I thought. When we were alone, I grabbed her hands and said, “Malibu Sunset or what?”
She nodded, but seemed distracted. “I left my phone in the basket at Jinny’s front door,” she said.
“We can’t go back. What if he’s out of the bathroom?”
“He’ll prolly go right back in. That was gnarl. He must feel like such a dick.”
“Ya think?”
“I’m going to get my phone.”
As she started running back toward Jinny’s house, I called out, “Wait, I’ll come with!” But she didn’t hear, or acted like she hadn’t. I could have run after her. Truth is, I didn’t wanna see Jagger Jonze again. I’d had enough religion for one night.
My texts to Fee went unanswered. U coming? ‘Sup over there? I waited in my driveway, imagining that Jinny was talking Fee’s ear off about plans for the upcoming ball, feeling jealous but not overly concerned.
After ten minutes, when Fee still hadn’t come out or answered my texts, I went inside to go spy on Jinny from my bedroom window to make sure Fee wasn’t there bestie-ing up to the Crusader.
My mother was waiting up. “How was it, Ror?”
“Fine.”
“Fine? Not appalling?”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
“And your father?”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Dads mostly hung out with the dads.”
She seemed relieved, but said, “That’s too bad.”
“I’m really tired.”
“And Jagger Jonze? What’s he like?”
“Tall.”
“I mean what’s he like?”
“I don’t know. He’s whatever. He’s a celebrity. So he’s kinda weird.”
“How so?”
It did not once occur to me to share with my mother that Reverend Jagger had creamed in his jeans. I headed for the stairs. “I’m so tired. Going up to bed. Love you, Shell.”
“Love you, Ror.”
In my room, I slipped behind my curtains, in position for my stakeout of Jinny’s room. She was there. Alone. She must’ve been too tired to pray that night, because she just lay on her bed for a long time. I waited and waited to see if Fee might appear in the room, then realized Jinny’d fallen asleep. I looked out the front window. Only Jinny’s Tahoe was in the driveway. The lights were off on the main floor. So Fee must have gotten her phone and left in the time I was talking to my mother?
It’s possible that Fee didn’t forget her phone at all, just used that as an excuse to go back to see Jagger. Or maybe she did forget her phone and when she went to get it, he forced himself on her. Or didn’t force himself. Maybe I’m wrong about Jagger. But I’m not.
We didn’t talk about it. We should have. We should have dissected every word and intention of his, and ours, and disavowed ourselves of responsibility. But we didn’t. We should have screamed about the grossness of his magical spoo. But we didn’t.
Did we think of Jagger as dangerous? Not really. Not exactly. I think we just thought he was muy messed up. And the AVB? Our dresses were on order. Hutsalls had already booked StyleMeNow. We’d bought our strappy sandals and pretty evening bags. We couldn’t pull out now. So, without discussing it, we decided not to talk about Jagger Jonze, and got distracted by pretty things.
Why don’t girls tell? Not just girls, but boys? If you have to wonder, I guess it’s because nothing even close to that has ever happened to you. The decision to stay quiet feels like a decision by default. In our case? Jagger is famous and powerful and beloved. He’s a REVEREND, for the love of fuck. We’re a bunch of spoiled, naive Calabasas virgins. There was no evidence to prove what happened at the Hutsalls’. At least, none that we possessed. Plus—what would we say? He didn’t touch us, didn’t say anything criminally inappropriate if you got down to it. I mean, we were there to have a real talk about sex. Of course the whole thing was fucked—but on paper? You can’t really talk about chastity without discussing what you’re abstaining from.
And if we told, we’d lose too. It wouldn’t have just been the end of the AVB. It’d be the end of us. As we were. We’d be soiled. Sullied. Talked about in hushed tones. Plus, the shame thing. So powerful. Why don’t girls tell? Shame, big-time, and modesty too—like, you don’t want other people to picture you in the sexual situations you’re forced to describe, to wonder about your complicity. You don’t wanna create a visual. So we buried the night together, in a shallow-ass grave.
We should have told.
The sun is setting on this horrible day,