aisle and take our hands. Tom Sharpe turned so he could take Fee’s hand in his left and Delaney’s in his right, then whispered to my father, standing beside him, “We are favored, brother. Praise be.”
My father nodded. I tried not to wince.
I couldn’t really look at Sherman. The whole pledge thing made me itchy, but honestly, I thought if I looked at him, saw a hint of the daddy I used to know, the one I still kinda ache for, I might start bawling and never stop. I just wanted to get the vows done, not eat the dinner, make some mental notes for my AVB blog and go home. I kept thinking of my mother’s words. My whole life feels like a lie.
Fee and I squeezed fingers before we recited the puerile—that’s what Shelley called it—pledge we’d memorized in the weeks leading up to the ball:
“I vow to respect my Father in heaven. I vow to respect my father on earth. I vow to respect the body He gave me. I vow to treat ME” (this is where we covered our hearts with our palms) “like I have worth. I vow to save, till the day I’m wed, my virtue for my marriage bed. To stay chaste in my heart and pure in my soul. Father, keep me safe and whole.”
At this point we stopped to embrace our fathers before we said the final lines: “You’ll always be my daddy. I’ll be your baby girl. One day you will share me. Until then I’ll wear your pearl.”
Fee looked nervous, or maybe it’s just because she was sick. She blinked to hold her focus on Mr. Tom as the dads said their vows, also in unison.
“I vow to raise you with the Lord our God, and Jesus Christ His son. I vow to head a wholesome home, free from temptation. You are my light. You are my love. And I promise heaven up above, that I’ll keep you pure as the driven snow, till the day I have to let you go. I’ll always be your daddy. You’ll be my baby girl. One day I will share you, but until then you’ll wear my pearl.”
Here the dads put these sweet little pearl rings on our wedding fingers. But as I said, Fee’s ring wouldn’t go on. It became a bit of a thing, as Jagger Jonze saw Mr. Sharpe was having trouble and paused the ceremony while he tried and failed, and finally just handed the ring to Fee, looking super-annoyed.
There’s been a shit-ton of Twitter talk about the symbolism of the pearl rings. One user said our daddies should have given us pearl necklaces instead of pearl rings because we’re a bunch of incestuous cunts. His tweet included a link to pearl necklace images. I didn’t get the reference, so I clicked. In case, like me, you don’t know either, the term pearl necklace describes a beaded string of jizz ejaculated onto another person’s body, often the face or neck. According to the pics? Accurate description.
The Manhattan cocktails Warren Hutsall served at the house beforehand, along with the free-flowing bar at the ball, had got most of the dads pretty sentimental. Big Mike hugged Brooky, sniffling with pride. Mr. Rohanian welled up and hugged Zara too. Tom Sharpe tried to hug Delaney, but she made a face and slipped out of his arms. Fee went to hug Mr. Sharpe, but before she could, he turned to grab a fresh cocktail from a waiter with a tray. Sherman and I just looked at each other.
The ball. The gowns. My father. The pearl ring. The whole thing. I’m an asshole. I’m a Calabasshole. And just to be clear: I don’t think all people in Calabasas are odious. Not at all. Not by a long stretch. It’s just, when you mix wealth and privilege and religion, and isolation from the real world, I mean, when people actually believe they deserve their shit, they’re gonna tend to skew dickish.
Holy shit.
Just heard something, and it wasn’t the wind. There’s a truck on the road, and it’s coming this way.
I can barely catch my breath. This just happened…
The noise I heard? I jumped up and looked out the window just as this dark pickup comes swerving around the bend and pulls into the gravel drive of the trailer next door. The sound of the truck woke Fee up, and she’s all feverish and confused, and like, “What the fuck, Ror?!” I had to put