Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit

by Jaye Robin Brown

  I pick up my phone and scroll through texts. Some funny ones from B.T.B., mostly GIFs of elephants or dancing bananas, but he sent me a few family photos of him as a kid—that just happened to include his sister. And then the texts with Mary Carlson.

  Here’s what I’ve learned about her this week. She knows she’s not good enough for the LPGA but she doesn’t care. She likes the mental flow of the game and challenging herself. She’s not a vegetarian but she is an environmentalist and the whole growing-food-to-feed-cows-instead-of-people thing bothers her enough that she quit eating hamburgers. Her favorite childhood vacation was to Yellowstone even though her father almost ran over an elk. (That one I learned from B.T.B.) She loves her brother, her parents, and her old dog, Sugar, who they had to put down just before I moved here. She also talks a lot when she’s nervous. She talks a lot around me.

  Three is standing at the counter when I come downstairs to make a smoothie. “About to get your golf on, huh?” She plunges the strainer down on the French press. The smell makes me forget my plans for an energy-building healthy breakfast. Dad’s voice rings from the radio on the counter. He’s preaching about grace in the face of hardship.

  “You have enough for me?” I eyeball the level of liquid through the glass.

  Three pulls two mugs off the shelf and pours, then hands me a cup of black coffee. Since our trip to Atlanta together, our quiet has become easier, less awkward. Knowing she’s not after my dad’s money helps. And the way she was so cool at Hellcat, like maybe my sexuality doesn’t freak her out, was pretty big, too.

  “Is she taking you to her golf club?”

  I nod. “I think so.”

  There’s a pause in Dad’s sermon for a commercial break and my voice comes through the speakers. “Hi, this is Joanna Gordon.” Then Dad, “And this is Reverend Gordon.”

  Three points at the radio. “That’s cool.”

  “Crazy. I can’t believe he finally agreed.”

  She sips her coffee. “A youth voice is important. I think it’s smart.”

  But am I smart? I have purposely finagled golf lessons from a girl I’m hard-core crushing on, and even if by some miracle it’s mutual, I’ve promised not to do a damn thing about it.

  Three interrupts my thoughts. “Do you know what you’re wearing?”

  “She said something about khakis and a collared shirt. We wear the same size shoes, so she has me covered with those and she’s bringing me gloves.”

  “Do you have a collared shirt?”

  “Um, I don’t think I have what she means. Do you?”

  Three puts down her cup. “Be right back.”

  She returns with a green Izod shirt. “I tried to play with a couple of friends from school. Never could get into it. Keep this. You might find out you have talent.”

  “I could use a talent.”

  Three smiles. “Have fun, Joanna. Mary Carlson is a great girl.”

  Does she mean something by that? But when I look back, her head is tilted down to her tablet and she seems so unconcerned that I brush it off.

  Eighteen

  MARY CARLSON’S GOLF CLUB IS very elegant and very, very old-school Southern.

  “What is this place?” I crane my head around, peering at the crystal chandeliers and massive oil paintings of dark-suited white men on the wall.

  She smirks. “The home of patriarchy. But they have a killer nine-hole course and my parents pay dues, so I play free.”

  “Isn’t golf eighteen holes?”

  “Yeah, but we can only use that course for golf team practice during the week. These old men get snippy about teenage girls marring their eighteen holes on the weekend.”

  “Better snippy than pervy.”

  “Hah.” She smiles. “You’re funny. And twisted. Anyway, come on. We’re not playing either course today. I’m taking you out to the driving range to work on your stance and swing.” She motions for me to follow her and we cut down hallways cushioned in thick carpet and dotted with dark wood pieces of furniture, gilt-framed mirrors hanging above them. She’s totally in her element, chin up, her stride long and confident—even her messy hair is sleek, pushed back under a visor into a ponytail. We cut right, and left, then right again and push out through swinging glass doors. A couple of sparrows take off from where they’d been pecking at the stone pathway.

  “This place is huge.”

  “Taj Magolf.” She flashes that smile over her shoulder. “That’s what my dad calls it. Come on. We need to pop into the locker room and grab my clubs. I’ve got shoes and a pair of gloves for you in there.”

  Oh, what sweet lesbian fantasies are made of. Me and Mary Carlson, alone in the ladies’ locker room.

  Except we’re not. There’s a foursome of sixty-something women crooning around a phone. Pictures of someone’s grandchild, it sounds like. One of the women looks up as we’re grabbing gear out of the locker. “How you doing, Mary Carlson? Have you seen my Emma’s new baby girl?”

  “No, ma’am.” Mary Carlson’s voice is thicker than usual and her eyelashes bat a little sweeter. She peeks over her shoulders and lets out an appropriate ooh-and-ah response.

  The same lady looks back at me. “Are you at the high school?”

  I follow Mary Carlson’s lead. “Yes, ma’am.” Then, for added respectability, “My father married Elizabeth Foley.”

  That gets all the ladies to look. I’m kind of extra glad I dressed the part, at least for Mary Carlson’s sake. The first lady nods and smiles. “Nice family, the Foleys. But not golfers. Do you golf?”

  Mary Carlson bounces over to me and grabs my arm. “I’ve finally found a willing victim. It’s her first day on the driving range.”

  One of the other ladies winks. “It’s your lucky day then. That new golf pro, Harrison, is working the range this morning.”

  “Now Mrs. Shelton, what are you doing looking at that golf pro?” Mary Carlson puts a hand on her hip.

  All four ladies cackle and elbow each other.

  Mary Carlson whispers, “Come on, let’s give them the slip before we get an earful of you’re never too old to look.” She grabs her clubs and clomps toward the door. The women are still laughing as we push out into the bright sunshine.

  The range is pretty cool. A neat row of little turf squares, complete with a rack for your golf bag and a bucket of balls at the ready. Even a guy down in a truck at the far end of the range. I guess he’s there to pick up the balls. I hope I don’t bust his window. There are a couple of old guys nearest the building. A mom with her son a bit farther down. “Come on, let’s go to the end.” Mary Carlson points at the farthest slot. “That way nobody will start bugging us about what clubs we’re using or try to teach us all they know. I’d rather get that crap from my coach.”

  A chiseled guy with surprisingly surfer-length blond hair steps in front of us. “Hey, ladies.”

  This must be Harrison. I would have guessed it without the embroidery on his shirt.

  “Well, hey there.” Mary Carlson smiles sweetly at him, but it’s the faux smile.

  “Need some assistance this morning?” Harrison seems overeager. And given the other options of who he could put his hands on to help with proper body stance, I can see how he’d zero in on us.

  “Nope. We’re good. Thanks.” She keeps smiling but her look is Get the fuck out of our way.

  Harrison’s chin does this retract-a-move, like he can’t believe his California boy charm isn’t working on the teen girls. And I’m kind of with him. He’s a straight girl’s wet dream. But Mary Carlson’s not buying, and this lights me up inside. Even though it shouldn’t.

  “Uh. Okay then.” He steps sideways to let us pass. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  Mary Carlson sets us up at the far end, then pulls out a club from her bag. “Let’s start with the six-iron and see how you do.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  She flips her ponytail over her shoulder and looks sideways in my direction. “I like the w
ay you say that.”

  My stomach twists and leaps. I have to look away because I want to jump your bones has got to be written all over my face.

  She steps to the green. “Okay, watch me.”

  Yes, Mary Carlson. I will most definitely watch you.

  She stands shoulder width apart and places her hands on the club. Her face is warrior fierce. She pulls back and swings, the ball flies true, and her body twists, the club high over her opposite shoulder.

  I whistle. “Nice.”

  “Told you I was baller.”

  “Yeah, total baller.” I lift my eyebrows for effect. Her eyes widen slightly and I do a quick backpedal. “In golf, that’s all I meant. Golf.”

  “Come over here and I’ll show you how badass I am.”

  My legs have gone completely spaghetti on me. Does she even know how hot she sounds to me? I step up next to her and she hands me the club. She puts a hand on each of my hips and sort of pushes me into position.

  “Feet should line up just outside your shoulder blades. Slight bend to your knees. Right hand below your left on the shaft.” She steps up behind me and brings her arms around, adjusting my gloved hands. Then she taps my right thigh. “This foot, bring it out slightly.”

  Without even being aware I’m doing it, I lean into her touch so our bodies are vertically spooning. Her mouth is in the general vicinity of my right ear, and I feel the rhythm of her breath picking up with each passing second. We stay locked—me in front with the club, her arms wrapped around to guide mine—for a few silent seconds longer than is probably normal for just friends.

  She jumps away like I’ve scalded her. “You know, I think I should go get Harrison. He’ll be better at teaching you this.”

  I grab her as she starts to walk away. She needs to know whatever it is that keeps happening between us doesn’t freak me out. “Stay, Mary Carlson. I don’t need Harrison.”

  Her in-her-element confidence is rattled. “I, it’s not, I think . . .”

  “Puh-lease. You’re going to let some jank-haired surfer-looking dude show you up? I thought you told me you had skills. Can I hit this ball or what?” I look directly into her eyes and keep mine dead neutral.

  She takes a breath and smooths her shirt with gloved hands. “Are you sure?” There’s dread in her voice. Like she’s waiting for me to take off screaming for the queer police or something.

  “Why wouldn’t I be sure? Did you do something wrong?”

  “Um, well.” She looks back, like maybe someone else will have the answer.

  “Come on.” I motion for her. “Show me how to whack the shit out of this ball.”

  This cracks open her smile. “Well, if you put it like that.” She steps to the green and we pick up where we left off, this time plenty of blue sky between our bodies.

  Mary Carlson is a good teacher and we spend a couple of hours getting my drive somewhere between out to left field and passable. When Harrison trots down with a fourth bucket of balls, I groan over my six-iron. “So. Very. Tired.”

  “Time to pack it up?” She wipes her brow with a cloth from her bag and hands me my own sweat rag. “I’m dying for a big glass of sweet tea.” She glances at her watch. “We can grab one here, then meet the others.”

  “Uh-huh.” I slide down into a cross-legged heap where I was standing. “How’d I do?”

  “A few more lessons and we’ll get you out on the course.”

  “Promise?”

  Her smile is shy this time. “Yeah. I promise. If you want.”

  “I want.” Any subtext she reads is okay by me.

  Turns out, Gemma and George had as big a day as we did and I can see it written all over George’s face. Our farce seems kind of slapstick at this point. Can Gemma and Mary Carlson not see right through us? I swear people see only what they want to see.

  “Girl.” Gemma is attacking a slice of veggie pizza. In between bites she’s regaling us with coaster stories. “You should have seen your man. We were in the front car and he’s all, ‘Hands up, playing our song’ as we went down that drop. Boy has no fear.”

  I’d like to say one date doesn’t constitute him being my man, but one, that’d be kind of rude, and two, Gemma seems determined to keep us in her tidy box of couples.

  Mary Carlson, not to be out-boasted, chimes in. “Well, Joanna here is working her way toward a mean slice with a six-iron. And . . .” She nudges George with her elbow. “She didn’t even look once at the hot new golf pro.”

  “Did you?” Gemma tilts her cup so the straw points at Mary Carlson.

  Mary Carlson smirks. “Of course.”

  Not. She has to be gay. Why else would she say that unless she was hiding? She didn’t even look cross-eyed at Harrison. Am I completely crazy? This whole Rome experience is tilting my equilibrium, and I’m not sure what’s fact or what’s fiction.

  Before we finish the pizza, a familiar-looking group of people walks in. It’s Three’s brother, his boys, age five and seven, and my step-grandmother, Mrs. Foley.

  “How you doing, Joanna?” My new uncle stops his family train at our table. Mrs. Foley glances around the table, assessing the company I’m keeping.

  “Real well, thank you.” I put my slice of pizza down and raise my hand, palm out. “These are my friends Gemma and Mary Carlson.”

  “And who’s this?” Mrs. Foley asks, referring to George. “Is this the boy Elizabeth told me about? The one you’ve been seeing?”

  Oh my God. Who does that? But the truth, though false, comes straight out of my mouth in reply. “Yes, this is George. Um, my boyfriend, I guess.” What devil with six heads prompted me to utter those words out loud? Up until this point I’d gotten by on suggestive looks or letting other people do the talking, but I just flat-out lied. And for what? My uptight grandmother?

  Apparently so, because her face relaxes and she actually looks pleased.

  “Well.” My uncle winks at George. “It’s awful nice to meet you all. You’ll have to come out to the farm sometime with Joanna and go fishing.” They stand there grinning at me like a couple of fools until the boys start whining and they walk off to find a table.

  Now, even though I know I’ve done exactly what my Dad and Three wanted, I’m left with Mary Carlson’s confused eyes and George’s pissed-off face.

  I clear my throat. “What? You didn’t want me to introduce you to my family?”

  George colors and mumbles something about getting the pizza to go. Mary Carlson scoots back in her chair so fast it scrapes a scream on the tile floor. Gemma keeps chewing on her straw, for once clueless about the massive elephant in the room.

  Me?

  I don’t know what to think anymore. Except that it was easy to tell my new family a lie. And it was easy to pretend with George. Didn’t Mary Carlson lie about noticing the golf pro? What does it matter if I put on a show, too?

  Nineteen

  IT’S BEEN A FEW DAYS since the pizza shop incident and I’ve thought incessantly about what I did. Mary Carlson, if she is questioning her sexuality, lied to keep up a façade, until she figures shit out. I have no good excuse. My half-truths were keeping me going. I didn’t need to call George my boyfriend. But something about Mrs. Foley staring me, and him, in the face gave me word blurt. The hate talk is alive and well in this town. From kids talking smack in the halls at school to the lead pastor at Foundation Baptist. So I forgive myself my sins and move on.

  Dana calls me as I’m driving away from school and I press speaker.

  “What’s up, girl?”

  “Had to use my new phone, pronto.”

  “Oh yeah?” Dana’s mom is a NICU nurse and does pretty well, but when you’re raising two kids on your own, the money isn’t really there for fancy extras. So a new phone is big news. “What’d you get?”

  “Big-ass Samsung with all the features.”

  Then I hear an overloud screechy voice in the background. “Tell her who made that happen for you, baby girl.”

  Ugh. Holly. And
is she for real calling Dana “baby girl”?

  “So Holly bought it for you?”

  “Nuh-uh. She’s teaching me business skillz. I got the money for this on my own.”

  “You have a job now?” Color me surprised.

  “Kind of, sort of. I have an enterprise, let’s put it like that.”

  Holly whispers something in the background, her tone harsh, and Dana replies in a whine, something about me being her best friend and being cool.

  “Dana? Is everything okay? This enterprise is legal, right?”

  “Hey, listen. We’ll talk more later. I want to hear what’s up with you.” Then she’s gone.

  I stare at the phone for a second, then shrug and turn up the volume on my music. I drive through the Starbucks for drinks—Americano for me, a hibiscus tea cooler for Althea, and a straight house blend for Dad. Half of my high school is in the parking lot but I don’t stop to chitchat.

  Traffic’s not bad, so I get to the station pretty quick. I push through the doors of the ministry, drink tray in hand.

  “How you doing, darling?” Althea’s wearing a magenta turban today and massive gold hoop earrings. “You settling in?”

  “Yeah. It’s better than I thought it would be.” I set her drink on her desk and let her kiss me on the cheek before I push through the office door. Dad waves me in but points at the recording light, so I’m extra quiet as I set his coffee down.

  Back in the lobby, I plop on the comfy chair nearest Althea’s reception desk. “Hey, guess what?”

  “What, sugar?”

  “I’m learning to golf.”

  This merits a full-on belly laugh. “Golf? Well, that I never would have figured, but I imagine it’ll be good for you to have a focus this year. Where are you learning this fine sport?”

  “At my friend Mary Carlson’s golf club. Big plantation-looking thing right outside town.”