nearly forty when she got pregnant with me after years of failed in vitro. Neither she nor my father believed in God, but they still called me their little miracle. When Shell was just a few months pregnant, they moved from not-kid-friendly Hollywood Hills to very kid-friendly Hidden Oaks. My parents moved for the reasons that most people do these days. First and foremost? Clean air. Shelley couldn’t bear the idea of raising her child in the coral fog of pollution that hung heavy over their Hollywood home. Pollution was prohibited in Calabasas, driven out by the coastal wind currents and trapped on the other side of the valley. My parents wanted me to have the best. Best air to breathe. Best schools to attend. Proximity to the ocean. Natural environment. Huge house. Piano. Horseback-riding lessons. The best of the best. But I truly wonder if the best is actually best. For anyone.
I ended up at Sacred Heart because that’s where my parents’ neighbors and friends—the Leons, and the Sharpes, and the Rohanians—were sending their kids. Five impressive buildings on fifteen hillside acres—the Grand Ballroom and chapel on the south side, the elementary, middle and high schools on the north, two Olympic-sized swimming pools, three sports fields, rigorous academics. I’d begged to go to Sacred Heart Nursery School with my little besties when I was four years old, so Sherman and Shell toured the incredible campus, and met the swarm of caring teachers, and drank the Christian freaking Kool-Aid. They didn’t worry that I’d be the only non-Christian at Sacred because I’d actually be one of many non-Christians at the school. People in Calabasas send their kids to the “best” school, and it’s just so whatever if Jesus goes there too.
Did my parents ever discuss that I might be sucked into the Christian vortex? Did they understand the magnitude of their experiment? Or were they just relieved—like they could cross me off their list? Rory happy with friends. Check. I mean, the cul-de-sac is a village and that village raised me while my parents were off saving the world, or whatever Sherman was doing all that time. Not to say that they were absent, especially not Shell, but they weren’t always present either. And they never felt guilty about working late or business trips, because they knew I was happy with my friends. At home in their homes. Kissed good night by the neighborhood moms. The God stuff? Guess they figured that at four years old I’d be able to figure all that myself.
Guess it’s no surprise I’m fucked-up. My friends and I lead such confusing lives. We write essays about Jesus’s love for the poor and disenfranchised then go shop Louis and Prada. We laze around our pools snarking on those who have not, idolizing those who have a shit-ton. We’re jumping back and forth all day long—spiritual double Dutch—and it makes me seriously dizzy. I see it. Really. Clearly.
I’ve had a front-row seat to the grooming of Christian women. Women must be quiet, and women must not hold authority over men, and women should stay in the kitchen and let their husbands lead the household, and the world. I mean, it basically says all of that in the Bible. But me and Brooky and Zara and Delaney and Fee, we have never been down with that sexist crap. And lots of the other girls aren’t either. Honestly, bet half the virgins at the ball tonight will be hooking up by end of senior year. And some of them, yes, a few of those Christian girls, will hit up a Pink Market contact for a morning-after pill, or an abortion.
I wrote my blog about abortion in freshman year when it was all anyone was talking about. My mom told me about Roe v. Wade and her opinions on a woman’s right to choose years ago, when I was prolly too young for the conversation. I watched how it all went sideways as the Crusaders got more violent and started setting bombs at abortion clinics. Aunt Lill said the Pink Market was born in one big push because social media. Word spread through the ether, and girls whispered at school, and all of this was happening as I was asking questions about God and religion and a woman’s control over her own body.
Then a guest speaker came to our school. A little leprechaun-lookin’ priest who introduced himself as Father Joe. He told us he’d been invited by Pastor Hanson to