Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit

by Jaye Robin Brown

  “You’re not leading George on, are you? He seems like a nice fellow.” Dad’s just in from running and is chugging a glass of water at the kitchen sink.

  “No, Dad, I told you. George is my Rome confidant. He has two moms. We’re friends.”

  “But maybe you might end up liking him?” There’s a tiny bit of hope in Three’s voice.

  “Not like that, Elizabeth.” It’s all I can do not to call her Three out loud in response to such a stupid question.

  The doorbell rings. Dad opens it.

  “Hi, Reverend Gordon. Is Joanna ready?”

  “Oh, please, this is not the fifties.” I shove past Dad, then turn at the last minute, standing on my tiptoes to kiss his rough-shaven cheek. “Love you, see you later.” Then I grab George’s sleeve and pull him down the steps, anxious to get to the car and Mary Carlson. “Come on.”

  “Midnight. No later,” Dad calls.

  George opens the car door for me and I barely remember that I’m supposed to be acting like he and I are actually on a date for Chaz’s sake. “Thanks,” I say, turning on the shy.

  George rolls his eyes, then in a sugary voice answers, “You’re very welcome.”

  “Ah, look at you two.” Mary Carlson’s turned around from the front seat of Chaz’s BMW. “Y’all look so sweet together. You look really pretty, Joanna.”

  My crazy brain is playing tricks again, because if I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was checking me out. I glance at George and he’s watching her, then he looks at me. I smile. Fast.

  “Thanks, you too.” I hadn’t factored George knowing my secret, and reading the interactions between Mary Carlson and me into the equation. Whatever I do, I can’t let my crush colors fly.

  “Y’all ready to massacre some pasta?” Chaz adjusts the rearview mirror to look at us.

  “Let’s do this.” George is all boy bravado.

  At the restaurant, the hostess leads us to our table. Chaz tries to finagle a bottle of the house Chianti, but it’s a no-go. The waitress isn’t buying his fake ID or our baby faces. “Besides,” she says to Mary Carlson, “your family’s been coming in here for two years and I know you and your twin are still in high school.” She leaves to get us nonalcoholic beverages.

  “B.T.B’s your twin?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Mary Carlson messes with her hair, pushing it back behind her ear, then pulling it forward again. “I’m pretty much the reason he’s the way he is. Mom says I was so anxious to get out of there, I left his cord in a tangle around him. He almost died from suffocation. Instead it just did something to his brain.” She acts kind of nonchalant, but the way her eyes won’t settle on any of us tells me it’s something that gnaws at her.

  “You can’t blame yourself for that.” George’s forehead gets all scrunchy and concerned.

  Mary Carlson sips her water. “I know.” She puts her glass down. “But I will make sure I’m there for him always and he never has to go live in a home or something. Whoever I marry is going to have to be cool with my brother being around. Elephant obsession and all.”

  Chaz inserts himself into the conversation. “B.T.B.’s all right. Too bad he never tried out for football again. He’s big. He’d be awesome on the defensive line.”

  “Football? B.T.B.? That’d be like putting a kitten down in the middle of a pack of coyotes.” I snag a bread stick as the waitress places them in front of us.

  “You got a problem with football players?”

  George is trying so hard not to laugh, the table’s practically bouncing. Maybe my tone was a bit derisive, but all Chaz was doing with that comment was angling for Mary Carlson’s good graces. It’s not like he understands anything about B.T.B.

  “No. Of course not. Only stating the obvious.” I smile, and fucking bat my eyelashes to counteract any feelings of ill will. “B.T.B’s pure of heart.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” Mary Carlson rewards my commentary with her wide smile. She breaks the tension with a single word. “Food?”

  “Right.” We open our menus and I’m debating the veal piccata or the angel hair with marinara when George scoots a little closer. This gains him a sharp glance, but the mirth in his eyes is a gentle reminder I’m forgetting to play my role. Chaz doesn’t know this is a friendship-only date.

  “So what do you like to eat here?” I angle my menu so he can see. George slides his hand along the back of the booth, close but not touching. I’m so focused on food I almost miss Mary Carlson staring at George’s arm. When she catches me looking, she purses her lips and rolls her eyes, sort of an oh, look at the two of you expression. Maybe, is it possible, that for half a second she looked bummed? George orders the veal and I get the angel hair with marinara. When our food comes, we share it like an old married couple, and I can feel Mary Carlson’s scrutiny. What I want to know is, why?

  When it’s time to leave, Chaz scores minor points by suggesting a quirky film about a group of high school students trying to win an international film competition, instead of the latest crash-and-bang blockbuster. It’s not what I’d expect from him, though I kind of hate that he’s more than just a pretty-faced jock. It also bugs me how happy Mary Carlson is with his choice. Not that she asked me what I’d pick.

  In the theater, Mary Carlson makes a big show of arranging us. “Chaz, you go first, then me, then you sit next to me, Joanna, then you next, George.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Chaz unfurls his hand and bows, prince-to-princess fashion. My stomach twists at his exaggerated chivalry.

  When we settle, Mary Carlson leans in for a whisper. “So, you seem really into George. Y’all act like you’ve been dating forever.”

  I turn slightly and good God it would be really easy to turn a little bit more and run my lips right into hers. Oops, so sorry, it was an accident. Also, I need to quit thinking like this. I am persona-non-girlfrienda this year.

  “He’s really growing on me. He’s super cute, don’t you think?” It’s a test to see if that disappointed expression in the restaurant had anything to do with George and me.

  She glances past me in his direction, managing to press her shoulder against mine in the process. “I guess.” Then she brightens. “I mean, yes, absolutely.”

  Interesting. I try another. “Do you think I should kiss him after all?”

  Her eyes widen. “Do you want to?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. But do you think I should?”

  About that time, Chaz, in the least subtle way possible, flings his hand across Mary Carlson’s shoulder, and I’m staring at his chunky fingers. They’re spies inserted across enemy lines.

  Her eyes look at his hand, then rise to look into mine. “You should do what makes you happy.” Which makes me wonder about her, when her unhappy eyes turn back to Chaz and instead of taking his hand off her shoulder, she snuggles into it.

  The trailers start to roll and the theater goes dark. The movie is one of those ensemble cast pieces where you get lost in the characters and their stories and you end up rooting for all of them. In my case, I’m rooting for the Latina girl who’s never been out of her tiny town. I’m also rooting for the redheaded girl director to kiss her. And finally, in a scene weighted with innuendo, I get my wish. With most of the cast out celebrating the shoot of a near-impossible scene, the two characters end up in the bathroom at the same time. All it takes is a look and the kiss is on.

  And here, in the theater, it’s on, too. Because Mary Carlson shifts her leg so it touches mine, and even though Chaz is definitely massaging her shoulder like it’s a football, she places her arm on the armrest between us. Where my arm already is. Our hands drape the end of the rest, side by side, neither of us moving to give the other room, the warmth of skin on skin fucking electric.

  Then, oddly enough, I think about George and our supposed date. I grab his hand with my right hand to tether me. Mary Carlson chooses the same moment to lift her pinky, and ever so slightly touch mine. I can’t breathe. This is the weirdest fucking moment in my
life, but I want to die in it. Like if God above decided this was it, I’d say, Take me.

  The scene ends.

  Mary Carlson pulls her hand and leg away.

  I take a deep, ragged breath.

  When I glance her way, she’s staring at the screen, a look of shock on her face. I panic for a second, guilty like I’ve done something wrong, then realize I didn’t do anything. My arm was already there, my leg was already there, and I didn’t lift my pinky.

  George squeezes my hand and I jump because I’d forgotten all about him. There’s laughter in his eyes, and thank goodness I have a friend who gets me, but oh shit, did he see? No. He’s laughing because I held his hand during a two-girls-kissing scene.

  Chaz of course is oblivious as he leans back behind us to mouth to George, “That was fucking hot, man.”

  Then his hand is back on Mary Carlson, but this time she stiffens. It’s slight enough he doesn’t notice.

  But I do.

  Fourteen

  AFTER THE MOVIE LETS OUT, things get weirder. Chaz holds Mary Carlson’s hand and George, in a show of solidarity, I guess, keeps holding mine. A couple of the alt girls I spotted on that first day of school are ahead of us, pinballing along, bumping into each other’s shoulders as they walk. I’m terrified to look at Mary Carlson. My imagination is good, but not brilliant enough to have concocted all of what happened back there. Or is it?

  “Freaking lezbos.” Chaz points at the girls in front of us. “It’s one thing to see two hot girls in a movie, but them . . .” He shudders without finishing his sentence. Oh man, this is hard. I want to jump all over his ass and feed it to him for dessert. Just because those girls don’t meet his internet porn ideals . . .

  George stiffens, squeezes my hand, and comes to his moms’ and my rescue. “Don’t be a douche, Talbott. We’re not living in the dark ages. Girls and girls get married now, you know.”

  “I don’t care what the law of the freaking land is, homes. It’s not God’s law and it’s not natural. Not like this.” He pulls Mary Carlson in closer, bringing his hand around to her belt loops until they’re connected at the hip.

  Mary Carlson giggles and squirms away from his hold. “Those girls are in drama. The one on the left was the lead in last year’s spring musical. I don’t think they’re gay. They’re nice.”

  Why are nice and gay mutually exclusive? Maybe the gaydar I hoped Mary Carlson was wielding is not as finely tuned as I dreamed, but more likely, it’s not there at all, because those girls definitely are together. But they’re also playing it really cool out in public, further evidence that my dad is wiser than I want to give him credit for.

  Chaz tries again to pull Mary Carlson closer. “But they’re not nice like this. One guy, one girl, just the way nature intended.”

  This time she doesn’t pull away. She tilts her chin up and lets him kiss her on the cheek. It’s chaste, but damn. My head is seriously being messed with.

  We pass the bathrooms. I have to pee, but there’s no way I’m mentioning it. Not after the scene in the movie and not with how weighted everything’s gotten. Mary Carlson might want to come with me, and then what? We slip into a stall, shut the door, turn to one another . . . as if. I think my gaydar stopped working the minute I moved here and was replaced with a wishful-thinking gene.

  “You two up for Starbucks, then the field party?” Chaz asks.

  It sucks to do this to Mary Carlson, but after that moment in the theater, I need to go home. She’s got me all confused, and I might do something totally stupid if given a moment alone with her. Dinner and a movie was what she asked for; nothing was said about a field party. “I need to get home.”

  “You can’t go home.” Mary Carlson’s voice is a plea, but her eyes, moon wide, are dancing everywhere, like they physically can’t look at me.

  George complains, “It’s only nine thirty. Your dad said midnight. There might be other people at the party.”

  Crap. I forgot about the whole ploy to help George get with Gemma. But in the manner of small miracles, out walk Gemma and her date from another theater. Marcus is about six foot two, built, and he looks like one of the actors in the movie we just saw.

  George pales.

  I lift feeble fingers in a wave.

  Mary Carlson bounds over to her in exaggerated leaps. “Gemma! Please tell me you’re going to go with us to the cow patty party.”

  The cool thing would be for me to pull her aside and tell her it’s okay if she’s questioning and she doesn’t need to panic. But how would I even know that? Jump to wild conclusions much? Besides, I made a promise to my dad and myself, even Dana. If I open my mouth to Mary Carlson, I’m going to tell her everything and then I will bust a can of worms wide open. And seriously, who am I kidding? I’m reading this entire thing through a seriously skewed and wishful lens.

  “Of course we’re going.” Gemma turns to get Marcus’s confirmation, but he’s got his phone out, flipping through something on the screen, ignoring her. Her eyes narrow and it’s like I can hear the “Oh no he didn’t” loud as a bullhorn.

  I whisper to George, “He may be a stud. But pretty is as pretty does.”

  “You two are coming, too, right?” Gemma directs the comment at George.

  “Uh, no. Joanna needs to get home. Think you can swing us back by my car?” He looks at Chaz, now standing behind Mary Carlson with his arms wrapped around her. She’s got the hundred-watt artificial bulb shining in response, but her eyes are doing that dart and panic thing again.

  “No prob, man. Maybe we’ll change your mind.”

  George glances toward Gemma, who is now clutching Marcus’s hand. “Doubtful,” he murmurs. It’s a weird night for both of us, I guess. He seems pretty bummed.

  In the parking lot, Chaz makes his first significant play, pulling Mary Carlson’s held hand, swinging her around in front of him, then without so much as sweet talk or how do you do leans down and presses those perfect fat hetero lips against hers. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” he says soft, but loud enough that I hear. God, what cheesy movie did he get that line from?

  Mary Carlson bounces away from him, a flush on her cheeks. She takes off running, grabbing his hand in the process. When they get to his car she kisses him, before sliding into the passenger seat.

  What am I doing? This is the stupidest night of my entire life. I can’t believe I allowed myself even a minute of fantasy back there in the movie.

  Mary Carlson prattles the whole way to George’s house. She never mentions the film. She never mentions the girls we saw. She never even mentions Gemma and her date. She literally talks for fifteen minutes straight about nail polish, which, coincidentally, I’ve not really seen her wear. By the time Chaz drops us off, I feel like an inmate on release day.

  Once I’m home, I text Dana. She’ll be able to walk me through this and shine some light on the madness. More than anything, I want to see her in person.

  I’m dying up here.

  I wait. And wait. And wait some more. No response. Has she forgotten me already?

  Fifteen

  “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.”