Purity (7 page)

“Sounds good. See you then.”

And we hang up. Was that all it took for me to schedule a LOVIN date?

Well, maybe LOVIN date. Who knows if he’ll actually
do
it. Who knows if I’ll actually be able to do it, for that matter. I sigh and stare at myself in the mirror. I can do this. It’s not a big deal. I speed-dial Jonas and flop onto the bed.

“Did you talk to him?” Jonas asks.

“Yep. We’re meeting up Sunday night. I was thinking I’d have my dad drop me off on the way home from dance class.”

“There are two things incredibly wrong with that sentence—one, your dad driving you to a sexcapade, and two, dance class?”

“I have to learn to waltz. Princess Ball thing,” I say. “But anyway—tomorrow night, can you take me to the grocery store? Target? Walmart? Some place like that?”

“Yeah, there’s a new video game I want to grab anyway. Why?”

“I’m going to need condoms,” I say. “And some new razors. Ruby sent me a text earlier threatening me with death if I didn’t shave my legs, and I’m all out.”

“Wait, seriously? I have to drive you to get condoms?”

“Either that or I try to buy them at a gas station by the school, and I don’t trust the ones that have been hanging behind the cashier for a year and a half.”

Jonas sighs. “Fine. After school.”

“Thank you, Jonas. Seriously. I owe you so big. Like, huge. Whatever you want.”

“Sure,” Jonas says, and I know he’s rolling his eyes at me. “I have to go.”

“To do what?”

“Play video games for four hours so I can forget about your imminent de-virginizing,” he says.

I laugh and we hang up, but as soon as the phone is off, my laughter stops.

Jonas said it. It’s real. I’m imminently going to be de-virginized.

Well, hopefully.

I lie back in bed and stare at the ceiling. When I was making lists with Jonas and thinking about panties and everything, it was just an idea, nothing more. But now there’s a date planned, a time, a person. This isn’t the way you’re supposed to lose your virginity. Not that I really know how you’re
supposed
to do it—marriage bed, one-night stand, backseat of a car—but still. I wish I could ask Mom what to do. Part of me even wishes I could ask Dad what to do—a small part, and a stupid part maybe, yet there it is. I wish someone knew the answers.

But my heart is more attached to the Promises than it is to my virginity. It’s not a big deal. I repeat the phrase over and over in my head until I’ve almost convinced myself.
Don’t think about it too hard, Shelby.
Like Ruby said—I’m not trying to make love. I’m just trying to get laid.

I hurriedly look around for something to occupy my mind and grab the questionnaire. What would Dad say if I just refused to finish it? No, no, it’d hurt his feelings. I don’t want that, even though this whole thing is his fault…. I sigh and grab the pink pen off my nightstand, then turn to the second page.

This is an easy one. We have nothing in common, except maybe that we loved Mom. I leave the answer space empty, then fold the questionnaire into crooked halves and throw it across the room.

The next day—the last day of school—Jonas is late getting to Lucinda in the afternoon. He’s the kind of guy who swings by the classrooms of his favorite teachers to wish them a good summer. By the time he makes it outside, I’m puddling in sweat and the parking lot is near empty.

“Sorry,” he says as he unlocks Lucinda. “So… am I taking you home?”

“Come on. It won’t take long.”

“Time is not my concern,” Jonas says. “It’s taking you to buy condoms for a one-night stand. It’s creepy.”

I ignore the comment as Lucinda struggles to get her air conditioner going. It’s just getting into high gear when we reach the nearest grocery store. I hurry to the pharmacy with Jonas trudging bitterly behind me.

My excitement fades when I see the pharmacist—an old, kindly looking man with half-circle glasses and a soft, pink face. He’s ringing up a mother holding a young boy, and before sliding the bag across the counter, he drops two green lollipops into it. The little boy grins, the pharmacist waves, and I’m pretty sure I’m in a real live drugstore commercial.

I take a detour by the cold medicines, a desolate aisle, given the ninety-three-degree temperature outside. I spy on the counter while I pretend to read the potential side effects of NyQuil. The condoms are in a locked case right underneath the pharmacy counter.

“What are you doing?” Jonas asks, glancing from me to the NyQuil and back again.

“They’re in a case! Why the hell are they in a case? Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Oh, no,” Jonas answers, crossing his arms. “I’ll drive you to get the condoms, but I’m not taking you on a tour of the area’s finest condom purveyors. Buy them here. You just have to ask the pharmacist for the key.”

My stomach is swirling. “No, no. What if he thinks I’m a whore? What if he says something? Oh, man, he looks like my grandfather. I thought this was just like buying Tylenol or something. I didn’t know there’d be a case….” I chew on my nail.

“Well, while you study the effects of NyQuil on nursing mothers, I’m going to buy some ice cream,” Jonas says, shaking his head. He moves to step away, but I grab his arm.

“Jonas, buy them for me. I’ll pay you and buy your ice cream.”

“If you’re ready to have sex, you’re ready to buy condoms. You’re on your own.”

“This is so unfair.”

“No, unfair is you keeping me from the ice cream section,” Jonas says. He tries to hide it, but I see tiny hints of a
smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t think I’ll do it. He thinks I’m going to chicken out.

Not a chance.

“Fine. I’ll buy them,” I say firmly, straightening my shoulders and flipping my hair back. Cool, confident, no big deal. Just buying some condoms. Just a normal grocery run. That involves condoms. I turn sharply on my heel and stride toward the waiting pharmacist, trying not to see too much of my grandfather in his wrinkled face. I focus on his white coat instead. My stomach twirls.

“How can I help you?” he asks warmly, folding his hands like he’s preparing to read me a bedtime story.

“I, um…” I rub my lips together. Jonas snickers behind me.

“Ineedthekeytothecase.” There. That wasn’t so bad. Cool. Collected.

“I’m sorry?” the pharmacist says, leaning closer and cupping a hand behind his ear.

“The case,” I repeat, my jaw tight. “I just need the key.” I jab my finger downward, indicating the locked glass case. What do they think these things are? Fine jewelry?

“Oh. Oh!” he answers. His pale blue eyes leave mine to focus on the worn counter. He grabs a green lanyard from the register and slides it toward me.

I duck down, jamming the tiny key into the case and yanking it open. The hinges squeal loudly, alerting everyone as far away as frozen foods that someone is planning on getting laid. There are neat little rows of boxes with bright coloring. My eyes scan over them, mind cluttering with words
like
intense
and
heated
and
tropical—
tropical? Is this a display of contraceptives or a line of fruity alcohols?

Footsteps behind me; a new customer blocks out the fluorescent lights and darkens the case. I grab the closest box, nearly crushing it with a death grip, and stand. My eyes flicker to the customer behind me—a young woman, belly bulging with pregnancy. God has a twisted sense of humor.

“All right, then,” the pharmacist says, still avoiding my eyes. He takes the now-crumpled box from my hands and swipes it across the register. The computer beeps angrily. “Hmm,” he says. “These aren’t ringing up.” He swipes it again. “Let’s see,” he says. “Oh! That’s right—these are the flavored ones. I have to key it in. How much are they?”

“I—” I pause, certain my hair is moments from igniting because of the heat rising off my face. “They’re—”

“Seven ninety-nine,” the woman behind me says. Her sweet, angelic tone doesn’t keep me from grimacing.

“Right, seven ninety-nine. Here you go, then,” the pharmacist says, stuffing the condoms into a paper bag before dropping in two lollipops on top of them. I hand over a crumpled ten-dollar bill and tap my foot, waiting for change. By the time I have the bag tucked under my arm, I’m fairly certain another hour has passed. I wheel around, eyes scouring the pharmacy for Jonas. He’s lit up in silent hilarity, grin hidden behind a hand clasped over his mouth.

“Oh, shut up,” I snip as we walk toward the door.

Sunday eventually rolls around, and before I can offer my virginity to Daniel Caulfield, I must bow at the altar of Madame Garba. Dad and I pull up to the dance studio after a long, silent car ride. We both stare at the door like we’re afraid a tutu-wearing monster might be lurking on the other side.

The door flies open, but instead of a fire-breathing monster, a crowd of women with their hair in tight buns floods out, all giggles and loud talking about dinner plans for the evening. With a deep breath, I walk inside.

“Which class?” Behind a wooden desk and in front of a wall covered with posters of ballroom-dance couples, a youngish woman taps a pencil against her lips with a bored glaze in her eyes, then repeats the question.

“Dad? Which class?” I ask.

“Waltz 101? We’re from the group doing the Princess Ball?” Dad says. I think he’s hoping the class is full or canceled; it’s definitely what
I’m
hoping. Unfortunately, the woman nods, takes Dad’s twenty-five dollars, then points to a room down the hall.

We weave down the hallway, past signed black-and-white photos of dancers, to a crowd of people—fathers and daughters—waiting outside the last room. The classroom is filled with elementary-school-aged kids prancing around to a Latin beat, way more comfortable with being partnered up than I would’ve been in fifth grade. The music ends, and the flashy teacher dismisses the class. They applaud politely. As they gather their things and file out into the arms of waiting, proud parents, our class meanders in.

The room smells of lemon cleaner laced with the underlying musty scent that all old buildings seem to possess. Unfortunately, there’s not much to
look
at in a dance room, other than yourself reflected nine zillion times in the mirror. Dad and I mostly stare at our feet, until I hear my name from across the room.

“Hi, Shelby!” a sweet voice calls out. I look in its direction and see a blond-haired, blue-eyed Barbie girl. Mona Banks.

“How are you? I haven’t seen you at youth group in ages!” she says. Her dad is right behind her; he and my dad shake hands cordially and make small talk.

“Yeah, I’m just… busy, you know?” I say. The tiny cross necklace she’s wearing glints proudly. If she had a theme song, it’d be “Jesus Loves Me.” Sung in rounds.

“Oh yeah, it’s tough to fit things in,” she says warmly. “We’ve been doing a lot with the downtown soup kitchen, and it’s been taking so much time.” See, this is why it’s impossible to hate Mona. She volunteers at soup kitchens. She came
to my house after Mom died and helped me clean my room. She probably finds orphaned kittens and bottle-feeds them on a weekly basis. But the fact that she’s this excited about God after seeing the soup kitchen, my mom’s coffin, and orphaned kittens makes her voice grating and her bouncy hair infuriating. Why doesn’t she feel let down, like me? Why doesn’t everyone?

Truth is, part of me is jealous of Mona. She believes what her Bible and pastor tell her, and so everything in her world makes sense. There’s just the complete, total confidence that God loves her. I wish I knew how she found that confidence, that certainty—how God is always there when she reaches out.

I sigh.

“I heard you and your dad are planning the whole Princess Ball!” she says brightly.

“Something like that. I’m just helping out here and there,” I say, finally forcing the corners of my mouth into a smile.

“It sounds so fun. I bet it’s just like planning a wedding,” she says. “All the flowers and dancing…”

I frown. “You know, it actually is like planning a wedding. How… weird.”
Weird
is the softest adjective I can come up with, but it isn’t exactly the one I want to use. I cringe when I remember seeing something in Dad’s stack of papers about a ring ceremony. Marrying Dad. Awesome.

“Let me know if you need any help,” Mona says. “I’ve been planning my wedding since I was, like, three. I have this idea with orchids….”

I never thought I would be so grateful to hear the words “Ladies and gentlemen, our waltz lesson begins now!”

While Mona goes back to her father, a tiny old woman makes her way to the front of the room. She has a cane, but doesn’t seem to really need it for balance, and wears a very tight black shirt that looks surprisingly good on her. She’s trailed by a young blond man who looks like he might be an underwear model. He sighs when he checks his watch. The room twitters into silence as the woman clasps her hands at her waist.

“I am Madame Garba,” she says, coughing, decades of cigarettes and a German accent in her voice, “and this is Waltz 101. Welcome.”