-flowing bar at the ball, had got most of the dads pretty sentimental. Big Mike hugged Brooky, sniffling with pride. Mr. Rohanian welled up and hugged Zara too. Tom Sharpe tried to hug Delaney, but she made a face and slipped out of his arms. Fee went to hug Mr. Sharpe, but before she could, he turned to grab a fresh cocktail from a waiter with a tray. Sherman and I just looked at each other.

  The ball. The gowns. My father. The pearl ring. The whole thing. I’m an asshole. I’m a Calabasshole. And just to be clear: I don’t think all people in Calabasas are odious. Not at all. Not by a long stretch. It’s just, when you mix wealth and privilege and religion, and isolation from the real world, I mean, when people actually believe they deserve their shit, they’re gonna tend to skew dickish.

  Holy shit.

  Just heard something, and it wasn’t the wind. There’s a truck on the road, and it’s coming this way.

  I can barely catch my breath. This just happened…

  The noise I heard? I jumped up and looked out the window just as this dark pickup comes swerving around the bend and pulls into the gravel drive of the trailer next door. The sound of the truck woke Fee up, and she’s all feverish and confused, and like, “What the fuck, Ror?!” I had to put my hand over her mouth and remind her where we were. Ball. Bomb. Bounty. Shed. Shh.

  We squeezed each other’s fingers blue as the truck door creaked open and slammed shut and a man got out, cursing in Spanish. I watched his shadowy figure stumble toward the trailer. Was this the “him” Javier warned us about? The owner of the black dog? I mean, you don’t own a dog like that unless you’re a scary fuck yourself. The guy ripped at the blue tarp strung up over the porch and the whole thing came loose, blew away and got snagged on a dry bush near his truck.

  The guy cursed some more, and fell up the stairs, and turned the knob on the door a bunch of times before finally pushing his way inside. He started calling into the trailer, mad as fuck, going—“Perro! PERRO!” Fee tried to stand up so she could look out the window too, but her legs wouldn’t hold her. I told her it was just the drunk neighbor calling for his dog, who was apparently named Perro, which actually means “dog.” Original.

  “Perro! Perro! Te mataré! I’ll kill you,” the guy yelled, and I’m seriously afraid he’s gonna kill that poor dog. Then the trailer door opened and he was back outside, calling, “Perro. Perro! Cabrón! Ven acá. Come here, you shit fucker!” In the moonlight, I could see his bluish form lurching toward the shed. I ducked, and Fee and I listened to the sound of his boots on the gravel, then sloshing through the tall needle grass. Fee clapped the laptop shut so he wouldn’t see the light through the window. I lunged to brace the door.

  The drunk guy was still shouting for Perro, and was so near I could hear the spit flying from the corners of his mouth, but before he could reach the shed, a distant crash came from inside the Airstream. Perro? The wind? The man stopped and cursed some more, then wheeled and wove his way back through the weeds.

  I peeked out the window just in time to see him go inside the Airstream and slam the door behind him. Fee whispered thanks to God and meant it. I’m glad she has God. I totally support her delusion.

  Our relief didn’t last long, though. The man started cursing again, and there was a thumping sound and then some banging, and I could see the whole Airstream rocking. We heard more thudding, and shouting, and then this awful whimpering that stopped suddenly. This time the quiet didn’t feel like a relief. Did he kill that dog? Like, kick him to death?

  Fee grabbed my leg and said, “When we go, we’re taking Perro with us.”

  * * *

  —

  The TV is still on in the Airstream, but otherwise it’s been quiet over there for a while. No movement. The lights in Javier’s cabin didn’t come on with all the drunk guy’s drama. Javier must be a deep sleeper.

  Fee’s passed out again. Ragged breathing. Fuck. I’m still scared, but I’m gonna go out there. I have to get her some water. Soon. I just wanna give the drunk guy time to pass out too. Guess I don’t have to worry about Perro attacking me now.

  Each time I go back online, which I just did, I wanna freaking scream. How can we defend ourselves against God? Apparently groups of Christian Crusaders are now mobilizing from coast to coast declining the bounty. They wanna capture us for the sole purpose of bringing light to the Cause, by which they mean Anti-Abortion—they actually believe two teenaged girls from a Calabasas Christian school are involved in the Red Market. The hard-core faction of the hard-core faction say God has spoken, and that we must die. So we’re being hunted by people who hear God’s voice telling them to kill us. Fucking terrifying. Same fuckers who mock the Muslim suicide bombers, who kill for their c
ause and the reward of seventy-two virgin angels in the sweet hereafter. Crusaders. Fuck. They gave themselves that name even though they must know history. The Crusades were all about violence and hate.

  The pendulum people always talk about started swinging hard and high around the time I was in sixth grade. I’d listen to my parents’ conversations at the dinner table, and the news they had on 24/7, and we girls hung on all the celebrity accusations and #MeToo confessions just like everyone else. Then came all the abortion stuff. Fetal heartbeat restrictions. Counseling restrictions. Ultrasound requirements. Near bans and outright prohibitions.

  So basically, I started middle school, got my period, some gnarly pimples, started to see the world through my gender and to question my default Christianity. My hormones fucked with my faith.

  I know I can be too much with all my opinions, and my cursing, and I’m aware that my friends aren’t always ready for or interested in my tirades about women’s rights, especially abortion, and black lives and immigrant issues, or whatever.

  In seventh grade, Delaney, who’s the most tranque of us all because she takes twenty milligrams of her antidepressant every morning, called me relentless. The word had been on our vocab test. Relentless. Too true. I never shut up. I never give up. I ask too many questions. I’m a contrarian. So I started my blog, This Little Light.

  I had my mother’s full support, though she did insist on reading everything before I posted. My first post was actually inspired by Shelley, and a conversation she had with Aunt Lilly about Tarana Burke, the black woman who launched the #MeToo hashtag a decade before Hollywood got woke. Aunt Lill and Shelley had agreed that you can’t talk about the oppression of women without acknowledging the spectrum of suffering of women from other cultures and races. When I said, “So this black woman started it, but the world only listened when movie stars spoke out?” Shelley clapped her hands and said, “Maybe that can be your first blog.” She helped me research, and she read it when I was done, but I wouldn’t let her edit. I needed to own my words. Still do.