Slain (2 page)

There are soft murmurs across the room as other fathers do the same, speaking to their daughters in hushed, private tones, holding their faces close as they hover over dirty plates scattered with remnants of prime rib and mashed potatoes.
 

All of this used to make me feel so special, so important. But now? It just makes me feel manipulated. If the church itself is a lie, then my parents are biggest liars of all.

When the murmurs quiet, my dad speaks again. “And now for the part of the night where we, as fathers, make a promise to God to protect the purity of our daughters. Please take your pledges out and stand with me.”

He shuffles a piece of paper, the purity pledge, to the front of his notes. “Fathers, please repeat after me with the names of your daughters. I, Emma’s father…”

Everyone looks toward us as the crowd echoes him with a cacophony of names.

“Pledge to Jesus Christ our Savior to be the shield and caretaker of my daughter’s purity until her wedding night.”

Their eyes soak into me as they speak, and it makes me want to squirm. How many people are thinking about
my
purity? I have to force myself not to crawl underneath the podium.

“I pledge to lead and guide my daughter by being an example of purity in my own life.”
 

The faces of the men are so serious they could be going into battle.

“As the high priest in my home, I will pray a covering over my daughter…”

I imagine them at war with a swarm of penises, and have to sneeze to keep from snorting. My dad shoots me a look, and I put on my Very Serious face again.

“That she may, with my blessing and authority, have the strength to be righteous before marriage.”

I mean, what are they gonna do? Build a moat around our crotches? It’s all such a joke.

But do I really believe that? That all this is a joke?
 

I know the answer as soon as I let myself ask it. I do believe it. This, along with everything else, means absolutely nothing.
 

So if it means nothing, Emma, if it really means nothing? Then maybe it’s time to prove it to yourself.

“God bless you as you seek to provide protection to your daughters. Amen,” my dad says. Then his voice turns official, “Brothers In Christ, please assemble your swords for the Purity Processional.”

Brothers In Christ is sort of a Christian version of the Boy Scouts for teen guys who want to spend their Saturday mornings learning survival skills, studying the Bible, and marching around with guns. Which, around here, means almost all of them. Mike, of course, is their current captain.

I hadn’t noticed until now, but the guys are already assembled at the side door. They march in, military style, Mike in the lead with two rows of five boys behind him.
 

When Mike reaches the cross, he commands, “Detail. Halt.”
 

The guys stop.

“Center. Face.”
 

They turn on their heels toward the center.

“Officers. Present.”
 

They pull their swords from scabbards held by red sashes looped across their tuxedos, each embroidered with a gold cross.

“Arch.”
 

They lift their swords to form a tunnel.

“Blades to the wind,” Mike says, and all their blades flip toward the back door.

My father turns to me. “At this time I’d like the young women to follow Emma to the back of the room, while the fathers join me at the cross.”

I walk to the back door, toward my mother, Gloria, who’s standing beside a vase of tall white roses on a small table. More than one person at church has uttered the comment, “
a modern-day Jackie-O
!” when they encounter her. So many people, in fact, it gets old. She’s always well put-together, yes. And poised. But my dad isn’t exactly the freaking president.
 

 
She hands a rose to each girl as she arrives, squeezing my hand and smiling as she hands me mine.

“Good job, sweetie. You did great up there.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Then she tugs up the straps on my dress so the neckline doesn’t go as low.
 

“There, that’s better,” she says.

The other girls crowd together in the back, waiting. As each girl’s name is called by her father, she walks through the tunnel in her white dress and lays a rose at the foot of the cross to symbolize her decision to remain pure until marriage.

Finally, it’s my turn.
 

My father stands next to the cross. “Emma Grant, my lovely daughter, how do you answer God’s call to remain pure?”

It’s a good question, isn’t it? What do you believe, Emma? What do you truly believe?

“If you pledge to be a temple of the Lord, a pure soul until marriage, please step forward.”

I walk through the tunnel like a bride, slow and solemn. What other choice do I have?
 

As I pass Mike, bearing a shining blade above my head, he nods to me in approval, and pride too—that I’m his, that his girlfriend is among the chaste, the pure. A prize among women.
His
prize. Like he’s responsible in any way for who I am or what I do.
 

I wonder what he’d do if I didn’t want to stay pure? The way he kisses, sloppy and urgent and needy, the way his hands roam, waiting for me to stop him, keep him in check, I doubt his resolve would last more than thirty seconds. Everyone thinks we’re going to get married someday. Everyone is wrong.

I arrive at the front, my toes brushing the pile of white roses resting there. As I place mine at the foot of the cross I decide it will mean something different this time, something completely different.

As soon as I can get away, I find a dark corner and text Jackson:

North Doors. 10 p.m.

I
CHANGE
INTO
REGULAR
clothes in the choir room with all the other girls. The place is strewn with curling irons and makeup cases and dress bags. It looks like a hurricane touched down at a beauty pageant.
 

The Purity Ball is over, and our parents have gone home, but it’s only the beginning of the night. Soon the entire youth group is meeting downstairs in the Youth Center for a lock-in. There will be games and movies and a midnight worship service. Boys are included, but their sleeping bags will be dutifully segregated. They’re calling it, “A Night of Pure Fun”, because of course they are.

I let my dark hair out of its prim bun, and it tumbles past my shoulders in long waves as relief tingles through my scalp. I like it so much better this way, swingy and free. My hair is really my only good feature, so I wear it down whenever I can.

I take off an earring as Paige walks up to me. She and I have been friends since we were babies. Our parents have known each other since Bible college, so we’ve practically grown up together. Paige’s dad is the assistant pastor, which basically means he’s second in command to my dad. And her twin brother, unfortunately, is Mike. It’s part of what’s making things so complicated to break up with him. I’ve tried three times, but something always goes wrong.

Paige hasn’t changed yet and still looks amazing. Her springy brown curls are piled on top of her head behind a glittery tiara. Her dress is a full-length lace column, sleeveless to show off her athletic arms. I won’t say Paige is vain exactly, but she’s totally buff and wears sleeves less often than anyone I’ve ever met.

She hands me her Red Bull. “Here. Drink.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking a swig.
 

“No problem,” Paige says. “You kinda seem like you need it.”

She thinks I’m tired. I’m not. I’m terrified.
 

He’s coming. Here. Tonight.

“You’re gonna have to take off the tiara sometime,” I say with a grin, changing the subject.

“I really don’t know what you have against tiaras.” She laughs and sits down next to me. “Look at what it’s doing for my neck. I totally have a neck now.”

“You’ve always had a neck.”

“Not, like, a real one. Like Audrey Hepburn. That girl was gorgeous. She had a neck for days.”

“Coveting someone’s neck is a sin,” I say, faking serious.

She sighs dramatically. “I can’t help it.” She gets a little closer and whispers, “Hey, did you see June bawling?”

“Yeah. What was that all about?”

“I think maybe the Purity Ball came a little too late for her.”
 

“With who?”

“Not Nicolas. Before. Like, before she became a Christian I think.”

“I guess it’s not the worst thing that could happen to a person,” I say, dipping my toe in the water.

“Well, maybe not the
worst
thing, but it is kind of sad, don’t you think? I mean, how would you feel if Mike wasn’t a virgin when you guys got married?”

My heart folds in on itself, just a little bit. I’m dying to talk to her about all this, to tell her everything that’s really been going on with me for the last year, longer than that really, but how can I? Every time I’ve tried she’s had the same reaction. “Paige—“

“And don’t say you don’t know if you’re going to marry Mike, because
I
know you’re going to marry him. Otherwise, how are we gonna enact
the plan
?”

“We made that plan when we were nine.”

“And it’s still an excellent one,” she says. “Step one: become real sisters. I hate to say it, but that’s where Mike comes in. You’re gonna have to take one for the team on that one. Step two: buy houses next door to each other. Step three: have babies together. Step four: our babies get married. It’s very simple, Emma.”

“Cousins can’t marry each other. I’ve told you that, like, a million times.”

“In Colorado they can,” she says. “I checked.”

“What?”

She wrinkles up her nose, equally fascinated and grossed out. “It’s true.”

“Well, maybe it’s legal, but it’s also disgusting.”

Paige opens up her mouth to argue but stops to stare at something. I turn to look just as June herself walks up to us.

J
UNE
IS
RED
EYED
and frail looking. She’s still wearing the dance costume so she must not have changed into a gown after our performance. Maybe she didn’t have a gown to change into. She doesn’t seem to wear a lot of new things. I guess it’s not a big deal, but with her cry-rubbed face and pale skin, the overflowing layers of tulle seem like they could swallow her whole.

“Can I talk to you guys about something?” she asks.

“Yeah. Of course,” I say, even though I really don’t feel like handling her right now. I never know how to talk to June. She always seems to be in her own world. I’m only really friends with her because I’m not allowed to not be friends with anyone here. It’s one of those unspoken pastor’s daughter duties. I should really be on the payroll.

“Sure,” Paige says, her face immediately concerned. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s just…I, well…I was wondering—“

“Ladies,” Miss Hope, our dance leader, calls from the doorway. “Gather up please.”

We stop our conversation and make our way to the center of the room to face her.

Miss Hope shifts where she stands, stretching a foot inside her ballet flats. She’s trim but sturdy and nearly six feet tall. I’ve never seen her wear heels, probably a habit formed because she’d tower over any of the eligible men her age. The idea makes me sad for her. Happy, too, that she found Pastor Pete. Their wedding is only a month away. Everyone’s talking about it like it’s Kate and Will.

“I just want to say that I’m so proud of each and every one of you for making the commitment you did tonight.”

She’s wearing white just like us, but her look is simpler— an empire waistline in floor-length chiffon with a square neckline and sheer three-quarter sleeves. Her dirty-blonde hair, as always, is cut in a blunt bob at her chin.

“As many of you know, I too chose to commit my purity to Jesus when I was a young lady. And I’m thankful to say that my first kiss, my very first kiss, will be at the altar on my wedding day.”

She’s beaming like she wants us to clap or something, but we just stand there, quiet. There are maybe a handful of us who haven’t ever kissed anyone, most of whom are in the homeschool crowd. The rest of them? Sure, they’re saving
it
until marriage, but kissing? That’s definitely happening.
 

“Now I know that a commitment like that isn’t possible for everyone, but that’s what I felt the Lord called me to do. And with His strength, and the guidance of my father, I’ve done it. If any of you are interested in that path, I’d be happy to share my experience with you. Even if you might think it’s already too late, it’s not. It’s never too late to live up to the standard God has set for you. There’s no such thing as physical intimacy without consequences, but it’s about making the best choice today, and every single day after that.”

She smiles sincerely, taking a moment to look at each of us individually. I cringe under her gaze. Am I really ready for this? Ready to go to a place there’s no coming back from?

“But whatever you decide, I charge you to guard your hearts and save them for the man Jesus has hand-picked to be your perfect match. I know I’m glad I did.”

It’s a beautiful idea. Romantic and sweet as a fairy tale. I have to remind myself that fairy tales rarely come true.

“Now chop-chop, ladies,” Miss Hope says from the doorway. “I want everyone ready to go down to the Youth Center in five minutes. The activities have already started, and I know you won’t want to miss anything. I’ve got lots of fun stuff planned for tonight.”

We rush around, grabbing the things we’ll need for the lock-in. Everything else is staying up here until morning. I’ve got my sleeping bag and a backpack with my PJs and toiletries ready to go when June finds me again.

“I don’t mean to bother you, but—“ she says.

“Don’t be silly,” I say. “Why would you be bothering me?”

She gets this smile on her face, grateful, like me saying she’s not bothering me is a big deal. She’s like that sometimes, and it always makes me feel bad, like I’m royalty and she’s this lowly peasant or something. June is a nice girl, but the kind of too-nice that makes you reach for something sour to balance it out. I should make more time for her, I know, but the truth is that this place is full of Junes, and there’s only one me.