Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit

by Jaye Robin Brown

  People cast shy glances my way as they settle at tables with homework and paper plates of pizza and chips. I see George from Latin class walk in and decide, what the hell, I’ll sit with him while I wait for B.T.B. to show up.

  “Hey.” I plop down my plate and my notebook.

  “Oh, hi.” He talks louder than he should. Like I can’t hear. Because he thinks that Asperger’s or developmental delays can totally make you deaf. “Do you need help with your homework?” He enunciates each word carefully and keeps very still, like any sudden movement on his part will make me bolt. I guess the guy is actually pretty considerate, given all his other possible reactions. Misguided, but still considerate.

  It’s time to end this, though. I mimic him, rounding my vowels and speaking very loud. “Do you need help talking?” Then I flip open my Latin homework to show off neatly written rows of conjugated verbs. His eyes get kind of wide and he pushes his bangs off his forehead.

  Before our conversation goes any further, B.T.B., Mary Carlson, and her friend Gemma, I think it is, walk through the door with a couple of other girls who fall into the same primped and pretty category. B.T.B. waves. He’s wearing his Babar T-shirt tonight. I grin back, but before they can even load up their plates with his favorite pizza, Pastor Hank walks to the small, elevated stage at the front of the room.

  “Greetings, young people. It’s always nice to see your enthusiasm for Foundation Baptist, our Holy Father, and the communion of community. I’d like to welcome a special guest tonight who I was remiss in not introducing on Sunday. I hope she’s going to be joining us regularly.” He holds out his hand to me. “Miss Joanna Gordon. She’s the new stepdaughter of one of our favorites, none other than Elizabeth Foley, now Gordon as well. It’s her first year in Rome. I hope you all give her a warm welcome.”

  A few kids clap and say hello. George clears his throat. “So, you’re not in Mr. Ned’s class?”

  “Obviously.” I tap my notebook paper with the eraser end of my pencil.

  B.T.B. and crew land at our table. “Hi, Jo . . . anna!”

  Mary Carlson is still looking at me like I’m going to be her sister-in-law, until one of the other girls speaks up.

  “Hey, you’re in my English class.” She picks up her slice of pizza. “I’m Betsy, this is Jessica, Gemma, and Mary Carlson.”

  I nod. “Joanna.”

  “You’re in AP English?” Mary Carlson cocks her head and her glasses slip a little on the bridge of her nose.

  “Yeah.” I shrug, my reflexes sending my lip into the start of a snarl, then I remember, lie low. Don’t be a smart ass. “Ms. Smith seems like a good kind of challenge.”

  Mary Carlson looks back and forth between me and B.T.B., like she can’t quite make sense of it all. “Wait. You’re not with Barnum in Mr. Ned’s class?” She pokes her glasses back up, then does the hair thing, which takes me back to my lunchroom fantasy. I flush. Then tell my brain to squash the crush buzzer in my belly. Obviously, my gaydar is broken or having some kind of existential straight girl crisis.

  “I told you she was smart like you.” B.T.B. holds up a hand in frustration. “You never listen.”

  Now she’s blushing. Which makes the swath of freckles across her nose stand out more. Mary Carlson groans. “I’m such a doofus.” She looks at her brother. “So she’s really not your girlfriend?”

  He laughs. Big and booming. “No, sister. I told you. Marnie is my girlfriend. Jo . . . anna is my friend. There’s a difference.”

  Mary Carlson drops her face into her hands. “Oh my gosh.” She looks up, her own eyes crinkled with laughter. “I just thought . . . well . . . since y’all had been hanging out. You must think we’re such idiots. Can we start over? Anybody who can put up with Barnum and his incessant elephant talk is destined to be my friend.”

  She holds out her hand.

  I hold out mine.

  Her handshake is firm, her skin powdery and warm.

  “Welcome to Rome, Joanna Gordon.”

  The way her mouth hooks on my full name makes me willing to forget I was ever Jo.

  Gemma butts in. “Girl, you were holding out on us. You didn’t say a word last week. And you are so pretty. You’ve got kind of a cool look. Not many people can pull off short hair.” She turns to Betsy. “What’s that actress? You know, the one who played in the Star Wars movies. Porter.”

  Betsy, who kind of looks like my distant cousin Lola, all boobs and eyelashes, says the name like she’s doing Gemma the biggest favor on the planet. “Natalie Portman.”

  “Right. That’s her. You got that Natalie Portman look but with bigger lips.”

  My transformation must have been more dramatic than I realized. Then I remember. I’ve been given what they consider a compliment. “Um. Thanks.” I point to my mouth. “The lips are Italian. Costs a damn fortune in lip gloss.”

  Mary Carlson laughs. “You’re funny.”

  Gemma sits back and puts her hands across her chest. “We could fix those eyebrows, though.” She points above my eyes. “I know the tweezing hurts, but beauty is worth the pain.”

  “Says the girl who bitches about trips to the salon.” Mary Carlson jumps to my defense.

  “That is a whole different thing for me than it is for you, coconut. At least I know how to use a brush.”

  Their banter makes me miss Dana. It’s obvious they’re close, despite the teasing.

  Mary Carlson swats at Gemma, then smiles at me. “Your eyebrows are perfect. Ignore her.” She leans across B.T.B. and I notice her eyes are like his, hazel, green with flecks of goldish brown. She puts her hand under my chin and turns my face back and forth in the light. “They give you character.”

  “So, we’re going to steal you from B.T.B., right?” The fourth girl, Jessica, I think, speaks up. “Because you totally have to start hanging out with us. The boys in my history class have been talking about you.”

  “Uh. What?”

  George turns red. Jessica wiggles her eyebrows.

  Oh God. Did I somehow turn on some switch I’m not aware of?

  “You’re totally coming with us to the game this Friday.” She looks to Mary Carlson. “Right? I mean, we’ve thought she was in Mr. Ned’s class since school started and completely missed out on getting to know her.” Then to me. “We all love your stepmom, and Foundation Baptist kids stick together. We’re a family.”

  I want to ask how my being in Mr. Ned’s class would have stopped them from getting to know me, because say I actually was, I would still be a part of this so-called Foundation Baptist family. Jessica seems oblivious to her slight.

  “Absolutely.” Mary Carlson nods and picks jalapeños off her pizza slice. “You can stay over afterward. Everybody is. Bring your party pajamas.”

  “Because, girl.” Gemma growls. “Our dance parties are epic.”

  I doubt their dance parties are anything like a DJ Gabby F. spinner, but still, this is way easier than I thought it was going to be. They’re treating me like just another youth group member. I’m not Jo, the gay daughter of Reverend Gordon. And I’m not Jo, the quiet friend of crazy Dana. I’m Joanna. New girl. It feels kind of . . . uncomplicated. Like a place to start the “slow changing of minds” my dad’s always talking about.

  B.T.B. nods and grins. “And I’ll make you banana pancakes.” He starts singing that Jack Johnson song in a perfect voice. Wake up slow, hmm, hmm, hmm. Wake up slow.

  It’s obvious B.T.B. doesn’t realize he’s singing a love song.

  “So you’ll come?” Mary Carlson’s looking straight at me. And I know I’m imagining it, I have definitely got to be imagining it, but I swear I have a feeling. A her-to-me feeling. Like she’s hanging on my answer. Or she’s as intrigued by me as I am by her.

  I glance away, looking down toward my lap. The shy is not a put-on when she stares at me that way. “Yeah. Sure.” When I glance up, she hasn’t looked away and her lips are ever so slightly parted. Then sunrise slow, they edge upward into a smile.


  “Great.” Her voice is soft and I swear there’s a hidden message lurking in the corners of her lips, and do I ever want to discover it.

  Then crash. Remembrance.

  I promised to lie low.

  So I turn to George. “Tell me about yourself.”

  I’m probably imagining it all anyway.

  Eight

  “A FOOTBALL GAME, HUH?” DAD chuckles. He and Three are snuggled on the couch watching the news. I’m in the club chair I’ve claimed as my own.

  “Yeah. B.T.B.’s sister and her friends invited me. They want me to stay over.”

  Three shifts so she can look more directly at me.

  “I’m not going to do anything to ruin your reputation, Elizabeth.” I don’t dare call her Three in front of Dad.

  She sits up. “Joanna, that wasn’t what I was thinking. I just wonder if you want some pointers. Football games and RHS girl slumber parties aren’t really your territory, but they certainly were mine. Those kinds of things are how you make lasting friendships.”

  “Dana’s a lasting friendship.” I throw the words out with more force than the situation calls for.

  Three opens her mouth, then shuts it and looks away. I keep flinging stuff at her and she keeps knocking it to the side like she hasn’t even felt it, but this one seems like it might have grazed her.

  Dad gives me a raised eyebrow. The big Italian one that says, Child of mine, you best fix this. He learned the move from Althea.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to sound so harsh.”

  Three looks at me again. Her face is stripped of makeup, and even with a fine etching of laugh lines around her eyes, age-wise, she looks like she could be my sister. Maybe that’s why I’m pissed. Maybe a part of me wanted magic number three to actually be maternal. After Two left, I’d fantasized about a mythical dark-haired Jersey woman with a big smile and loads of extended family, who gave amazing hugs and insisted I call her Mom. Which I would have resisted at first, but maybe, eventually, caved. Or I would have called her Mama G or some cute step-name like that. But Three? She’s like having your best friend’s older sister’s hand-me-down Barbie or something. I mean, not that she’s turning out to be entirely plastic, she’s just not mother material.

  What’s that saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? I clear my throat and dredge up a pleasantry. “What kind of pointers?”

  She sighs. “I was only going to say, get some cute pajamas.”

  “Right. Party pajamas.”

  This prompts a laugh. “Gemma, you must have met her? Anyway, she started that. I helped Pastor Hank with a sleep-in at the church a couple of years ago. That group was probably in middle school. She was funny even then.” Three smiles at a memory. “I’m sure her pajama tastes have changed, though. Back then she was still clinging to her Dora the Explorer jammies.”

  “In middle school?”

  “Always a bold one, that Gemma.”

  I can’t help myself. “What about Mary Carlson?”

  Three cocks her head and I immediately regret letting those words out of my mouth, but then she taps her finger against her chin like she’s thinking, not like she can see the crush forming inside me. “If my memory serves me, she was already golfing by then, so I’m thinking probably something golf-themed.”

  Dana would be all over that. I mean, female golfers are kind of like female softball players, you can’t turn around in a circle without bumping into one who loves the ladies. The entire big Palm Springs Dinah weekend, which is number one on our future college road trip list, sprung up around a golf tournament. There’s no way Mary Carlson could be one of those golfers.

  Dad’s eyeing me now. “You’re looking forward to this?” A smile follows his question. “That’s good.”

  I must tread carefully. Dad has X-ray vision when it comes to me. And there’s no way I’m letting him renege on the radio show. I shrug. “You know . . . when in Rome.”

  Three laughs. It’s the one thing I really appreciate about her. The sound is melodic and definitely infectious, not the hard donkey bray of Two the Shrew. “That pun.” She shakes her head but it’s nothing more than a friendly tease, and then she stands. “Ice cream? I bought Rocky Road.”

  Dad and I give thumbs-up at the same time, and it’s weird, but this nothing kind of night shines under a new light. He pats the spot Three vacated and I plop next to him for a snuggle. “Thanks, kid.”

  I lift my shoulder under his hand. “No biggie.” I’m not really missing the high drama of Dana and the scene kids. But it’s also important for me to remember—this is big. No straight kid’s dad would have ever asked what he’s asked of me.

  Friday I arrive at school, packed for an overnight, which includes a lemon yellow Kate Spade tote Three insisted I borrow and—Dana would laugh her ass off—soft cotton pajamas in dark purple imprinted with tiny circus elephants. The print did make my torturous choice easier because I knew they’d make B.T.B. happy. Three even foisted slipper socks onto me, fuzzy things with rubber studs on the bottom to keep you from slipping if you’re having an all-girl dance party in Rome, Georgia, on a smoking Friday night. This is surreal and I feel like I’m thirteen again, before I started really figuring out I might not be like all the other girls.

  B.T.B. finds me after school. “You’re coming to my house tonight.”

  “I am, B.T.B., but remember Mary Carlson invited me.”

  “I know,” he says. “But you can still see my elephant library.”

  “Library?”

  Gemma, who’s appeared from the other hall, butts in. “Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He has every elephant book, knickknack, stuffie . . .” At this B.T.B. blushes. “And piece of artwork known to man.” She links her arm through mine. “So tell me about yourself, Atlanta girl. I went online but you’re like nowhere on my social media circuit. Your dad keep you all Amish around that or something?”

  “Um, yeah. He says it’s a waste of time.” Thank the Lord for small favors like a changed last name and my preference for the old one. I’m Jo Guglielmi or just JoKat on all my profiles, and if Gemma ever cracked my identity this party would be over. Gemma, I sense, is savvy, so might as well let her play the role of leading me into the twenty-first century. “I might be able to finally talk him into it, though.”

  “I’m so going to hook you up.” She starts to grab for my phone, which is a problem. I’ll need to delete all those apps and log out, before I let her have her way with it.

  “Battery’s totally dead,” I say, stuffing the phone into the tote, which I notice she checks out. “After I charge it, okay?”

  “You got it. But I’m not letting you forget, because we’re going to selfie, selfie, selfie till the sun comes up, because . . .” Jessica, Betsy, and Mary Carlson appear and join us. Gemma links our arms and somehow by luck or fate or maybe a higher plan, I’m linked to Mary Carlson. “We have no shame,” she finishes.

  We break apart. Mary Carlson smiles at me and I’m so dead. Dana is nowhere near for me to create a shield of impenetrability, and I have the feels. Bad. And having the feels for a straight girl is the surest thing for heartbreak besides an actual heartbreak. I hope I’m not turning red and blotchy like I sometimes do when I’m flirt nervous.

  She whispers, like the two of us are alone in this group of five plus B.T.B., “Is it okay if Barnum rides with you? I don’t want you getting lost.”

  “You don’t?”

  She laughs. “Barnum does know the way home.”

  “Oh, I, sorry.” I shake my head. I seriously need to get past this, because even though I’m kind of short next to Mary Carlson, she makes me feel like one of B.T.B.’s elephants, clunky as hell. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

  A group of guys approaches us as we walk to the student parking lot. One of them, in a football jersey, slides seamlessly into Betsy’s side and squeezes her against him. The guy from the drink machine, Chaz, matches his pace to Mary Carlson’s. The third grabs Jessica’s hand. An
d here I am, blessed with solitude, and Gemma.

  Chaz asks, “Y’all coming to Rob’s house after the game?” His question is directed to Mary Carlson, and I want to punish my stupid butterflies. This attraction is a certain road to ruin.

  Asia Miller, tenth grade, English class, taught me all too well. Dana pushed and pushed and pushed because she knew how stupid I was about this girl, and one afternoon I was hanging after school watching soccer practice because Dad was late. I convinced myself no girl with calves like that could be into boys. So I started chatting her up. Nothing overt. Only talking about school and stuff. Then one night we started texting, a few nights later she used a wink emoji at the end of practically every text, and then a few nights after that she added in a couple of starry hearts. So the next day in English I popped a paper note over her shoulder asking her to go get a coffee. I signed it with a heart and arrow and a Love, Jo. I will never forget the sinister ripple of her dark hair as she twisted back in her chair, her face contorted in an expression of disgust. “I don’t like you, like that.” It wasn’t long after that I came out, because I figured, fuck it, I’d rather people hate me up front than ever feel so awkward again.

  Mary Carlson interrupts my thoughts. “What do you think, Joanna? Dance party at my house or hanging out with big, beefy football players?” The way she says it makes the first sound far more appealing.

  Betsy squeaks in outrage. “Mary Carlson, you know we’re going to this party.” At that, she pauses and lifts up to kiss the boy who attached himself to her.

  “Yeah,” Gemma says. “You want me to be single forever? And Joanna here, we need to indoctrinate her properly. We can dance party in the morning.”

  Jessica swings the boy’s hand she’s holding and looks at him coyly. “Or dirty dance tonight.” He grins back at her.

  Mary Carlson keeps her eyes on mine until I nod my agreement. Then she turns to Chaz. “Sure, we’ll come.” She slows down so they’re walking with me. “And this is Joanna.”