Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit (15 page)

AFTER WEEKS OF PREPARATION, WRITING,
and rewriting after my homework is done, Dad has finally given me the approval to tape our first show, and just in time. It's two weeks until November 3, the date we've been advertising as the start of
Keep It Real
. Because of college looming—Dad's reasoning—combined with his fear of my saying something he's not ready to go live with yet—my reasoning—we're not doing the shows live. Eventually, once we're sure there's interest, we'll do the occasional live show and record it as we air it. What's cool is people will be able to download the podcasts, and who knows, it could even get picked up for syndication by a larger station. But before I let my dreams get ahead of me, we need to get the
first show in the can.

Dad and I pull into the station, and even though there's no audience, no one to watch me or judge me, and all the digital space in the world for me to fix my mistakes, I'm still nervous. This feels big, like my future.

“You ready, kid?”

I wave my sheaf of papers at him. “Ready.”

He pauses for a second and stares, then reaches out to tuck a little piece of hair behind my ear. “Sometimes it's hard for me to believe how much you've grown up.”

“Dad, you're not getting all sappy on me, are you?” Even though I'm teasing him, the moment of tenderness still makes me swell up inside. I will always be my father's daughter.

“Nope. All business. Let's go make a radio show.”

Inside, Jamal waits for us and gets us settled with our mics and equipment.

The first show is easy. We're simply having a conversation.

“
Keep It Real
,” my dad says. “What made you decide youth-oriented programming was what Wings of Love was missing?”

“Well, Reverend Gordon, um, Dad.” Cue his radio chuckle. “As a youth myself, sometimes I feel like the ministry is geared toward adults and the problems y'all have in
the world. I wanted a show where I could see myself in it. I want to listen to other people my age talk about problems in our world, like navigating social media, dating, being ostracized for having faith, not about divorce and jobs and other things you grown-ups deal with.”

“You know, we grown-ups are as concerned about youth issues as you are.”

“True,” I say. “But you have your voices heard all the time. This is about us talking to one another.”

We go through a few more of the points on our list, and the conversation flows easily. Of course I'm champing at the bit to talk about the meatier issues, but I've been reminding myself since we started—foot in the door, foot in the door.

We wrap up the first segment and take a break.

Jamal gives me a thumbs-up. “You sounded good, Jo. Strong, clear voice, with a hint of smokey that will keep them coming back to listen. You had me believing.”

“Thanks, man.” I feel the grin stamped on my face.

It's really happening.

I have a radio show.

It's a few nights before the broadcast, cool, with a clear sky and stars for miles. Most sane people would be at home in front of heaters or fireplaces. But Mary Carlson and I are
in downtown Rome, sitting on the steps of the municipal building and staring at the bronze statue of Romulus and Remus suckling from the overlarge teats of a female wolf.

“It's weird, isn't it,” she says. “How everyone in this town looks at this statue like it's the most normal thing in the world, but let us walk around town holding hands and half of them will shoot off about how unnatural it is.”

“I don't think it's as bad in bigger cities.”

She shrugs. “Maybe not. But I don't want to leave Rome. I love it here. Whether I'm into girls or not. I plan on going to college, getting my special education degree, and coming back here to teach. Plus, Barnum is happy here and he's part of my future.”

I grab her mittened hand. “You're so cool about him. I admire that you know what you want to do.” I scoot closer. “And I think you're amazing.” What I really want to say is “I love you,” but I'm too scared and it's too soon.

She smiles. “You, too, Jo.” Then her smile drops and she grows serious. “But we can't keep doing this. I love our stolen moments.” She reaches a woolen finger to my lips. “And kissing you. But this is real for me. I need to tell my parents. My friends. I need to figure out what this is going to look like for me. Long term. It's been five weeks now and it's making me kind of sick inside.”

My stomach churns with the exact feeling she's
describing. “I know. Can you give me till Thanksgiving? Let me get past the big family holiday before I spring this on them?” I've been thinking about it and she's right, I can't keep hiding this either. Plus, there are all the things Dana said, and my lying. If I don't come clean, this will end badly. But letting Dad have one big family holiday together where Mrs. Foley can bask in my charm and manners seems like a good finish line to aim for.

“Thanksgiving?”

I lean into her, snuggling for warmth. “Right after.” Guilt gnaws inside me. Will I really be able to give up the radio show? The first show went really well. We completely avoided the gay, but I can feel it coming, if not from me, then from someone calling in. When that happens, I want to be ready, and I can't be ready if my show's been cancelled.

Mary Carlson pokes my side and interrupts my thoughts. “Maybe your dad will let me spend the night?” She waggles her eyebrows. “You know, before we tell them.”

I know exactly what she's getting at, but it won't work. I haven't been able to have female sleepovers in a long time, at least not in my room. Dad would sooner have George in my bedroom than Mary Carlson. With all our pile-of-girl slumber parties at Mary Carlson's house, it will be hard to explain why she has to sleep in the guest room.

Except.

“Dad and Elizabeth are going out of town soon.” My eyes widen at my own confession.

Mary Carlson giggles. “No Barnum to barge in.”

“A night to ourselves.”

This quiets both of us. And for once, I'm actually on the same page as her. For the couple of times I've had extreme make-out sessions in the corner of some pop-up dance party or in the backseat of someone's car, I've never slept overnight with someone I cared about. I've never actually cared about someone enough to consider it.

A cop pulls up to the curb, and out of habit we scoot apart a few inches.

“Ladies, it's an awful cold night to be sitting outside. You have somewhere else to be?”

“Yes, sir.” Mary Carlson's honey blond hair and Bailey smile merit kindness from the cop. I think about how if it were me and Dana sitting here in days of old, he might not be as good cop about it all.

We walk to my car. “You want to go to the radio station?”

“Is your dad there?”

I shake my head no. Mary Carlson nudges me. “I see where this is going.”

“Actually, there's something I want you to listen to.” I
haven't told her about my show yet. In fact, I haven't told any of them. George heard the teaser and asked me about it, but we got interrupted and I never explained. Somehow speaking about it makes it seem like it might crumble and disappear.

The radio station is dark except for the dim light in the lobby and the motion light that flips on outside. Mary Carlson huddles next to me as I thumb through my keys. “I hope the heat is on in there.”

Her answer is in the whoosh of warm air as I push inside. She reaches for the light switch.

“Don't,” I say.

“Will your dad be mad?”

“Not really, but if the light's on and someone drives by with a problem of faith they might stop in.”

“Got it.” She bundles behind me, putting her arms around my waist and her chin on my shoulder as we walk toward Althea's desk and the door leading to Dad's offices and the recording booth. Once through it, I flip on a light.

Mary Carlson peers around. It's not much to see. A conference room, a file room, Dad's office, a small kitchen, a secondary office for his guest hosts, and the recording rooms, two of them.

“Want some hot chocolate?”

“Really? You're asking?”

In the kitchen I pour packets of cinnamon-flavored Abuelita chocolate into mugs, then add milk from the fridge and stick them in the microwave. As we wait, I turn to her. “What do you think your friends will say?”

“Aren't they your friends, too?”

It's a valid question and one I've thought about. “Maybe? I mean, they kind of accepted me because you did.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “They accepted you because that's the kind of people they are. And Barnum is an excellent gauge of character.” She leans in and talks against my cheek. “Plus, you're super pretty and you look hot with the rest of us.”

The microwave dings and I turn my mouth so it presses against hers and I talk directly onto her lips. “Shallow girl.”

“Just a little,” she says and takes my bottom lip in her teeth. Instant fire lights me up. She starts to push me back against the kitchen table, but I grab her arms and stop her.

She whines.

I put my hands on her shoulders. “Though definitely a benefit of being at my dad's empty office, it's not why I brought you here, and if he found out I was using this as a clandestine hookup spot, he would take my key.”

“Cameras?” She looks up to the corners of the room.

“No,” I say. “Trust.”

“Sweet.” She smiles and my heart lights brighter, because Dana in the same situation would have grumbled and called me a pussy or worse.

I pull the hot chocolate out and hand her a mug. “Come on, follow me.”

In the guest recording room, I pull out a swivel chair for her at the table against the wall and set my mug next to hers. I would be in serious hot water if I spilled anything on the sound equipment. On the laptop, I scroll through until I find the recordings Dad and I made. I can't believe I'm playing this for her.

“You can't laugh.”

Mary Carlson's knees are pulled up in her chair and she's sipping from the mug. “Why would I laugh?”

“Because it's not as cool as being on the golf team.” I take a deep breath and connect the speakers, then hit play.

            
Hello, this is Joanna Gordon, Reverend Gordon's daughter. I'm going to be with you every other Saturday afternoon with some straight talk. It's not easy being a teenager. Am I right? There's your family telling you what to do. Your friends telling you what to do. You trying to figure out who you are. And the media blasting you with things that
might be contrary to things you've been told or taught. How do you figure it all out? Well, tune in, every other Saturday from four to six, when I'll be interviewing your peers, your idols, your teachers, your enemies. And hopefully, together we'll figure it out. One issue at a time. And remember,
Keep It Real.

I click the off button. Mary Carlson's staring at me with her mouth open.

“You think it's dumb.”

She shakes her head so hard her hair flies out. “No. Jo, that's awesome. How long have you been doing this?”

“Not long. My dad agreed to let me start as a consolation prize for moving me my senior year. We've been doing promo for a little bit now. And recorded the first two shows. I haven't told any of y'all because I wanted to make sure it was going to happen.” Inside I'm babbling, my brain stringing imaginary sentences together to show her how important this is and why she's going to need to understand if in three weeks I panic and don't follow through on
coming out.

She stands and walks over, pulling me out of my chair into an embrace. “You'll be great at this. Remember the night you talked Gemma and Betsy down in the car?
You're a peacemaker. Maybe you
could
change the world.”

“Maybe.” My heart leaps. For now I want to stop thinking about it and the best way to stop talking is with a kiss. Mary Carlson doesn't fight me on the issue.

School breezes along for the next week. Though Mary Carlson's and my heat level is still up there at chipotle, we've managed to cool it around friends. I think the promise of a definite “we're coming out” date has made us both calmer, or maybe it's apprehension about our night alone this weekend. Whatever the reason, it's a bit easier. Except for those pesky drama girls. At every turn, whenever Mary Carlson and I are walking together, sitting together, in the bathroom together, they whisper to each other and watch us.

“How come Kiana and Bethany are always watching us these days?” Betsy mutters. “They should know that I am firmly, and I do mean firmly, with Jake.”

Gemma groans. “Betsy, just because you're female and they like females doesn't mean they want you.”

She cocks her head. “What's wrong with me? Am I not good enough for hot girl love?”

Jessica grabs the cross at her neck. “Y'all have got to stop talking about this.”

“Girl.” Gemma glares at her. “Some people like the
vagina and the penis. Some the penis and the penis. Some the . . .”

“Stop, please stop.” Jessica puts her hands over her ears.

Mary Carlson barks out a laugh. “God, Gemma. I swear you do that for shock value.”

Gemma nudges George. “Penis. Vagina.” Then she looks at us. “See, George doesn't blush.”

But he is now, because Gemma's hand is on his arm. Which is okay by me. We “broke up” the day after I met Dana at the Waffle House, stating that we were too much alike to get along as boyfriend and girlfriend. Since then he's been in the friend zone with Gemma, but I think, I hope, that's changing. Mary Carlson's been whispering encouragement in her ear.

“It still doesn't answer the question of why our table is suddenly so fascinating,” Betsy says.