Purity (11 page)

“I was just thinking,” I say. “What about Adam? Didn’t he taste the fruit, too?”

“Yes…” Pastor Ryan nods and leans back in his chair, a studious look on his face. “What about him?”

“So, um, if he tried the fruit… shouldn’t guys be having Princess Balls, too? Or Prince Balls, I guess?” I didn’t mean the question to be
entirely
sarcastic, nor did I mean to say “prince balls,” but I really want to know why the hell guys aren’t stuck in this tomb of eternal virginity with us.

“Well, Shelby, luckily there just don’t seem to be as many temptations in the world for young men as there are for young ladies,” Pastor Ryan says, smiling. “But I think instead of focusing on why we haven’t invited boys to the ball, we should focus on why we have invited
you
. It’s so important that fathers and daughters understand their roles in each
other’s lives. I hope you leave today’s session with the sense that you and your father together have the armor to protect you from falling victim.”

I want to yell at him. I want to fight. Why does he always have to smile? Why is he always so calm? I wish he’d scream at me, so I could justify screaming back. It isn’t fair that he always has an answer, yet it’s never an answer that satisfies me. It isn’t fair that he and the rest of them can say, “God has a plan” and drop the issue, while I’m left wondering what the hell God’s plan is and why he won’t let me in on it. It isn’t fair that half the girls in this room don’t care about the vows, and the other half are Perfect Girls and Perfect Daughters and Perfect Believers who would never break them anyway.

It

isn’t

fair.

But instead of saying that, I stare at the poorly executed paintings of Jesus that line the room, letting my sizzling temper cool as Pastor Ryan talks. They’re big, blocky portraits of a porcelain-skinned, dark-haired Jesus cuddling lambs, offering a hand to children, waving an arm to create a rainbow. Picture Book Jesus, the one who’s easy to have faith in.

Mom never really read Bible stories to me. In fact, she never seemed all that into church—and before she got sick, Dad took me with him more out of habit than faith. So at home, she stuck to the classics:
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, Goodnight Moon, The Story of Ferdinand
, and, at least once every few months,
A Little Princess
. Sometimes, in
a bookless situation, she made up stories; other times we sang—my favorite song was that “Going On a Bear Hunt” thing.

We’re goin’ on a bear hunt!

We’re gonna catch a big one!

We’re not scared!

I’d repeat each line after her, making it a strange duet. It was the same every time—you come to tall grass, a wide river, a dark cave, and you always
can’t go over it! Can’t go under it! We’ll have to go through it!

Mom and I would go through the tall grass or wide river or dark cave or any number of obstacles with big, dramatic hand motions. It didn’t matter where we were—restaurant, waiting room, bookstore—she was never embarrassed to be going through a wide river with her giggly daughter. Dad would laugh and smile and act enthused by our bear-hunt tale.

It always ended the same way—we see the imaginary bear, then run back through the river, the cave, the tall grass. We wound up where we started, safe and together and happy, even if our hunt was fruitless.

I narrow my eyes at Picture Book Jesus. So much easier to believe in when I was little and he was just a nice man in a nice story. Just like it was easy to believe in a bear at the end of a make-believe hunt.

But now Jesus isn’t just a nice man. He’s part of the force that stole my mom. He’s the being I can never catch to blame, to hate, to believe in, to grab onto, because whenever I get
close I have to run back through the cave, the river, the grass, and start my journey all over again. And I have to do it all without a mom to guide me.

The only thing I leave the session with is a sense of certainty that Eve made a fair trade by eating that fruit. She traded paradise for knowledge. She wanted to know the truth about evil, about God, about sex, just like I do.

Way to go, Eve.

Pastor Ryan stands at the doorway, giving everyone high fives as we leave the classroom. His hand rests on mine a bit longer than everyone else’s, and there’s pity in his eyes. I ignore it and walk out.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe Eve did feel worthless for betraying God—maybe I’ll feel worthless if I have sex. But at least that way, God would be coming through the way everyone predicted. At least that way, I would know that the church’s version of God isn’t just a picture-book fantasy.

Which means I’d finally be able to confront the glorious, giving, benevolent God for not saving Mom.

The bakery isn’t far from Flying Biscuit. It doesn’t look like much—a converted house sandwiched between two lawyers’ offices. A tiny, cake-shaped bell tinkles as we walk in.

The shop is heavy with the scent of potpourri, a thick, sweet smell that sticks to the sides of my lungs. Dad adjusts his tie and coughs uncomfortably. I want to tell him that I don’t think a little cough is going to clear that odor from his throat, but instead I just shrug when our eyes accidentally meet.

“Hi! Welcome to Sweet Bakin’ Cakes!” a woman’s voice shouts above the sound of crackly classical music. I have no idea where this mysterious woman is—it’s impossible to see to the back of the shop because of the maze of giant cakes that adorn tables throughout. They’re huge and look like they’ve been carved rather than baked, boasting displays of perfectly smooth frosting and silk flowers. Most are white or ivory wedding cakes with tiny, poorly painted brides and grooms on the top, but there are a few that are more unusual—one that looks like it’s been pleated, one covered in polka dots, even one with paisley patterns drawn all over
it. I’m staring at a cake with plaid icing when the woman appears, swishing out from behind a sign that says
Let them eat cake
in lavender bubble letters.

The woman might also be made out of cake; her eyes and lips are covered in pink makeup that has a silver, frosted undertone, and her skin is layered with so much foundation that she must have spread it on with a frosting knife. She walks forward, ankles twisting dangerously in hot-pink heels. I glance at my dad and catch a hint of amusement on his face.

“Hi,” Dad says, reaching out to shake her well-manicured hand. “You must be Wanda? I called earlier—we’re here to sample cakes for the Princess Ball?”

“Oh yes! I love Princess Ball time,” Wanda cries, clasping her hands together. “Follow me, follow me.”

Dad almost runs into a seven-tiered wedding cake with pink frosting circles all over it, and I have to keep ducking under balloon displays. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice our struggle, however, and we finally reach the back of the shop. Windows overlook the parking lot, and three tiny café tables are set up and piled high with thick photo albums.

“Just have a seat here,” Wanda says, pulling out one of the café chairs, a white cast-iron contraption with a tiny seat and ornately curved back. I lower myself into it; Dad sinks into the other. While Wanda sorts through the photo albums, mumbling to herself, Dad and I desperately try to arrange ourselves so we aren’t sitting quite so close to each other. The kitchen table at home is vast, especially since the space that
used to hold three now holds only two; this tiny little table is meant for two tiny people, not two average-sized people and a rather plump woman.

“Now, I have twelve different varieties of cake and icing combinations for you to sample, and then we’ll select the style of cake,” Wanda informs us. She drops most of the photo albums on the floor with a resounding
crack
; Dad and I jump. Undeterred, Wanda slides the remaining album toward us. “Just start skimming through those. These are all our larger cakes, because this has to feed… how many is it, again?”

“We’re anticipating about two hundred,” Dad says. Wanda’s eyes fill with joy, and I think she’s clenching her teeth to keep from shouting.

“It’s wonderful to see young ladies excited about a dance with their fathers!” Wanda says. Dad and I share forced smiles. “Anyhow, look through those while I go grab the first few samples.”

And then she leaves, deftly maneuvering through the cakes before vanishing.

Dad taps his fingers for a moment, then slides his thumb under the photo album’s cover. The cellophane covering the photos crackles. I lean over, trying to look interested.

He turns a page. The air-conditioning kicks on, and the silk flowers on the nearest cake begin to tremble.

“This one is very… yellow,” Dad says, pointing to a cake that’s a highlighter shade. Its tiers are oddly shaped and it’s covered in violet flowers, so it looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book.

“Yeah,” I agree, and when I can’t think of anything else to say, I force a small laugh. This seems to ease Dad a little bit; he chuckles when we turn to a massive cake that’s covered in
Star Wars
figures drawn in icing.

“That’s actually kind of cool,” I say, turning the book so it faces me.

“I know. What would the rest of the committee do if we showed up at the ball with this?” Dad asks.

“May the force be with them,” I say, relieved when Dad laughs at my terrible joke. I continue, “What if we got that highlighter cake, but then had them put
Star Wars
drawings on it?”

Dad laughs and turns the page, then another. “And… maybe the topper from this cake?” he suggests, pointing to a cake topper of a couple dressed up as clowns.

“We could even have Darth Vader and Leia on top of the cake. You know, father and daughter?” I add.

Dad cracks up, his laughter brighter and louder than it’s been in years. He winds down from the fit and shakes his head, trying to regain control. “That’d be perfect—I didn’t know you’d watched the original
Star Wars
.”

“It’s impossible not to. They’re on TV every weekend,” I say with a shrug.

“We should watch them sometime,” Dad says quickly, and when the words leave his mouth, it’s like he remembers the suggestion should be more awkward. “I mean, if you want.”

“Sure,” I answer, and flip the page of the cake book
again. Wanda soon comes bustling back in, pushing a black cast-iron tea cart. It’s loaded with white plates that have miniature cakes, all immaculately iced and identical in size and shape. The poor man’s version of the dolled-up monstrosities outside.

“Hmm… where to begin…” Wanda says, waving a hand over her display of cakes. “Ah, yes!” She grins at me. “The princess cake! Seems like a good place to start for the Princess Ball! What was your name again, hon?”

“Shelby.”

“Ah, well, how about I call you Princess Shelby, then?” Wanda giggles, clearly not reading the look of horror on my face. “Anyhoo, this is our princess cake—white cake with cream-cheese frosting. That’s a creamy white, because we leave the egg yolks in. We can also do this in an almond flavor. Fairly popular for the Princess Ball, but keep in mind it’s just an option.” Wanda puts the plate in the center of the table and divides it into three slices with a silver knife. She then hands my father and me forks; we tentatively pick off tiny slivers of cake. I expect it’ll taste like the heavy perfume Wanda is wearing and tense my jaw as I take a bite.

It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. Seriously. The princess cake half melts in my mouth; the soft, buttery flavor of the cake blends seamlessly with the tangy cream-cheese icing. Its richness makes the chill from the air conditioner fade, like it’s warming me from the inside out. My dad’s eyes widen in matching delight; we make brief eye contact before greedily jumping back for a second taste. That
seems to thrill Wanda; she loads up her own fork, smearing her bright pink lipstick when she shovels a second bite into her mouth. My dad abandons all manners and sinks his fork into a piece so large he has to take a moment to balance it. I take a page out of his book and do the same when I go back for a third piece.

I’ve seen enough episodes of those wedding-planning shows with Ruby to know that I’m not really supposed to eat the entire slice. Nonetheless, my dad, Wanda, and I nearly decimate the princess cake. Which is when Wanda pulls out the Black Forest cake—devil’s food cake with cream-cheese frosting and cherries. Then the Italian wedding cake, which has amaretto frosting and almonds baked right in. Then German chocolate, then red velvet, then something decorated with raspberries, then something iced with a fudge ganache and sprinkled with coconut. Wanda brings out bottles of water as we continue on to lemon-raspberry torte and orange buttercream.

By the time we hit the last few, which are basics—chocolate/chocolate, chocolate/vanilla, and vanilla/vanilla—Dad and I are leaning back in our chairs, crumbs decorating our shirts and icing smudges on our fingers. Wanda is still going strong, sampling the chocolate/chocolate with the same vigor that she did the princess cake. I swallow the rest of my water, trying to ignore the rush of sugar that’s coursing through my veins.

“So what do we think?” Wanda asks, the same question she asked after each and every sample cake—all twelve of them.

“Um… well…” Dad says, glancing to me.

I shrug. “I liked the first one, honestly. If we go with any of the really fancy stuff, someone will probably be allergic or hate chocolate or whatever.”