Read Online Purity by Jackson Pearce - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jackson Pearce
Tags: General, Juvenile Nonfiction, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Values & Virtues, Dating & Sex, Adolescence, JUV039190
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her voice, “and this is Waltz 101. Welcome.”
A few students politely applaud; I don’t catch on till the clapping is almost over and end up giving out a single, loud clap at the very end. Garba gives me a hard look.
“Moving on. The proper waltz position.” Garba grabs the hand of the underwear model and slams it against her waist with a devilish sort of grin. She places her corresponding hand on his shoulder, then grasps his other hand in her leathery fingers. She tilts her head back slightly, and there’s a hint of old Hollywood in her—like she might have been a starlet back in the day.
“Watch your arms. See how they stay lifted?” she snaps. The class nods obediently. “Then assume the position!” she says, dropping her partner’s hand. She walks over to an old CD player and starts a muffled-sounding song.
My dad turns toward me. We both grimace. And we assume the position.
At the sixth-grade formal, there was a kid named Michael who hadn’t figured out the proper use of deodorant and was covered in speckled, diseaselike facial hair. I felt bad for him, so I danced with him—after all, at eleven my hair looked like a cracked-out poodle’s, so who was I to judge? But when I say that we “danced,” what I really mean is this: I left my arms stiff around Michael’s neck, locking my elbows so he couldn’t wander any closer; he let his hands sit on my hips with all the tenderness of an assembly-line robot; and we rocked back and forth, out of time with the music. I remember counting down the moments till the song ended and I could dash back to the refreshment table and drink sherbet punch.
But I would give just about
anything
to be dancing with Michael instead of my dad right now.
Here, there’s no refreshment table or sherbet punch. Just the slow, painful clicking of the clock and the never-ending piano song. Dad and I stand as far apart as possible, and we lean backward like the other has something horribly contagious, perhaps the bubonic plague.
“Ladies, step back here; gentlemen, forward. And one-two-three, one-two-three, see-how-I-step-two-three. Now, you do it.” Garba abandons her partner and begins to clap, the sound so sharp that I worry her tiny wrists are going to snap in half.
No one moves.
“Now you do it!” she repeats. Her tone implies an “or else,” and no one wants to see the punishments an ex-starlet can dish out. Everyone fumbles into the steps. Dad and I klutz around, each of us dancing to an entirely different beat. Dad stares over my shoulder while I watch the rest of the class in the mirrors. They look beautiful and happy, and I can picture them waltzing around in formal wear. I look like I don’t have knees. I grimace as I stomp on Dad’s foot, and we accidentally make eye contact for a fifth of a second.
“Yes, yes!” Garba cries. “
Now
you are dancing!”
I disagree. What I’m seeing in the mirror more closely resembles helping a drunk friend stand than it does dancing. I watch the other girls, trying to take notes on what they’re doing that I’m not. I recognize their faces from school and my church youth group days, but now they look less like my peers and more like models for the Princess Ball pamphlet. They so seamlessly slid into the part of devoted daughter. Do they really care about the ball and the vow? Are they even virgins to begin with?
It doesn’t matter. Liars or not, they’re the girls the church, their fathers, the Princess Ball, and my father want to see, and I’ll never be them, no matter what dance I learn or what vow I take. I’ll always be the one without a mother, the one who questions God, the one who takes vows seriously. I look down at my father’s and my feet shuffling clumsily over the floor, a more welcome sight than fifteen pamphlet photos.
“No, the other foot,” Dad whispers.
“How do you know?” I ask.
Dad avoids my eyes as he answers. “Your mom made me take dance lessons before our wedding. She wanted to
A few students politely applaud; I don’t catch on till the clapping is almost over and end up giving out a single, loud clap at the very end. Garba gives me a hard look.
“Moving on. The proper waltz position.” Garba grabs the hand of the underwear model and slams it against her waist with a devilish sort of grin. She places her corresponding hand on his shoulder, then grasps his other hand in her leathery fingers. She tilts her head back slightly, and there’s a hint of old Hollywood in her—like she might have been a starlet back in the day.
“Watch your arms. See how they stay lifted?” she snaps. The class nods obediently. “Then assume the position!” she says, dropping her partner’s hand. She walks over to an old CD player and starts a muffled-sounding song.
My dad turns toward me. We both grimace. And we assume the position.
At the sixth-grade formal, there was a kid named Michael who hadn’t figured out the proper use of deodorant and was covered in speckled, diseaselike facial hair. I felt bad for him, so I danced with him—after all, at eleven my hair looked like a cracked-out poodle’s, so who was I to judge? But when I say that we “danced,” what I really mean is this: I left my arms stiff around Michael’s neck, locking my elbows so he couldn’t wander any closer; he let his hands sit on my hips with all the tenderness of an assembly-line robot; and we rocked back and forth, out of time with the music. I remember counting down the moments till the song ended and I could dash back to the refreshment table and drink sherbet punch.
But I would give just about
anything
to be dancing with Michael instead of my dad right now.
Here, there’s no refreshment table or sherbet punch. Just the slow, painful clicking of the clock and the never-ending piano song. Dad and I stand as far apart as possible, and we lean backward like the other has something horribly contagious, perhaps the bubonic plague.
“Ladies, step back here; gentlemen, forward. And one-two-three, one-two-three, see-how-I-step-two-three. Now, you do it.” Garba abandons her partner and begins to clap, the sound so sharp that I worry her tiny wrists are going to snap in half.
No one moves.
“Now you do it!” she repeats. Her tone implies an “or else,” and no one wants to see the punishments an ex-starlet can dish out. Everyone fumbles into the steps. Dad and I klutz around, each of us dancing to an entirely different beat. Dad stares over my shoulder while I watch the rest of the class in the mirrors. They look beautiful and happy, and I can picture them waltzing around in formal wear. I look like I don’t have knees. I grimace as I stomp on Dad’s foot, and we accidentally make eye contact for a fifth of a second.
“Yes, yes!” Garba cries. “
Now
you are dancing!”
I disagree. What I’m seeing in the mirror more closely resembles helping a drunk friend stand than it does dancing. I watch the other girls, trying to take notes on what they’re doing that I’m not. I recognize their faces from school and my church youth group days, but now they look less like my peers and more like models for the Princess Ball pamphlet. They so seamlessly slid into the part of devoted daughter. Do they really care about the ball and the vow? Are they even virgins to begin with?
It doesn’t matter. Liars or not, they’re the girls the church, their fathers, the Princess Ball, and my father want to see, and I’ll never be them, no matter what dance I learn or what vow I take. I’ll always be the one without a mother, the one who questions God, the one who takes vows seriously. I look down at my father’s and my feet shuffling clumsily over the floor, a more welcome sight than fifteen pamphlet photos.
“No, the other foot,” Dad whispers.
“How do you know?” I ask.
Dad avoids my eyes as he answers. “Your mom made me take dance lessons before our wedding. She wanted to
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