Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit (10 page)

“YOU READY?” DAD CALLS UP
the stairs. We're heading to the station to record teasers for my radio program. I'm more nervous than I expected to be.

I stick my head out the door. “Give me a minute to finish up this call.”

On my computer, Dana's eyes are cast down so she can see herself in the little corner box. She's messing with her hair, working it into tiny little peaks all over with her new brand of extra-hold gel.

“Nice.”

She flicks her eyes back up to her webcam. Between last night and this morning, I decided not to tell her about Mary Carlson. I realized how crazy the whole thing would
sound. A lifted pinky is not a play. It's not like she was trying to stop Chaz from kissing her either.

“The name's good, right? Are you using it?”

Dana and I brainstormed names for my radio program last week via text. She came up with
Keep It Real
. The irony makes us both laugh.

“Yeah, it's a go. And speaking of, Dad's ready.”

“You coming down here anytime soon? You're looking kind of hot. I need Jo in the flesh.”

“Shut up.”

“Naw, I'm serious girl, you look good.”

“Whatever. Listen, I've got to run. Later?”

“Yeah, dude. Let me know how it goes. Maybe I'll tune in.”

Dad drives to the station. It's still weird coming to the new building. The old ministry was in a strip mall out on Buford Highway where our neighbors were a jeweler's supply store and a Vietnamese restaurant. I would kill for some Bun Thit Nuong right about now. But the only thing near the new Wings of Love is a Hardee's. And there are no neighbors to get to know. The building, once a dentist's office, stands on its own lot.

“How you feeling?” Dad shuts off the car and the heat of lingering Georgia summer hits me.

“Glad you don't do television. I'm getting sweaty already.” But I'm also feeling like a sellout. Because what we're doing today is the watered-down version of what I really want. The initial topics we've settled on, though important, are pretty standard do-unto-others type of fare. Not the cutting edge—
Hey guess what, fellow Christians, some of us are gay!
—topic I'm dying to hit.

Dad must see something on my face because he hesitates, then sighs. “Well, let's go then.”

In the recording room, after we have some last-minute water to clear our throats, Dad clips a lavaliere mic on me and one on himself, then pulls up the audio software on one of the laptops. He lays down the printed sheet of teasers we came up with. I nod and he gives me the thumbs-up.

“Hi, this is Joanna Gordon.”

“Daughter of Reverend Gordon.” Dad chuckles into the mic as planned.

“And I'm hoping you'll tune in to
Keep It Real
, the first all-youth radio show for the Wings of Love Ministry.”

“The show begins airing November third.” Dad hits the pad on the computer and stops the recording. “That was good. Nice enunciation.”

His praise fills me. I miss spending one-on-one time with him. Since Three came into the picture he's had even
less time than usual for me. I get it, and in Atlanta I never cared because I had Dana and plenty to do, but this radio show may be an advantage I hadn't factored in. At least that's something.

“Shall we go through the rest?” His finger hovers above the track pad.

“Yep. Let's do this.”

When we're finished recording a few run-throughs, we write down notes about music and what we might want edited. Jamal, Dad's sound tech, handles all the mixing. Before we lock up, Dad gets serious.

“Joanna, I'm counting on your teamwork now. I know we're not starting this show with the bang you were hoping for. But, if I put this on the air, you have to stick to your word. I can't say I'm going to start programming, then have it evaporate because you don't hold up your end of our bargain.” He pulls me to him, a hand on each of my shoulders, his kind eyes crinkling around the corners. “Things are going so well with the Foleys. One day we'll get bolder with this show. I promise. The world will change even in places like this.”

He seems sincere, like somehow my hiding who I am really helps his new life. I want to feel proud and happy about my selflessness. But what happens when being selfless takes away a big part of your self?

Church is not calling my name the next morning, but my curiosity about what happened after I left Friday night is. I've replayed the lifted pinky a hundred times in my head, swinging back and forth in a daisy plucked pattern of she loves me, she loves me not. So when Three pops her head in the door to see if I want to go, I crawl out of bed.

After the main service, Pastor Hank greets me with a clap on the back. “Joanna, so nice to see you again.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I'm not really focusing on him because Mary Carlson and Gemma are walking through the door, heads together, whispering and laughing. I excuse myself.

“Hey, y'all. Sorry I bailed Friday night.”

“Yeah, how come you didn't go with us?” Gemma slides into a chair.

“George and I wanted to talk. Get to know each other a little bit.”

Mary Carlson is ramrod straight in her chair. She seems mad, but I can't decide if it's about me and George or about having to be with Chaz by herself. I didn't think it mattered, since Gemma was going to the field party, too. Was I wrong?

“So you guys are taking it up a notch?” Gemma plops her chin into her hands and stares at me.

I think about my promise to George and how if
Gemma thinks I'm into him, then maybe she'll see him in a new light. I lean into her. “He's an excellent kisser.” Technically, I didn't say I kissed him, so technically I'm only making up a rumor.

“Oooooh.” Gemma smirks.

“What?” Jessica and Betsy arrive. B.T.B. does, too, but Pastor Hank snags him to help set up the refreshment table.

“Our new friend Joanna's been getting all Hermione with Harry Potter. She's stepping out of the friend zone.”

Mary Carlson huffs. “Gemma, you're smart as hell, but you do not know your wizardry. Harry and Hermione were
not
an item. He was with Ginny.”

“Whatever, girl. Y'all got my point.”

Betsy grabs my arm. “You kissed him?” Answering her would be a lie, so I choose to smile rather than verbalize. She squeals. Then her attention diverts to Mary Carlson and Gemma. “And you two, heated hookups?”

Mary Carlson shushes her. “We're in church, Betsy.”

“God doesn't disapprove of romance.” She pokes out her indignant breasts.

I feel like saying the Bechdel test disapproves of this conversation, but seriously, these girls do talk about boys—All. The. Time. But then again, haven't I been going off about George?

He chooses this moment to push through the door. Poor thing, he has no idea I've turned him into a rat in a cage. Gemma studies him. “Nice lips.”

Score one for George.

He slides into the seat next to me. “What's going on?”

Gemma wags her finger at him. “Don't you act all innocent, sugar mouth.”

I can't believe her.

“Joanna here's been kissing and telling.” Mary Carlson beams at him, but she's not looking at me.

George's eyes go round.

I stomp his foot, a not-so-subtle signal for
roll with it
.

He slumps back in the chair, manspreads, and plops his arm over the back of my seat rest, complete with a mister innocent shrug.

“Aww. Y'all are so cute.” Betsy clasps her hands. She's no doubt hoping she'll soon have someone to talk to about the problems of vaginal dryness and the best brand of condom.

“So what about you?” I elbow Mary Carlson and grin. I need to act like I was clueless about our moment. It could have been an accident. A straight friend would play it that way.

“Not much more than what you saw.” She clears her throat and plays with the pieces of the game Pastor Hank has set up on all the tables.

“Girl, don't you lie.” Gemma is straight to the point. “There was steam on the inside of those Beamer's windows.”

My stomach drops to my feet. Maybe I should have gone. She wanted a double date so he wouldn't get handsy and I abandoned her at the critical moment. No wonder she's acting cold toward me.

“Nothing happened, Gemma.” Mary Carlson's voice is sharp. “I'm not like that. You know, there's more to life than who hooked up with
whom
on a Friday night.”

Pastor Hank calls us to attention for prayer. We're all side-eyeing Mary Carlson, who is arms-across-her-chest fuming, and I swear if Chaz pushed her further than she wanted to go, I'm going to rip him limb from limb.

When the prayer's over, I scoot my chair about an inch closer to her. “Hey, are you okay?”

Mary Carlson grips the sides of her chair bottom with her hands. “I'm fine, okay.”

“Look, I'm sorry I left. I just . . .” Have no honest explanation.

“No, I get it,” she whispers. “You wanted time alone with George.” Then sarcastically, “To become better
friends.
”

I reach out and put my hand on her forearm. She stares at it. “You seem upset, and if you're upset, how are you
going to teach me to golf?” I play up the innocent vibe, hoping she'll move on from her anger.

It works. “You still want to learn?” She tugs absently on a strand of hair, but there's the start of a smile in her eyes.

“Of course, why wouldn't I?”

Gemma, who's been watching our exchange, purses her lips. “You're not seriously going to play golf, are you?”

“What, jealous?” I purse my lips back at her.

Gemma sighs. “Hells yes. Y'all will be all up in your own little CEO boardroom leaving me out in the cold.”

Mary Carlson snorts. “I've only invited you like a million times. You could come.”

“And here is no, one million and one times. The clothes are way too ugly and good Lord, it's the boringest sport known to man. But you”—Gemma puts fingers up to her eyes, then points them back at me—“just because you are willing to go on the golf range with her, does not mean you can usurp my BFF status. Got me?”

I raise my hands in surrender. “I got you. Besides, I'll probably suck at it anyway and give you BFFs something to laugh about.”

George butts in. “Gemma's got a point. Wouldn't y'all rather go to an amusement park and ride coasters or something on Saturday? The chess team's selling Six Flags tickets for next weekend cheap and I get a couple for free.”

I jump on it. “Maybe while we golf, you and Gemma can go ride the coasters. Make it an outing. I'm sure my learning curve is hours long.”

Gemma swats me. “I can't be running off with your boy toy, but that
is
definitely more my type of fun.”

“I'm dead serious. George here talked all about how he wants to ride Dare Devil Dive and I would lose my lunch. You'd be doing me a huge favor, Gemma.” I don't comment on the boy toy remark or bring up her date from the movies.

George pushes his bangs back three times in the few seconds it takes for Gemma to answer.

“Are you sure? That won't be weird?”

“Not at all.” I grab Gemma's hand and put it in George's. “You'll take care of him, won't you?”

“Uh.” It's the first time I've seen Gemma at a loss for words.

He swings her hand back and forth, then releases it.

Gemma looks between us. “Well, sure, I guess.” Her skepticism disappears and excitement takes over. “Next weekend? We can all meet up afterward for pizza?”

I sit back in my chair feeling righteously self-satisfied. “It's a date, then. Next Saturday.” And I can't help myself. “Me and Mary Carlson for golf. And you and George for coasters.”

Betsy butts in. “And y'all make fun of me and Jake. I'm not sure what you call what's going on here.”

My fantasy, I think.

“Multitasking,” I say.

“Swinging might be more accurate,” Betsy jibes.

“We're in church!” Jessica crosses her arms across her chest and Pastor Hank cuts us all off with a clap of his hands and B.T.B. steps up to the microphone to start the board game about making responsible Christian life choices.

Betsy leans in. “Jessica sure knows a lot about sex for being so prudish.” This gets a laugh from the whole group, Jessica included, and now that everything is sort of back to normal and Mary Carlson is relaxed, I breathe a little easier.

MONDAY MORNING I CAN'T MAKE
myself get out of bed. There's nausea. Not of the I'm-going-to-throw-up variety, but of the I've-gotten-myself-worked-up-over-a-straight-girl variety. Which makes me want to throw up. Why have I done this to myself? Again? I pull the covers all the way up to my chin.

A knock sounds at my door.

“Yeah?” My voice is muffled as I talk through the quilting.

Three's face peers around the frame. “Just checking in on you. Your dad left early and I didn't hear you getting ready.”

“I don't feel great. I'm going to stay home.” Skipping
school is not generally my thing, but I guess the pressure of hiding, when I'd gotten used to not having to hide, is getting to me. Plus, there's the strain of this past weekend's push and pull of
Is she
or
isn't she?
emotions. It wiped me out.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

A tiny tickle, like the flutter of moth wings, brushes the edges of my heart. I don't really remember my mom. I was so little when she died. And Two, though she was around for four torturous years, my nine to thirteen, was the opposite of nurturing. This sincerity is foreign territory. But Three landed me in this vat of stress. The last thing I need is to go soft. I flick the moth away.

“No. I'm not sick. Thanks, though.” Might as well tell the truth. Let her try to make me get up and out of the house. She has no authority over me.

“You're not?” She steps a little farther inside the door frame.

“Nope.”

“Is everything okay at school, then? You don't seem like the type to skip for no reason.”

Three is wearing the new Wings of Love T-shirt I had Dad order for the ministry last summer. It's a cute cut, with angel wings and a pencil line font that looks a hell of a lot more modern than the old design.

“Nice shirt,” I say.

She looks down and smiles. “Way better than anything Foundation Baptist ever had printed.” She steps to the foot of my bed and puts her hand on the frame. “But you're avoiding my question.”

I scoot up a little and indicate that she can sit on the foot of the bed if she wants. She edges down and sits.

I wrap my arms around my knees and rest my chin there. Before I even know it's going to happen, I'm crying.

Three is at my side in an instant, shushing me and rubbing circles on my back. “It's okay, Joanna. It's okay.”

“God.” I wipe my eyes. “I don't know what's wrong with me. Crying is not my thing.” A ragged breath escapes in contradiction.

“Hormones?” She cocks her head.

I laugh. And for whatever reason, I go for truth again and, okay, a bit of guilt. “Maybe. No. It's just.” I take in a breath. “I'm kind of homesick is all. I miss . . .” What do I miss? The lightness of honesty. Not carrying the weight of my dad's new marriage on my shoulders. The real me. But that's too much guilt to lay on Three without hearing about it from Dad. I clear my throat and continue. “I miss decent coffee shops and Fellini's Pizza. I miss walking to school and off-campus lunch.”

I scoot away from Three's hand but she doesn't move,
just waits for me to keep talking.

I look up at the ceiling, translating my worries into words. “But the worst is Dana. I know you think she's bad news, and well, sometimes she is, but she's also my best friend.” I flick my eyes toward Three to see if she's reacting to the Dana mention, but her face is calm and open and attentive, so I keep talking. “I miss her. I miss my old hangouts. I miss being me.”

Three is quiet for a second. “So, you're not really sick.”

I shake my head even though it wasn't a question.

“Well, get up then, and get dressed.”

“Get dressed?”

“I'm taking you to Atlanta and you're going to give me a tour of your favorite places, and maybe I can help you track down Dana. I owe you that much.”

“Seriously?”

“That's what I said and I do what I say.” It doesn't pass my notice that she's reciting my own words back to me. “Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?”

I've already thrown off the covers. “I can be ready in ten.” I can't believe she's not giving me crap about skipping school.

In the car, our mother-daughter moment passes. Things get quiet and awkward. Dad's courtship with Three was a total whirlwind, and if I'm honest, I did
my
best to avoid
the whole scene. I never figured he'd marry her, she's eleven years younger than him, so I never took the time to get to know her.

Three did try to get to know me, but my social life—correction, Dana's social life—left no room for quiet nights of Monopoly around the kitchen table. But now that she's being so cool, maybe I ought to try.

“You were a bank teller?”

Three groans. “Yes, for a little while. Until your father rescued me.”

“Is that how you met him?” My suspicious mind flies back to the image of Three as gold digger. She worked at a bank. Where he was banking. Making deposits.

“I was. Your father had a moment of confession with me at the teller window when I was training in Atlanta. I guess he'd had a hard day and was questioning his financial situation.”

“What, that he was too rich and God wanted him to do something better with the ministry's money?”

“Something like that.”

“So you're the ‘better'?” Stupid tongue. I can't believe I let myself say that, but B.T.B. would appreciate me talking about the elephant in the room.

“Is that what you think? That I married him for the money?”

“Would I be wrong?” I keep my tone calm, at a level that doesn't match my anticipation for her answer.

Three merges onto the interstate and settles into traffic before responding. “It'd be easy for me to be upset about that question. But . . .” She glances at me. “I can understand your suspicion.” She doesn't say anything else right away and I start to wonder if that's it, but then she talks again. “I didn't marry your father for his money. My grandparents founded and sold a small regional bank. I have my own money. In fact, if you must know, your father and I signed a prenuptial agreement. For both of our sakes.”

Now I feel like a total jackass. “I didn't know.”

“No, you didn't.” It's a subtle dig, or maybe a window into her own hurt feelings.

“Sorry.”

“Hey.” She pokes my wrist where I've shoved my hand under my leg. “No hard feelings. It's good you want to protect your dad.” She wiggles her ring finger. “This rock gives the wrong impression. I told your dad it was a bad idea, but he couldn't be swayed.” She laughs. “It
was
priceless to see the look on my friends' faces. They couldn't believe boring Elizabeth ended up with the best catch of them all.”

I smile. “He's a good guy, my dad.”

Three gives me that earnest look. “I know he is. And
I promise you, Joanna, I'm not going to take him, or you, for granted.”

Man, this moment could be in the fucking Lifetime Channel hall of fame, it's so molasses warm goodness. I kind of hate myself for even liking it.

But then I change the channel. Three is foe, not friend, and even though I won't be a public douche to her, there's no reason to make it easy in private. “If you're so set, why were you working, then?” The tone is definitely sarcastic.

She doesn't get rattled. “I'm not really the type to spend my days shopping or volunteering. Banking is in my blood, so I gave it a shot, from the bottom. Being a teller is kind of like being a waitress. The only good thing about it was meeting your dad.”

How do I argue with that? Especially now that I know she's not in it for the money.

The rest of the drive, I change the radio station too many times, and Three pretends like I'm not being an ass for moving the station every time she says she likes a song. When we get to midtown I point to a green exit sign. “Take Jimmy Carter.”

I direct her into Little Five Points. It may only be eleven, but it's never too early for pizza. We park the car in the same lot where Dana and I had the run-in with the graffiti girls, then walk to Fellini's for slices. Her, broccoli
and garlic. Me, straight-up old-school pepperoni. We carry them outside to one of the metal tables.

Three glances around and keeps her purse hugged close in her chair. “I've always been a little scared of this neighborhood.”

“For serious?” I try to see it through her eyes. Some graffiti. Wear and tear around the edges of the public spaces and buildings. A couple of homeless busker kids with their pit bull mix puppy on a rope leash. A guy juggling bowling pins and a crowd of artistically dressed onlookers. I guess for someone accustomed to small town sterility, this might seem pretty out there.

She shakes her head. “I know. I grew up very sheltered. I never had the sort of bold go-where-you-will attitude that you have.”

“That's what you think?” I'm surprised to hear her describe me that way. In my mind I'm the total opposite of bold.

“Should I think something else?” She pulls strings of cheese and broccoli off her slice and pops them into her mouth.

I finish chewing. “That's how I'd describe Dana.”

“Huh.” She doesn't press further.

When we're done eating, we walk over to the Junkman's Daughter, which is like the capitol of emo, goth,
alternative accessory funk. Three picks up the conversation again.

“Interesting.” She pulls out some sort of black patent harness-slash-bodice thing. “Maybe you should find something to highlight your inner bold. My treat.”

I laugh despite myself. “That is
not
my kind of bold.” I push through hangers on the rack in front of me. “Here. A statement for you.” I pull out a T-shirt—though I'm not sure there's enough fabric for it to qualify—covered in pink unicorns. “You know you love it.”

“Maybe sixth-grade me.”

“You were a unicorn girl?” Three keeps surprising me.

“My Little Pony.”

I dig some more, trying to find something outrageous, when Three plucks out a shirt, deep indigo and V-neck, with the slogan “Grrrrrl Power” in a cartoon bubble. “This is good.” She holds it up and I shrug, not wanting to admit I actually like it.

She drapes it over her arm. “I know you think Dana is the one with all the girl power, but what you're doing this year is bold and courageous, too. Making new friends. Putting yourself in uncertain situations. Toeing the line we've asked of you. The radio show is a nice carrot, but you could have refused. You still could and it's not like we could stop you.” She walks away to the cash
register before I can respond.

No radio show, me, free to be myself. But I can't refuse. My dad's disappointment would slay me. Dana would be pissed if I lose our big summer of gay because Dad took back his permission. But here's the thing I'm worried about. I feel like I'm losing my girl power. I'm scared of the fear building inside me. Fear that means—because we up and moved to Bumfuck, Georgia—I'm pretty content with my father and Three's edict. Coming out the first time was easy. Coming out in Rome? Maybe not.

I hurry to the cash register. “I don't want that.”

The salesgirl's eyes narrow. “I've already rung it up.”

Three waves for her to finish. “It's fine.”

The salesgirl points at the credit card swipe for a signature, then hands the bag over.

Three holds it out to me. “You can always give it to Dana.”

It's still hours before school lets out and the time Dana usually shows up at Hellcat, so I drive Three around Candler Park, Decatur, and East Atlanta. I make her go by our old house and the Horizons School where I went until fifth grade. We pop into the Fernbank Museum to look at their display of rain forest frogs, then eventually we circle back down McClendon Avenue toward Moreland.

“You ready for coffee?” And Dana, I think.

“Sounds good, though I'd like to miss the worst of rush hour if possible. Can you keep it kind of brief? I know you miss her, but this was a spur-of-the-moment decision and I didn't think through the traffic part.”

“No problem.”

There's a parking spot right in front of Hellcat, and if I thought Three looked freaked outside Fellini's, I was wrong. And I have to admit,
this
neighborhood is a tad sketchy.

We open the door and the chime purrs.

“Atmosphere,” I say.

“Baby girl.” Dahlia, the barista, smiles at me. “Where've you been? It's like you dropped off the planet or something.” She's totally checking Three out and winks at me, like she's in on my secret. Oh God, maybe this wasn't such a smart idea.

“What's good here?” Three's scanning the chalkboard menu, and suddenly the menu items, which I always thought were hilarious, seem a little juvenile. Things like Short Hair Sprout Sandwich and Honey Pot Chai (no teabags here).

“Baby.” Dahlia leans forward, purring at my stepmom. “I'm all the good you'll need. If you ever get tired of this lollipop by your side.”

“Um.” Three looks at me, then looks at Dahlia. Then, oh my God, my stepmom puts her arm over my shoulder. “What do you think, sweetie? What should I get?”

What in the actual fuck is happening? “Uh.”

“Two Americanos,” Three says, squeezing me close to her side before letting go—she's proving to be way cooler than I would ever have thought in a million years, despite how unbelievably awkward and gross this is.

Dahlia winks at me, then lingers at my stepmom's hand as she takes the cash.

The door purrs.

“No. Fucking. Way.” Dana's voice is unmistakable. “Jo! Finally, it's you, in the flesh!”

I'd texted her to make sure she was coming here after school, but didn't tell her I was in town. I wanted to surprise her.