Read Online Purity by Jackson Pearce - Free Book Online

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 cameto 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