Not So Pure and Simple

Dedication

FOR ADRIENNE, WHO WAS THERE ON

THE NIGHT OF

&

FOR THE CURIOUS

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Praise

Books by Lamar Giles

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Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

PASTOR NEWSOME’S RULES FOR FIRST Missionary House of the Lord were simple. Every head bowed (mine wasn’t) and every eye closed (nope) while he went on and on with his crazy freestyle prayers.

“Lord!” He gripped his lectern as if fighting a holy tractor beam trying to drag him to heaven right before our eyes. “We know they need to feel that touch from your never-changin’ hand, and we know someone is out there hurtin’ this morning . . .”

Hurtin’? For sure. Between my near-empty wallet forcing me to sit lopsided on that pew-of-steel and yet another infinity sermon, my pain was not in short supply. Newsome was on a roll. He ranted, threw in weird stuff no one seemed to notice, the way he totally did all the time.

“. . . and we see the evil on our TV and in our news reports, Lord. Bless those endangered spider monkeys of the Amazon rain forests!”

Like that.

“Yes, Lord, yes,” Mom mumbled. She squeezed my hand, nearly crushing my fingers with pulsing robot strength on each word. It sounded like she was cosigning on the old man’s insanity, but over the last few weeks I’d noticed her lips moving even when he wasn’t saying stuff. Not repeating Newsome’s lines. Having her own conversation with God, I guessed. The protocols of Mom’s Sunday worship were still fairly new to me.

We Raineys weren’t hard-core Church People. At least we didn’t used to be. Christmas, sure. Easter. Mother’s Day (which always felt weird because if Mom didn’t normally go, why was it so important to be in service on Mother’s Day? We could’ve been getting those early seats at the Golden Corral buffet). We mumbled grace before we ate meals. When terrible things happened in the world, my parents posted stuff about thoughts and prayers on their Facebook pages. We were that kind of religious.

Dad still was that kind of religious. He’s remained dedicated to not dressing beyond b-ball shorts and slippers on Sunday mornings. As he said, that was his “Adult Privilege.” I probably could’ve exercised my “Teen Privilege” and done the same thing . . . if I was stupid. But, Mom was one-half of the votes on my “Driving Privilege,” and my Spider-Sense warned me that refusing church would have had consequences.