Not So Pure and Simple: Chapters 13–18

I said, “Now you’ve got my number, too. We’ll be talking much more.” I raised my hand for the customary Purity Pledge high five.
She slapped my palm sheepishly.

When my initial adrenaline rush tapered, I realized my terror was unwarranted.

“No. There have been some directives passed along to me about what is and isn’t appropriate subject matter on school grounds.”

“You know the plan?” I asked Jameer, wanting no confusion over the explicit instructions I’d given him.

Qwan caught up to me in school, and risked his life by asking, “How was the bus?”
“Rolling purgatory. How the hell did you get here?”

Priority number one: a good dinner and alone time. If I nailed that, I could survive my carless weekend relatively unscathed.

Kiera sipped on the lemonade she ordered, then coughed, and coughed some more. Loud, hacking explosions while she kneaded her fist into her sternum trying to stave off the choking fit.

Colossus’s head cocked, the neutral facade he’d maintained cracked. “Stay out of this, Del. Ain’t none of your business.”

“No,” Kiera said, settling back into her seat, “he’s right. You’re not going to bully me into hearing your tired, trifling excuses. You should be at Taylor’s changing diapers.”

I conceded and said, “My sister took it.”

“I take it there will be no Kee-Lossus reconciliation then.”

Door chimes announced our entrance, and a bored-looking librarian with copious tattoos informed us of what we already knew.

She walked directly to the modest teen section, where signs done in colorful graffiti font identified which chunk of the alphabet each shelf held.

When I pushed through the door, I recognized the space fit the bodies nicely, but may have been too small for the Burton Brothers’ Axe body spray. I struggled to maintain normal breathing in a cloud of aerosol masculinity, and I wasn’t the only one, judging by the way others not-so-discreetly pressed hands to nostrils.

Jameer proposed we used Ralph’s Lakers cap as a repository for everyone to toss in more anonymous questions on torn slips of paper.

Tinny music secreting from Kiera’s earbuds was the only sound in the room.

I typed the question into Google, and immediately got links to several mental health and parenting sites. When I clicked on them, I didn’t like them. Many were sketchy, badly in need of updates.

Design aesthetics aside, there was no direct answer to the question—how could there be?—but the tone of the articles seemed really negative.

She gave a curt nod as if that cleared everything up.

The librarian popped in and I apologized profusely, assured her we weren’t going to be a problem, and when we were left to our own devices again, I said, “Maybe we should talk about that fashion show, before we kill each other.”

Mya’s bucket puttered out of the lot, leaving me and Jameer to recalibrate our plans.

“No comeback? I didn’t recruit you, Jameer. You came to me”—I mocked his prim voice—“‘Because Pastor won’t like it.’ What did that even mean?”

Some of the tension sloughed away.

Her bed was made, like, neatly, not the comforter snatched to the top of the mattress as if covering a cadaver.

Because I’m doing my sociology semester project on Modern Feminism versus Societal Mores.

“I heard about your hot date. Kiera’s nice, she wouldn't care that you rode a bike.” Her gaze was shrewd. “Am I right?”

Cressie went on, “Her videos are amazing. Timely and topical in a way that’s so compelling.”

I imagined her parents having discussed the possibility of me and their daughter getting into some lewd, X-rated behavior, then cracking up hysterically like naw, not him!

As if it was so ridiculous to believe me and Shi capable of anything beyond this platonic and lucrative arrangement.

As if it was so ridiculous to believe me and Shi capable of anything beyond this platonic and lucrative arrangement. I shook off the hurt and sealed us in, focusing on that crisp currency in my pocket.

There were mad results! Almost information overload. Pictures. Step-by-step instructions. A disproportionate amount of the pages focused on a rainy scene from some old movie called The Notebook.

Shianne’s condescending tone irked, so I gave her something hard to dispute.

“Your parents, they didn’t, like, I don’t know, take him to court?” Some of the Baby-Getter situations had become contentious that way. Lawyers, child support.

The old lady rocked a sleeping infant, and prodded her along with a flicking hand motion, the way people shoo flies.

Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity.

I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the Lord.”

The final words of Tavia’s confession were barely audible snivels.

It has to do with a group of young women who have been ridiculed and ostracized for arguably the most natural thing on the planet: giving birth.

It’s mad derogatory. The FemFam has heard me speak a lot on how we get labeled with the most demeaning things for simply existing in the same space as men, doing the same things men do.

We already know we can count on a healthy number of critics to keep shunning you, blaming you, denigrating you.