deeper than any love I’ve ever known, except for my love for God. Merilee showed me that sex isn’t love, and that love comes straight from God and Jesus Christ His Son, and is the most beautiful thing in His world. Merilee’s last words, before she left my hands for His, were ‘God’s will be done.’ ”
The Reverend needed a minute.
“The morning after Merilee’s funeral, I went to help Mrs. Valetti in the store. The door opened as I was stacking the shelves and my heart leapt because, with the sunlight in my eyes, I thought I was seeing Merilee. But it was a beautiful young girl who had walked in. She was maybe sixteen years old, like some of you, wearing a sundress. By the way she stood in the morning light, I could see that underneath she had thong underwear and a lace bra—she was practically naked. And she saw that I was looking at her. And she liked it.”
The dads murmured uncomfortably.
“She came over to the counter, and I heard Jesus Christ speak to me from the crucifix, as He has many times since—that crucifix hangs in my house to this day. You know what Jesus told me to do? ‘Take care of her.’ That’s what He said. And I realized then that Merilee hadn’t needed my help. I’d needed hers in order to know God, and to know the virtue of true love, and to hear my calling and find my purpose. That’s when I understood that God wanted me to take all I’d learned from loving Merilee Magee to help young girls.”
Jagger paused for applause before he went on. He got it.
“So I brought that girl upstairs to the apartment and I told her Merilee Magee’s story. My story. And by the end of it, that wanton little teenaged girl was covering herself up with one of Merilee’s old sweaters, and vowing to lead a godly life through abstinence. That’s when the idea of the American Virtue Ball was born. And so, as my beautiful Merilee said?”
We all got the cue and shouted—well, all accept me, because I just couldn’t—“God’s will be done!”
* * *
—
The Santa Anas have launched a full-out assault on the dying oak beside the shed. The tree is groaning like its limbs are being amputated, and they are, one twisted black branch at a time.
Paula just looked out the window and let us know it’s all clear. Her abuelo, near as she can tell, is still sleeping in the trailer. I asked how many pills she gave him.
“Four.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“Abuelo’s gun. Should I go get?”
Fee goes, “YES,” at the same time I go, “NO.”
Freaking guns. I hate guns. I’m afraid of guns. Every home on the cul-de-sac, except mine, has a gun. For protection. Behind double gates. In crime-free Hidden Oaks. I mean, even Fee’s mom has a gun. My parents, because Canadian, but also because statistics, hated guns, and brought me up to fear and loathe them too. The Shooter On Campus drills we do once a month never made our neighbors question their stance on gun control. Didn’t even make them wonder where the disturbed teens are getting the weapons, because they knew: from the racks in the den, and the bedside tables of their parents’ freaking rooms. And the hundreds of stories in the paper about domestic homicide didn’t have them asking, like, if the husband, or sometimes wife, didn’t have access to a firearm, maybe one of them wouldn’t be dead. Besides. What would we do with a gun? Really? Are we gonna shoot a bounty hunter? Do we really want to play into the media’s hands? We aren’t killers. That’s the point.
We’re counting down the hours until Javier gets home. His workday is over when the sun starts to go down, and we keep telling each other, soon, soon.
Fee and Paula just asked me what I was writing. I told them that I’d just gone on a tirade about guns, and that before that I was describing the story Reverend Jagger told us on orientation night.
Fee looked at me accusingly. “You promised you wouldn’t write about that. What has all that got to do with anything?”
“It’s got everything to do with everything,” I said. “How do you not see that?”
“Oh my God, Rory. It’s embarrassing.”
“To Jagger Jonze?”
“To all of us.”
“I’m not gonna stay quiet about him anymore, Fee. I’m telling. Everything.”
“We’ll look like hos.”
“We won’t.”
“And you can’t write about what you think you saw happen between Jinny