Not So Pure and Simple: Chapters 23–31

I used to wish for the clock to speed up so I could leave the oblong Flounder Fingers and Cod Crisps behind.

The straw dispenser could never be more than half empty. The condiment cubbies beneath the counter could not be in disarray.

Not only was I rocking the NFL coach-style headset, I’d donned the FISHto’s parka, crimson like our swashbuckling mascot’s waistcoat, because Virginia was acting appropriately seasonal for once, and opening the window for each order was like cracking the airlock on a ship in frigid space.

The texts went on like that for the better part of an hour. Her responses slow and erratically spaced.

“I think she enjoys watching me grovel. She’s grinning a lot as I do her various chores while her dad works his evening shifts. I’ve done the dishes, raked the leaves, cleaned the gutters.”

On my way to the exit, I spotted him and his crew in conversation with the sergeant that oversaw the JROTC. Though he flicked glances my way, he couldn’t stop me without going AWOL or whatever.

We had an altercation.

“Cressie’s home?”
“FaceTime,” Dad said, holding his phone like a talisman. “Our family meetings are high-tech now.”

Y’all caught on faster than I did, because the replies were harrowing, but not surprising. Like “TaKeisha5219’s” story about the strange guy who hopped into an Uber with her before she could close the door, because she was so beautiful.

In every one of them a man felt entitled to a woman’s time, attention, body because...reasons. And to appease their entitlement, we get left with scars.

It’s the other gender that seems ignorant to their toxic colonization of a woman’s right to breathe, and sunshine, and solace.

What was insatiable nymphomania before was now bad acting.

Idle hands were the devil’s playground.

Her gaze angled up and over my head, perusing the menu.

That last bit was flat. Monotonous. Lacking any of the inherent joy of most things out of Sister Vanessa’s mouth.

[quick cut—removing the footage of me hyperventilating—the video resumed]

She said, “Seems like straight As gives you clout around here.”

“I’m all for getting y’all churched up, but are you sure you don’t want to try the AGAPE Church over in Simonsberg?”

“Nope,” Cressie said, “First Missionary today. We can try whatever church you want after.”
Jesus, Cressie. That didn’t sound ominous at all.

A city destroyed. A wife turned to salt. All sorts of implications that trash people have used for centuries to justify oppression, and racism, and homophobia, and misogyny.

I opened my eyes and watched a lone moth lurch up and down toward the pulpit.

After another family meeting—low-tech, face-to-face, immediately after that final First Missionary service—we decided we’d do a bit of a church hunt. Different towns, different denominations, all within a half hour or so of Green Creek.

“Will Pastor Newsome be a problem?”
“If he was still involved. I’ve been told a new religious liaison will be joining the curriculum committee. Vanessa Newsome. You know her?”

“Don’t say ‘better late than never.’ It’s trite, and you can be more refined than that.”

“Don’t say ‘better late than never.’ It’s trite, and you can be more refined than that.”

We picked up Qwan first, rocking his black pants, purple paisley jacket, and black-on-black Jordan Elevens.

Angie next, her purple sequined mermaid dress expertly coordinated with his ensemble.

We ran into Jameer almost immediately, looking dapper in a maroon tux with black lapels.

After a circuit around the room, Angie materialized, grabbed Qwan by his jacket sleeve, and dragged him into the next dance battle.

“You finally read Tower of Babel?”
“I did not. I read Kingdom Come. Why do they name so many of the books after Bible stuff?”
“Gravitas.”