This Little Light - Lori Lansens Page 0,73

talk to him or look at him, so hard was her crush. She told him about the Benadryl and how she’d forgotten to take it that day because it was the weekend.

He goes, “I’m sorry about that, but I asked you to wear your uniforms because they are the great equalizer. Do you girls understand that?”

We did not. I mean, we did, but we hate our uniforms and truly didn’t get why we had to wear them to orientation.

Then he looks at me—right at me—and says, “Pastor Hanson told me you girls object to the skirting practice. He said your mother lodged a complaint.”

“That was in freshman year. And it wasn’t a complaint exactly.” Why was I downplaying it?

Jinny goes, “You complained to your mother and that’s why the Pastor has to humiliate himself now, wearing those plastic gloves.”

Busted. “Well, yeah, I mean. I think the skirting thing is gross, actually, and sexist.” I started to talk about the femur, but Jagger stopped me.

“I read your blog.”

“You read my blog?” I was kinda scared by that.

“Pastor Hanson sent me the link. You know what Timothy says about women dressing modestly. You’ve read that passage?”

I nodded. “But who decides what’s modest?”

Zara got a tone. “Don’t be all heathen-y tonight. I mean, maybe you shouldn’t have come—you shouldn’t even do the AVB if you just want to fight about everything.”

Jagger goes, “No, Zara. I like a challenge. And I love the heathens. I do. They force me to reexamine and recommit to our Lord Jesus Christ. With every blasphemer, I become stronger in my faith.”

Then he started ragging on women who wear yoga pants and miniskirts and thigh-high boots and tank tops and tight T-shirts—otherwise known as clothes—which is hilarious, because he was wearing the tightest T-shirt that you could totally see his nips through. And tight jeans that showcased his package. He hangs left. ‘Nuff said.

Again, I prolly should’ve just gone home, or shut up, but he opened the door, so I questioned his position that women who don’t dress modestly are asking to be disrespected with catcalls or worse violations.

“I just don’t see why we girls are responsible for what happens in a guy’s pants,” I said. “It’s just, like, we’re feminist, Reverend Jagger, and we believe that boys need to learn how to control their reactions to our bodies.”

Jinny laughed like that was the silliest thing she’d ever heard.

None of the other girls piped up, so I went on. “We aren’t whores just because we want to express our sexuality through our clothes, or the music we listen to, the things we read or the things we write.”

Jagger said, “You have a lot of opinions. Tell me more.”

Brooky could see I was gonna be torched and tried to throw down some flame retardant. “Rory’s just saying, like, we don’t walk around trying to tease anybody. We’re just doing us, you know?”

“I do know, Brooklyn,” he said.

Mr. Hutsall stuck his head in the room for half a sec and interrupted to say he was heading to the airport, some emergency biz trip. Whatever. No brothers home. Just the Hive and Reverend Jagger Jonze.

My temper was coming to a slow boil, but I tried to explain. “We shouldn’t feel guilty or whorish or unclean for growing into our sexual selves.”

“Feliza, right?” Jagger Jonze said, ignoring me and turning on Fee suddenly. “Do you understand why modesty is so important to God?”

Fee widened her eyes. “Does it have to be a Bible quote?”

Jagger chuckled, charming and smarmy at the same time. “Feminine modesty is important to God because…”

Fee opened her beautiful lips and gave this lame answer: “Because we are His children?”

“Yes, and…?”

Zara had given this some thought. “I think God has given us our bodies and, like, the power of, like, sex, and everything, and just to, like, squander it is so wrong and disrespectful. To God. So modesty. I think.”

Jagger Jonze grinned at her. “Well said, Zee!”

First—well said—really? Plus, I’m thinking, did he just call her Zee? Like he’s one of us?

Jinny finally piped up. “I’ve been trying to explain to Rory why God wants us to be modest. Last week she wore short shorts and riding boots to the Commons. Not joking.”

I’d been at the stables riding with Brook. She was the only real equestrian among us, but we all knew our way around a horse. It’s a rich-people thing. (I know that’s gross.)

“If I wear my boots to the mall, I’m telling men what?” I asked.

“That you want