Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit (12 page)

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 way 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?

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.”

She shakes her head, still laughing, but then her phone rings. “Ministry of Love, Althea speaking. What can God do for you today?”

As she listens to the caller, I flip open my Latin book and start to write down vocabulary words, then my phone buzzes. It's Mary Carlson.

I'm bored. Practice got cancelled.

Want to hit some balls?

No, Barnum's with me.

“That's an awful big smile on your face, my girl. Who you talking to? Your friend Dana?” Althea's hung up the phone and is crinkling her eyes at me again.

“Actually, no. It's my friend Mary Carlson. The golfer.”

I text back.

You want to do something else.

Duh.

Should I meet you? Or you could pick me up at my dad's ministry station.
I text her the address.

Awesome. I'll pick you up in ten.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, in walk Mary Carlson and B.T.B., twin superpower smiles activated. My stomach does triple forward handsprings. She's so damn pretty. I can't believe I called George my boyfriend.

“Althea, these are my friends B.T.B. and Mary Carlson.”

Althea stands up and comes around the desk to give them each a strong-armed Althea hug. She pushes B.T.B. back. “Child. I don't call anyone by initials. Please tell me you have a baptismal name.”

“Barnum Thomas Bailey!”

“Why, that's a beautiful name.”

“Yes, ma'am, it is. And just like the men who ran the circus, I love elephants!”

“All right then, Barnum. I can already tell you and I are going to be grand friends. Elephants are special animals.” She turns her healing light on Mary Carlson. “And you, sweet thing, you've gone and gotten yourself a friend in my Joanna, I see.”

Mary Carlson's glasses slip as she ducks her head. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Ooh, and manners, too.” Althea looks at me. “I like this one.”

She knows me better than anyone. Even my dad at times. I figure she's already seen straight through me and my secret feelings.

“Where y'all headed on this beautiful fall afternoon?”

“Paradise.” B.T.B. throws his arms wide.

“Paradise?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Mary Carlson steps closer. “Paradise Gardens. It's up in Summerville, about forty minutes north. This
folk artist, Howard Finster, lived there and they've turned his house and gardens into a historic site. It's pretty crazy and completely awesome.”

It's hard to turn off the crush. Every time I lump Mary Carlson into some white Baptist girl box, she surprises me. Bored usually means Starbucks, or grabbing an ice cream downtown. Bored rarely means a genuine cultural learning experience.

“We better get going. They close at five, if we leave now, we'll have about forty minutes to wander around.”

“I'll let your dad know, child.” Althea waves me out.

Barnum gives me shotgun. It's the first time I've been next to Mary Carlson since golf and the pizza shop snafu. During school this week she was super involved with homework, always running off to the library away from everyone, complaining about how behind she was. I'm hoping it's not because of me and my stupid proclamation.

“How's all your school work going?”

“Oh, it's good. Getting caught up. How's George?”

Maybe it's my own guilt, but I swear I detect the slightest bit of melancholy in her voice.

“Good, I guess.”

“You guess?” Her eyes are focused intently on the traffic, but I get the feeling she's completely tuned in for my answer.

“Yeah. It was probably premature for me to call him my boyfriend, you know? We only had one sort of real date.”

“You seemed pretty confident to me. Even after you seemed so confident about not wanting a boyfriend.”

I can't look at her, so I turn in my seat and use B.T.B. as a diversion tactic. “So this artist guy. His work is cool?”

Objective achieved. B.T.B. fills the awkward silence with facts about Howard Finster and the pieces with Elvis and the bottle wall at the gardens and there's even an elephant or two in some of his work.

When we get there, we park and B.T.B. charges ahead of us to the gardens, excited to explore. But Mary Carlson lags and I get the feeling this drive out to the middle of nowhere was not really about being bored. We walk into the building and look around. There are stories and pictures of Howard Finster's life on the walls.

“This stuff is cool.” I like the work. It's folkish and funky, plywood cutouts covered with bright paint, scrawls of scripture and advice in black Sharpie handwriting.

“Yeah, it is. My dad always liked his stuff. He's got a couple of Coke bottles and an Elvis piece in his office.”

We push through the doors out into the gardens. I walk a few steps in front of Mary Carlson, ready to find B.T.B. “Um, Joanna. Can you hold up a sec?” When I turn, she's
stopped in the path and has her hands shoved into her back pockets.

“Yeah?” My stomach ratchets into nerve overdrive. Something is up.

Just off the path is a wall made of concrete and Coke bottles turned so the ends create the illusion of clear stone. She walks over to it and sits. I follow her. A massive live oak with low-hanging branches spreads out around us. “Look, I want to apologize,” she says.

“Apologize?”

She lifts her hands to a low limb, stands up, then swings, her shirt riding up to show the slightest belly pooch and the same fine down of blond hair as her arms. The belly button piercing surprises me. She drops down again and stands against the rough trunk. “Just let me talk, okay?”

I sit cross-legged on the bottle wall. “Sure.”

She takes an enormous breath, and when she talks it's so fast it jumbles together. “I know I've been acting weird, in the movie theater, and at the golf course, and the thing is I thought—oh never mind . . .” She pulls herself up onto a branch, where she drops her face in her hands and lets her feet swing.

My heart is racing.

She starts talking again, more to the tree than me. “What you need to know and please promise me you
won't freak out because I would never ever do anything you didn't want and I really like you but, oh my God.” She pauses and gulps air again. “Remember that seven minutes in heaven game we were talking about?”

“Yeah.” My voice catches on the way out.

“I completely gagged when Chaz tried to kiss me. His feelings were hurt so bad he told everyone I was a dyke. Those were the rumors he started and the mean words Barnum doesn't like. But he was . . . right. I like girls and have for a while and I like you.” She glances at me for a second, then looks at the bark again.

I open my mouth to respond but only a squeak comes out.

She holds up her hand. “Stop. You don't have to say anything. If I didn't get it out it was going to kill me. And I'm sure you don't like me, but now that it's out we can move on and be friends again and I can let go of this stupid crush.” She looks at me now. “Or do you think I'm vile?”

My brain is exploding in Paradise. She likes me. This beautiful, athletic, faithful, nice girl likes
me,
Jo Guglielmi. Except not really. I'm Joanna Gordon and she doesn't think I'm queer, too. “You're not vile.”

“No?” She's hesitant now.

I stand up and grab the branch next to where she's sitting. The bark is warm and rough and alive. “Uh-uh.”

So many roads are diverging in front of me now. The one that admits the truth and officially outs myself in Rome, Georgia, to the detriment of summer plans, my radio show, my father's wishes, and maybe my social life. The one that denies and loses out on this chance for the perfect girlfriend. And the third path, the one that plays along and admits some mutual feelings but maybe doesn't share the all of it. I twirl, holding on to the branch with one hand. “So are you like, questioning, or something?”

She crosses her arms and shakes her head. “No.” There's beautiful defiance on her face. “I'm sure of who I am. But I've never found a person to make it worthwhile to come out for. I always thought I'd wait till I got to college.”

This. Is. Perfect. If she's waiting until college, then maybe we could start something. A secret something.

From ahead of us B.T.B. calls, “Come on, slowpokes.”

I yell back, “Coming!”

Mary Carlson jumps down from the tree, landing gracefully in front of me. “I figured since you moved from Atlanta you'd be more understanding. And . . .” She trails her fingers along the bottle wall. “I kind of thought—forget it.” She cuts herself off again. “So you and George, huh?”

“Me and George,” I say, then kick myself. What am I doing?

“Too bad. I was hoping you'd save me from Chaz.”

Have you ever had that feeling of a football pummeling into your chest and knocking all the breath out of it? Yeah. Then I realize I've stopped walking and she's ahead of me. Mary Carlson turns back. “You okay?”

“I didn't really kiss George,” I blurt.

She tilts her head. “You didn't?”

“No, he likes Gemma. I said that for her benefit.”

“He does? You did?” Now Mary Carlson looks confused.

I take a few steps closer to her. “If I tell you something, you have to swear not to tell anybody.”

“Okay.” Her word is a drawl.

“I've thought about kissing you ever since the night you put my lip gloss on for me.” That is definitely not a lie.

“You have?” She steps closer, her hands hanging by her sides.

I nod. My breath comes in shallow sprints.

“Wow,” she says. “I'd hoped . . .” She stops talking and reaches out for my hand, gently touching the tips of my fingers.

Oh. My. God. This feeling is like squealing and fireworks, and fuck, I'm not supposed to be getting involved with a girl. Especially not a girl from a conservative Rome family, like Mary Carlson.

“So you like me?” she whispers.

I nod.

“It's okay, Joanna. We'll figure it out together.”

I know I should tell her right now that I'm gay. Have been gay. Could write the book on being a teenage lesbian. But somehow this feels sweeter. Special. Mary Carlson gets to make the decisions. Write our story.

“So now what?” I circle my toe in the dirt, instinctually drawing a heart, then quickly brushing it away before she sees.

She lifts one brow and tilts her head. “I have some ideas.”

I drop my hand and pinch the side of my thigh to remind myself I am really standing here and this is really happening.

B.T.B. calls from ahead of us, “Jo . . . anna! Mary Carlson! Come on.”

She turns to walk toward him and beckons for me, her hand out for mine. It's no different than at the football game, but now I'm shy. Now it means something.

“Come on,” she says. “You don't want to keep my brother waiting.” When she notices my hesitation, she softens. “It's okay, nobody will think anything about it. We'll be okay.”