Purity (22 page)

“We’re sitting there,” Dad says, pointing to the table with the pastor. “The whole planning committee is.”

I take my seat while Dad does a lot of handshaking. The table is covered in champagne glasses that are full of sparkling white grape juice, according to the bottle near the middle of the table. White rose petals are strewn about, and a little paper centerpiece with the
31st Annual Princess Ball
logo rests in the center.

“We’re about to start the readings, right before dinner is served. Did you have a hard time choosing your passage, Shelby?” Pastor Ryan asks.

“I did,” I confess, “but I finally chose one.”

“Excellent—oh, wow, looks like it’s time to get started,” Pastor Ryan interrupts himself. Dad sits down beside me as Pastor Ryan makes his way to the stage. I take a long sip of my grape juice. I can’t believe this is finally happening.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Pastor Ryan says from the stage. He’s talking into a microphone attached to a podium surrounded by so many white roses that I fully expect to see them on some sort of endangered plants list tomorrow. The chatter of the ballroom dies down. “Welcome to our thirty-first annual Princess Ball!”

There’s an explosion of cheering, and I think I hear Mona’s voice above the rest. It settles down as Pastor Ryan holds up his hands.

“I’m excited, too! Fathers, daughters, you’ll all be so proud, so happy that you came here tonight. That you’re taking
a vow, making a commitment to each other that will last long after you’ve grown out of those dresses, ladies.

“But before we get this under way, I’d like for the daughters to come up here…” he waits until we stand, “… come up here and form a line. Fathers, each daughter has found a line from a poem, a book perhaps, a play, something that she feels represents your relationship, or the importance of the relationship between fathers and daughters in general.”

I try to get near the back of the line, but girls keep moving and readjusting to stand near their friends. To my dismay, Mona bounds up to stand by me. She’s wearing her mother’s pearls and a bright grin.

The first girl steps up to the microphone—she’s vaguely familiar from school. She’s clutching a slip of paper, which she unfolds, hands shaking a little. What is she nervous about? About messing up? Embarrassing herself? Embarrassing her father?

I look out into the audience, wondering if I’ll be able to pick her father out from the sea of men. I’m surprised by how easy it is, especially once she begins to read—a quote by Sigmund Freud. Her dad is the one beaming, the one watching her like he’s never been so proud, all over a tiny little line. It makes me smile.

The line shifts forward as the next girl steps up. It’s easy to pick out her father, too, easy to see who it is who loves her. I wonder if she knows what I can see from here, that he’ll love her if she messes up or falls down the stage or whatever.
That all the fathers here love their daughters like that. Mine included.

Mona next. She shimmies up her dress before stepping into the lights and pulling out a card. Hers is the longest reading yet, a passage from Shakespeare about the importance of honoring one’s father, filled with lots of dramatic pauses. She gives a little curtsy before stepping offstage.

Honor your father—it sounds so archaic, but I guess it’s pretty much the same as Promise One:
Love and listen to my father.
I glance at the audience, looking for Dad. He’s smiling at me.

He’ll love me no matter what happens. No matter what I vow. I kept the Promises for Mom, yet here I am, planning to fake a Promise to Dad? Planning to lie to him, when the truth is, he’s going to love me no matter what I decide about my own purity? It’s the first time I’ve thought of a loophole as a lie, but really… that’s all it is.

“Shelby, it’s your turn,” someone hisses behind me.

“Huh? Oh!” I step up to the podium slowly, squinting in the light. I can’t see anyone in the ballroom. It reminds me of how people with near-death experiences describe looking at heaven, only there’s nothing warm and peaceful about this light. I unfold the scrap of paper with my passage on it, crumpled from being death-gripped.

Just read it. Hurry, read it and get off the stage.

But even though my lines are right in front of me, all I can think of is what Dad told me.
You’ve gotta be honest with the people you love.

Someone coughs nervously, and I realize I’ve been staring at the light for too long.

“All… um… all girls…” I stop. There’s something I want to say more than this.

“I’m… um… I’m supposed to read this passage from a book.” There are a few scattered, confused claps from within the light, but I shake my head and they fall silent.

“But my dad said something about being honest the other day, and I think that’s what I want to say instead of this. I want to be honest about… um… what I learned during this whole Princess Ball… thing.”

People shift uncomfortably, me included.

“And that’s that… vowing to be close to your father isn’t enough. You have to actually do it, because a promise has power only when you
decide
to keep it. Being close to your father or living without restraint or promising to be pure, it’s all your decision. And maybe you’ll decide to live a pure life or maybe you won’t, maybe it’ll be something in between—but you’ve gotta be honest with the people you love. Making fake promises while wearing a fancy dress… that isn’t enough. Promises take more work than that.”

I breathe deeply.

I fold up my paper.

And I step down from the podium.

If this were a movie, there’d be thunderous applause right about now—I mean, that was a semi-kick-ass speech if you ask me. Instead, everyone stares. Some of the girls lean toward their fathers nervously as I walk past, like they might
catch my crazy. Mona half giggles in her fluffy marshmallowlike dress.

And then I see Dad.

He’s still sitting at the front table with the rest of the committee. I can’t see him clearly first, my eyes still adjusting to the change from bright stage lights to the dim ballroom. As he comes into view, I scramble to interpret the expression on his face. Yeah, he’ll love me no matter what I do, but that doesn’t mean I could blame him for being angry, or embarrassed, or some lethal combination of the two—after all, I just negated some of the Princess Ball’s validity, the purpose of everyone sitting at our table, of making the vows, his purpose as coordinator…. I can’t sit down at that table right now—I have to get out of here. Dad rises as I pass him and follows me out the door as another girl gets up to read her carefully prepared passage.

*   *   *   *

It’s oddly silent out here in the hallway, and the rustling of my dress sounds like little explosions as we make our way down the short hallway and into the church classroom with the Picture Book Jesus paintings. Dad waits for me to speak, and when I don’t, he inhales deeply.

“That was an
interesting
speech, Shelby.”

“I know,” I answer. “Don’t be mad. It’s not that I don’t think the Princess Ball matters—it does, I just… I feel like
there’s more to it, and not everyone understands that, so I had to say something….”

“I’m not mad,” Dad says slowly. He pauses a long time, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “In that questionnaire, the one it seems we forgot to go over, I said that some of my favorite memories and experiences with you were planning this ball. Because there wasn’t much before that. Not really.”

“Actually, I sort of read your questionnaire,” I admit, lowering my chin. Tonight’s menu is guilt, guilt, and more guilt.

“Oh,” Dad says, though he doesn’t seem upset—in fact, he seems sort of surprised. “Was there anything in there… I mean… well, was it okay?”

“There was one thing,” I say. “There was this one question about you helping me live a pure life. You put a question mark. I don’t get it.”

Dad clears his throat. “Are you worried I put a question mark when what I really meant was no?”

“Not exactly. I mean, maybe—”

“Because that wasn’t the debate—whether or not I would help you. The reason I put the question mark was that I didn’t know if you’d want my help. I’d…” Dad turns a little pink around the edges. “I’d help you with whatever you wanted, Shelby. But it has to be something you want. I always assumed you’d just tell me one day what you needed me for. Actually…” Dad shuffles his feet for a moment. “I blame your mom.”

“For what?”

“Right before your mom died, she made me make these three promises. I thought she was just talking out of her head—she was on so many medicines—but I agreed to them anyway.”

All the air seems to have left the room. My eyes widen.

“The first one was to listen when you came to me with something,” Dad says. “So I guess I just figured you’d come to me outright. That I wouldn’t have to go to you.”

I smile. “What was the second?”

“The second was to love as much as possible. Which is easier said than done, sometimes,” Dad says thoughtfully. “Anyway, Shelby—I’m not mad. You tried to talk me out of the ball early on. I should have realized you just didn’t want to do it, instead of believing all that business about it being finals week and you not liking formal dresses.”

I hesitate. “What was the third promise?” I ask, wondering if Dad was supposed to be living a life without restraint, too.

Dad blushes a little. “To get rid of the shirt I was wearing at the time. She said it made me look like a decaying tomato.”

We laugh brightly, without worrying about being heard. When we finally compose ourselves a few moments later, we’re grinning.

“By the way,” Dad says, “what
were
you going to read?”

I look down at the piece of paper that’s still in my hand, now wet from my sweaty palms. I hold it out to him. It’s from
A Little Princess
. What can I say—if nothing else, it was the-matically
appropriate? It’s from the part of the movie where Sara Crewe stands up to the antagonist, a part I find impossible to not read in Mom’s voice.

I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics. Even if they dress in rags, even if they aren’t pretty, or smart, or young. They’re still princesses. All of us. Didn’t your father ever tell you that?

Dad reads the line, then nods. “I remember this. I remember your mom reading it to you.” I don’t answer, because I’m not sure what to say. Dad looks at the words affectionately for a moment, then continues. “I never really told you that, though, did I?”

“That I’m a princess?”

“Yes.”

I almost lie to spare his feelings, but after that big speech about being honest, I can’t bring myself to do it. “Maybe not in words, exactly, but… I get it. Now, anyway.”

“I should have said it specifically, though,” Dad says. “I’m sorry.”

I smile. “The narrator is eleven, I think. And she’s a little damaged. And my need to be called a princess in the literal sense has totally been fulfilled by this ball. Which, by the way—how about I’ll forgive you if we don’t have to go back in there?”

“You don’t want to finish the ball?”

“Not really.”

Dad sighs. “Me neither. Maybe it was planning it, but I’m over the whole thing. And I’ve been dreading that waltz
all week. But there is one thing we have to go back in for. It was supposed to be a surprise, but…”

“What is it?”

“I thought you’d like it. It’s in the ballroom, though. I don’t know if we’ll be able to see it now.”

“Are you kidding? We can sneak in!” I say, delighted. Dad, pulling some sort of Princess Ball prank. I have to know.

“Sneak in? It’s just by the door—”

“Even better.”

We make our way back to the ballroom. They’ve just starting eating, and the room is buzzing with caterers rushing around tables with semiwilted salads. It provides an excellent cover for slipping back inside. We duck down near a drink cart, out of the planning committee’s view.

Dad lifts a finger and points. I follow his direction to the cake. Perfect, tall, delicately iced. Staring at me from the side of the cake, drawn at the very bottom in thin icing, is R2D2, dancing with Princess Leia.

My mom was taken from me. But then, six years later, I ended up with a father I didn’t have before.

Despite the fact that we are no longer actually participating in the Princess Ball, Dad insists on staying to help clean up. We watch the rest of the ball from the closed-circuit television, eating snacks stolen from the church kitchen. The waltz is the best part—the sparkly white dresses of almost a hundred girls poof out as they whirl around in their fathers’ arms. Dad and I imagine them doing “Thriller” instead and laugh together, though I am kind of mad I spent two days learning to waltz only to miss the damn thing. By the time we get home, it’s just after midnight.

Lucinda is parked at the end of our driveway. I look to the door and see Jonas leaning against it, a tired expression on his face.

For the first time, my heart gets that fluttery feeling you read about in books, and I smile a little.

When Jonas realizes it’s our car pulling up, he rises. His eyes meet mine through the windshield, a long, silent conversation. He twirls a single yellow rose between his fingers.