“Can I ask you something?” She turns and I practically bump into her. It’d be so easy to put a hand up on either side of her and lean forward. Maybe one good kiss is all she needs to topple to my side.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, sure.”
“Do you, um. Do you . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Do you play golf?” It comes out in a rush and it sounds so cliché, sort of like Do you drive a Subaru? or Are you a vegetarian? (no and no), that I start laughing.
“No. But I heard you do.”
She grabs my forearm in her Mary Carlson touchy-feely way. “Will you help me get a putting range competition going in the backyard? Something to keep Chaz busy, other than talking about football or trying to get me in a corner through Jell-O shots. He won’t say no to a challenge.”
“You know, you could just tell him to back off.”
She shakes her head and her glasses almost go flying. “No, I can’t. Not this time. Besides, I really want it to work. At my own pace.”
I shrug. “Yeah, I guess. If that’s what you want. But if you don’t like him . . .”
“Oh no, that’s not what I meant. I like him. Totally. Right? What girl wouldn’t?” She wiggles her eyebrows and elbows me, all cartoon exaggeration.
I can name a few, but I play along. “Point taken. But hey, no worries, and no judgment from me about going slow. That’s your right.”
She squeezes my arm. “I’m so glad you moved here. I can already tell we’re going to be great friends.” She lets go and I feel the loss of her hand immediately.
Bluster trumps blush and I push my forefinger against her shoulder. “Who knows, maybe I’ll be a surprise golf ringer and kick your ass.”
This earns me a bark of a laugh. “You are so on, city girl.” She links arms with me as we exit the bathroom. “Let’s go show them what we’re made of.”
Hours later, after Mary Carlson and some guy named Alan kicked all our butts at short-range putting on Rob’s back lawn, we’re in the car headed to her house.
Betsy waves a French fry, from our drive-through detour, in the air. “Let’s hear it.”
Gemma groans.
“Hear what?” I ask from the driver’s seat.
“The hookup report, of course.” Jessica laughs. “And you have to start, new girl.”
“Not anything to tell, unless you count discussing the benefits of a vegan diet. What about you, Betsy?”
“Oh, you do not want to hear this answer.” Mary Carlson laughs from her shotgun position.
Betsy leans forward and slugs her. “Please, I have some decorum.”
“Is that what you call what happens when you and Jake disappear into folks’ parents’ bedrooms?”
My eyes flit to the rearview mirror in time to see Gemma’s eyebrow arch to the roof of the car.
“We’re in love, guys. It took nine months before we finally did it. Quit making me feel bad. It’s natural.”
“Ah, they’re just jealous, girl.” Jessica giggles.
“Oh, so, Jessica.” Mary Carlson turns around in her seat to stare. “Is there a story behind that laugh?”
My eyes dart from the road to the rearview mirror and back again.
Jessica buries her face in her hands.
Betsy squeals. “Oh my God, there is!”
“I, you know, touched.” She points to her pants, then she squeals and covers her eyes again and whispers, “His boner.”
“That’s it?” Betsy says, disappointment in her voice. “You didn’t even go down on him?”
“Ewww, no.” Jessica pushes her. “That’s skanky.”
“You’re too Baptist for your own good.”
“You’re still our lone shark, Betsy girl, but Jessica here is gaining.” Gemma has her arms folded across her chest.
“Well, what about you, Gemma the lonely?” The snarked barb is sharp in such tight quarters.
“You act like that, I’m not going to tell you.”
“Oh, please, not again, you two.” Mary Carlson presses the heels of her hands against her temples.
Poor Jessica is stuck in the middle, her head swiveling between the storm that’s brewing. My preacher’s daughter training kicks in. “Hey, y’all. Chill out. Just because Betsy’s chosen one path it doesn’t mean Gemma’s is wrong.” I glance at Betsy. “Is there anything wrong in waiting?”
“Of course not.”
Then I look at Gemma. “And if you had a boyfriend”—I’d like to follow my own rule and add or girlfriend for good measure, but I don’t know how it’d fly—“you were in love with, you’d eventually have sex, wouldn’t you?”
She shrugs. “Probably.”
“See.” I smile at Mary Carlson, then back at them. “It’s all good.”
“Yeah, but we’re not done, Madame therapist. Gemma and Mary Carlson can’t get out of it that easy. Report.” Betsy’s laughing again and the tension is defused.
“For your information, Marcus Billings asked me to go to a movie.” Gemma smirks and waves her hand above her head.
Jessica fist bumps her.
“And you, Mary Carlson. You and Chaz were looking cozy. Any thoughts of kissing?”
Mary Carlson glances at me. “Yeah, I had thoughts of kissing.” Damned if the butterflies don’t start swarming again. She’s not talking about me, but a girl can dream.
“Oooooh . . .” Gemma croons. “Finally going to get your seven minutes in heaven?”
That middle-school story with Chaz must have made quite an impact if they’re all still talking about it. I wonder what rumors he spread about her?
Betsy leans forward and pats Mary Carlson’s shoulder. “It’s okay, baby, we know you’re just frigid.”
Mary Carlson laughs. Too loud in the small car. So I change the subject for her.
“Tell us what the deed is like, Betsy.”
“God,” Betsy groans. “I’m saddled with another virgin?” But then she launches into a play-by-play and Mary Carlson mouths thank you so that only I can see.
Mary Carlson lives in a pretty two-story farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Even in the dark you can tell the gardens are beautiful. There’s a tiny pond with a floating dock and she even has ducks, which she promises we’ll feed in the morning.
The other girls, who’ve been here a million times before, lead the way and I follow, a few steps behind. Stars twinkle overhead and I contemplate my current insanity. This has bad idea written all over it.
“Hey, Jo . . . anna!” B.T.B. waves from the back steps. He’s wearing a banana-shaped onesie pajama thing and puts up his arms, shimmying in a circle and shaking his butt for effect. “You like my banana?”
Jessica, Betsy, and Gemma about fall on the ground laughing.
Mary Carlson shakes her head. “Barnum, we’ve had this talk.”
“What? I’m not talking about my penis. I’m dressed like a fruit.”
“A cute fruit,” I say.
This earns a smile from Mary Carlson. She hands him the hot apple pie he’d requested via text. “Don’t say penis—”
Gemma interrupts. “He can say penis. He has one. We have vaginas. And these are breasts.” She holds her hands under her boobs and B.T.B. blushes red under the yellow of his onesie’s hood. “Why people want to call their parts things like bananas, and hoohoos, and the ladies, is beyond me. Be specific.”
“Fine, then, Dr. Gemma,” Betsy says. “Get your ripe gluteus maximus up those stairs so we can take the bras off our breasts.”
B.T.B. puts his hands over his ears after that.
When I get up to him he whispers. “Hi, Jo . . . anna.”
“Hi, B.T.B.,” I whisper back. “Do I get to see your elephants?”
“Yes!” He motions for me to follow him.
Mary Carlson gives the nod, and then holds out her hand. “Give me your bag. We’ll take it up to my room. My parents might poke their head out into the hall when y’all come up, but they’re pretty good about waiting till the morning
to find out all about the night.”
The feeling lands again. The Ken Burns moment where the world fuzzes around us and Mary Carlson and I are in bright focus. I shift the bag off my shoulder and hand it to her. She brushes my hand in the process of taking it and fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. It’s a damn electric jolt that travels straight to my—sorry, Dr. Gemma—girl world.
“Uh.” I clear my throat. “See you in a minute.”
Mary Carlson laughs. “Right, good luck.”
B.T.B. leads me to his room, which is on the first floor behind the kitchen.
Gemma wasn’t joking. It’s like walking into an elephant research center. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A king-sized bed covered with elephant stuffies, even a comforter that is stitched with a massive elephant head appliqué. On his desk there’s a miniature replica of an elephant’s skeletal structure.
One by one, he leads me through each piece of artwork that he’s drawn or people have drawn for him, or things he’s found at stores. Then he starts in on the books. I stifle a yawn, then remember those earlier texts from Dana I left unanswered. I reach for my back pocket and freeze. My phone. What the hell did I do with my phone? My brain clicks back thinking through my movements, and damn it. I put it in the bag, which I handed to Mary Carlson, which is now up in her room with four girls who are accustomed to being in each other’s business and now I’m one of them. Oh sweet Jesus, this could get ugly.
I yawn really big and pat my mouth. “B.T.B., I’m really sleepy. Can we finish in the morning?”
“Oh.” His smile turns down a notch.
“Come on, banana man. Turn that frown upside down. A girl needs her beauty rest.” B.T.B. is a true reader of people and I’m doing all I can to keep my anxiety in check. But it’s full volume under my skin. I have got to get to my phone or my life is going to blow up in my face and I can kiss my radio show good-bye.
He rubs at the floor with the foot of his pj’s. “Okay.”
I follow him upstairs and my brain is stuck on yesterday’s conversation with my dad when I’d given him ideas for my first couple of shows and how he was pleasantly surprised and how if I didn’t get to my phone, stat, all of this was going down the toilet.
At the top of the stairs, there’s the faintest music coming from a door at the opposite end of a long hall. Halfway there—I’m trying hard not to sprint—another door pops open. A woman’s face, blond hair to her chin, blue robe, pokes her head out. “B.T.B., don’t bother the . . . Oh, hello?”
“Mama, this is Jo . . . anna.” B.T.B. beams. “My friend from school. I’m her peer.”
Oh, crap. Parent time. Please don’t talk to me long. There is a phone I need to rescue. I can’t even be appreciative of her Bailey smile, I’m so focused on that other door.
“Hi,” I say. “B.T.B. was showing me his elephants.” I yawn again. “Now he’s showing me where to go.”
“Of course. I didn’t want him bothering you girls. Sleep tight.” She closes the door slowly and the click of the knob seems to take forever.
Finally we get to Mary Carlson’s room. “Good night, B.T.B. See you in the morning.”
He turns and wiggles his banana butt for effect as I open the door. I can’t even laugh, I’m so nervous about what I’m going to find inside.
It’s worse than I thought.
Gemma is on the floor, with my bag, the contents spilling from the top and my phone in her hand. She looks pissed.
I stop, my hand still on the doorknob. “What are you doing?” My voice is harsher than I intended and it garners a double take from Betsy and Jessica, who are already pajama’d and lying on a big air mattress.
“Cool your petite pants. I was going to bring you into the twenty-first century but your phone is dead.” She holds up my phone. “I can’t find your charger, though you must have had it because you took pictures at the party?”
I send up a prayer of thanks. Dear Lord, Thank you for my forgetfulness and this moment of charger absence. I don’t know what I did to deserve this small mercy but I am, forever, your humble servant. Amen. Joanna. Then to Gemma, “Really? Crap, I hope it didn’t drop out of my bag somewhere.”
Gemma flags out the top of my flannel pj set. “It’s probably in your car or something. Cute pajamas, though.”
The bathroom door opens and Mary Carlson walks out. In boxer shorts. And a faded youth group T-shirt. “You escaped from the jungle quicker than I expected.”
And even though my phone is safe, my damned beating heart starts up again.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
I’m surprised the whole house can’t hear it.
“Get changed.” Mary Carlson plops onto her king-sized bed. “You’re up here, with me and Gemma.”
Thud.
Eleven
THE NEXT MORNING, THE DANCE party is pretty uneventful. As in, it doesn’t happen. We go straight to parent-cooked breakfast, small talk around the kitchen table, and the promised feeding of the ducks. I was worried last night. Sleeping next to an off-limits girl I’m attracted to? Potential trouble. Or at least a long, sleepless night. But by the time I got out of the bathroom, Gemma was already in the middle of the bed, saving me from the spot next to Mary Carlson. We went right to sleep. No drama.
Now Mrs. Bailey is kicking us out because their family has things to do. Mary Carlson barely waves good-bye as I walk to my car.
At home, Dad and Three are working on the flower beds in the yard of our new house, but I can tell they’re waiting for me.
“How’d it go?” Dad asks.
“Good.”
“Good?” Three asks.
“They liked your tote and . . .” I pause, letting the truth of what I’m going to say sink into my own sort-of-surprised brain. “I had fun.”
She smiles. “You sound shocked.”
I plop down on the sidewalk next to where they’re planting bulbs for next spring. “Maybe I am.” Because even without the self-created fiction of Mary Carlson’s flirting, I did have fun. Nobody was too wasted. Nobody was trying to outdo the person next to them with how utterly cool they were. Nobody was judging me.
“Joanna.”
I look up at the warmth in Dad’s voice.
“Have I told you lately that I love you and think you are perfect in every way?”
I curse the emotion welling in my throat.
“I know it’s hard being separated from Dana and your old friends. I’m not trying to change you. I hope you know that.”
He’s smooth. I’ll give him that. But his words don’t ring true. If he wasn’t trying to change me, he’d never have asked me to do this. He’d have stood up to Mrs. Foley and told her she was wrong and that I’m perfect the way I am. “I guess.”
“Even if Elizabeth and I are blessed enough to conceive at some point, you will always be my first and my only Joanna. Irreplaceable. And sometimes that means protecting you from things you can’t see. Like bigotry.” He sighs. “I just want to keep you safe, sweetheart.”
I lose my words for a second. A baby? They’re already talking about a family? I glance at Three and feel a different thud in my heart, the one that has wished for years for a sibling. Two the shrew would never commit to children. If Three is talking about kids, maybe she really does love my dad.
Dad starts talking again. “Rome’s a small town. A different place than Atlanta. Viewpoints are changing, but high school is hard enough without giving them fuel for the fire. Plus . . .” He glances at Three.
“Reputations,” I say and stab the trowel into the dirt.
“That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say for me . . .” He clears his throat. “. . . for us, to really change hearts and minds in the ministry, I don’t think it can be a personal crusade.”
It sounds crazy to me. What better way to get people to empathize than to say, Look, here’s my daughter, is she not made in God’s image? But my dad is a smart man, so I keep my mouth shut and trust him to know best.
/>
Dana, when I finally get in touch with her, is pissed. “I fucking hate this. Your dad’s an asshole and now you’re blowing me off because you’re having straight girl fantasies. Next thing I know you’re going to be telling me you for real have a boyfriend and are soooo in looooove.”
“Dana, it’s not like that. I’m just saying it was sort of wild to be normal for a night. Nobody looked at me sideways or whispered in their friend’s ear when I walked into the room. It was easy.”
“Well, of course it’s goddamn easy! None of us fucking choose to be hated by still way too much of the population of the world. Or beaten up in a dark alley. Or thrown out of our house like my friend Holly.”
“You’re being dramatic, Dana. I’m not trying to unqueer myself. I’m just saying, it’s kind of nice to take a minute to be quiet about it.”
“Whatever, pass girl. You have to get your ass down here and prove to me how gay you are or I’m revoking your queer card.”
“Don’t be an asshole. There are as many flavors of queer as there are straight. I told you, the one girl Gemma was obsessed with getting onto my phone and by the sheer luck of the heavens and technology, it died. I wasn’t avoiding you and I’m not trying to fake who I am.”
“Girl in a Coma” is playing at top volume in the background and part of me wants nothing more than to get in my car, drive straight to Dana and her mom’s condo, and have a throw-down head-banging dance party in her room. But there’s a new part, too. The part that thinks the constant bickering of Gemma, Jessica, and Betsy is kind of fun, and the part that knows being grounded in Rome-boring-as-hell-Georgia would be its own brand of torture. And then there’s Mary Carlson. She has this really pretty golden blond hair on her arms, and a birthmark shaped like an exclamation point on the side of her neck and . . . I clear my throat before I completely lose my train of thought. “Believe me, I miss the hell out of you, and listening to Nina sing isn’t helping. I’m in country radio hell up here. But Dad will kill me if I just take off. I promised him I’d be cool. Besides, you’ve got plenty of other girls to keep you entertained.”
She laughs. “Damn straight I do. But I hope you’re not going be a total pussy this summer.”
Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit Page 7