Purity by Jackson Pearce

through the tall grass or wide river or dark cave or any number of obstacles with big, dramatic hand motions. It didn’t matter where we were—restaurant, waiting room, bookstore—she was never embarrassed to be going through a wide river with her giggly daughter. Dad would laugh and smile and act enthused by our bear-hunt tale.
    It always ended the same way—we see the imaginary bear, then run back through the river, the cave, the tall grass. We wound up where we started, safe and together and happy, even if our hunt was fruitless.
    I narrow my eyes at Picture Book Jesus. So much easier to believe in when I was little and he was just a nice man in a nice story. Just like it was easy to believe in a bear at the end of a make-believe hunt.
    But now Jesus isn’t just a nice man. He’s part of the force that stole my mom. He’s the being I can never catch to blame, to hate, to believe in, to grab onto, because whenever I getclose I have to run back through the cave, the river, the grass, and start my journey all over again. And I have to do it all without a mom to guide me.
    The only thing I leave the session with is a sense of certainty that Eve made a fair trade by eating that fruit. She traded paradise for knowledge. She wanted to know the truth about evil, about God, about sex, just like I do.
    Way to go, Eve.
    Pastor Ryan stands at the doorway, giving everyone high fives as we leave the classroom. His hand rests on mine a bit longer than everyone else’s, and there’s pity in his eyes. I ignore it and walk out.
    Maybe he’s right. Maybe Eve did feel worthless for betraying God—maybe I’ll feel worthless if I have sex. But at least that way, God would be coming through the way everyone predicted. At least that way, I would know that the church’s version of God isn’t just a picture-book fantasy.
    Which means I’d finally be able to confront the glorious, giving, benevolent God for not saving Mom.

23 days before
     
    The bakery isn’t far from Flying Biscuit. It doesn’t look like much—a converted house sandwiched between two lawyers’ offices. A tiny, cake-shaped bell tinkles as we walk in.
    The shop is heavy with the scent of potpourri, a thick, sweet smell that sticks to the sides of my lungs. Dad adjusts his tie and coughs uncomfortably. I want to tell him that I don’t think a little cough is going to clear that odor from his throat, but instead I just shrug when our eyes accidentally meet.
    “Hi! Welcome to Sweet Bakin’ Cakes!” a woman’s voice shouts above the sound of crackly classical music. I have no idea where this mysterious woman is—it’s impossible to see to the back of the shop because of the maze of giant cakes that adorn tables throughout. They’re huge and look like they’ve been carved rather than baked, boasting displays of perfectly smooth frosting and silk flowers. Most are white or ivory wedding cakes with tiny, poorly painted brides and grooms on the top, but there are a few that are more unusual—one that looks like it’s been pleated, one covered in polka dots, even one with paisley patterns drawn all overit. I’m staring at a cake with plaid icing when the woman appears, swishing out from behind a sign that says
Let them eat cake
in lavender bubble letters.
    The woman might also be made out of cake; her eyes and lips are covered in pink makeup that has a silver, frosted undertone, and her skin is layered with so much foundation that she must have spread it on with a frosting knife. She walks forward, ankles twisting dangerously in hot-pink heels. I glance at my dad and catch a hint of amusement on his face.
    “Hi,” Dad says, reaching out to shake her well-manicured hand. “You must be Wanda? I called earlier—we’re here to sample cakes for the Princess Ball?”
    “Oh yes! I love Princess Ball time,” Wanda cries, clasping her hands together. “Follow me, follow me.”
    Dad almost runs into a seven-tiered wedding cake with pink frosting circles all over