Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit (19 page)

I CALL DANA WHEN I
get home but she must be out with her mom, because it goes straight to voice mail. I text but she doesn't text back. Which sucks because it means I'm stuck alone with this pain. Mary Carlson's face smiles at me from the bulletin board and I consider pulling the photos down, but I don't.

I put on an old Blondie album from the record collection I inherited from my mom and listen to Debbie Harry growl. In my battered spiral-bound notebook I make lists to keep my brain occupied and out of angst mode. Topics to cover for
Keep It Real
when I get to make it the way I want. Coming out. Dealing with haters. Finding a support network. I think about Dana and her recent fiasco and jot
down, “friends—real or users?” The list of topics goes on and on and on. When my brain is dry, I group them into categories. Romance. Parents. Friends. Questions of Faith. I get so into it I forget about Mary Carlson for whole minutes at a time. Until my phone rings.

“Hello?”

From the other end of the line I hear the cheers of guys and the blare of a television. “Girl.” It's Gemma. “Where are you two? I've been stuck here surrounded by nothing but boys and the uselessness of drunk-on-a-Saturday Betsy and shamelessly flirting Jessica. I need some sanity.”

“Isn't George with you?”

She whispers, “Yes. But he actually likes this stupid shit. He's watching the game and there's not enough artichoke dip in the world to keep me occupied.”

“Did you call Mary Carlson?”

“What is this? Twenty-five questions? Y'all better get your asses over here in five or I'm liable to go postal on these idiots.”

There's nowhere I'd rather be less than at Jessica's house, but it would be weird for me to completely drop out of the picture after I've worked so hard to put myself in it. Plus, Gemma seemed kind of desperate. At least Mary Carlson won't be there.

Downstairs I grab my keys from the counter.

Dad looks up from where he's got the game on the television. Elizabeth must be in their room. “Going back out?”

“Yeah. My friend Gemma called for a rescue.” I hesitate for a second. Tell him. Just tell him.

The newly purchased baby monitor crackles from the coffee table. “Babe? Can you bring me some water?” Elizabeth's voice is weak and distant as it sounds out of the speaker.

Dad pushes the button. “Be right there.” Then to me, “Have fun. Be safe.”

“Sure thing. You, too.”

He hops up and kisses me on the forehead and disappears.

My GPS leads me into a neighborhood of one-story ranch houses built in the seventies. I figure I'm at the right place when I see all the SUVs and UGA flags in the yard. There's a giant blowup bulldog by the front door. I knock but no one answers. A cheer goes up from inside, so I crack the door open and enter. Gemma, who's obviously been watching it, sees me and jumps up. “Finally.” She peers behind me. “Where's Mary Carlson?”

I don't have a speech prepared for this, so I stutter a bit
and then finally shrug. “She didn't feel like coming.” That much I know is fact.

“She's been acting weird lately. Do you think she's been acting weird?” Gemma leads me into the kitchen so I can load up a plate of football party food.

I shrug again. “You've known her longer than I have.”

Gemma screws up the side of her mouth. “Something's off. She didn't say anything to you about Chaz, did she? Because Jessica's working as hard as she can to secure a spot in his long list of ex-girlfriends. We all made a pact when we started dating that breakups of shorter-than-month-long relationships didn't count as exes, but if Mary Carlson still likes him . . .”

I shake my head and realize I'm not hungry at all. “She doesn't like him.”

“Okay.” Gemma scratches her head in a classic thinker pose. “Well, what could it be? She's been sort of high on life and giggly like she was crushing, but then other times she'd stare off like somebody stole her dog.”

George walks in on our conversation. Gemma holds up a hand. “Oh no, sir. You cannot abandon me for pigskin, then come butt into my girl talk. Harry Potter, you take it back out of the kitchen.”

“Can I at least get some chicken wings first?” George's
hair is different. Gone is the floppy bang that covered his eyes, and in its place is a shorter cut with a bit of a
GQ
gelled styling on top. It makes him look older. And hella handsome.

“Nice hair,” I say as Gemma grabs his plate and piles on wings. She shoves it back at him, but not before he sneaks in a kiss and earns himself a flirtatious swat and giggle. It makes me happy and sad all at the same time. I should be able to hook up with Mary Carlson and kiss her like that and not have it matter. Not have it be a thing that stresses Elizabeth's family out so much it risks her pregnancy. Or makes life rocky for my dad and his ministry. Mary Carlson should be in this room telling Gemma what's going on with her. Not me standing here acting ignorant. I fucking hate this, so I change the subject.

“How's it going with George?”

“My uncles are making fun of me about it. They've handed me a long list of eligible young black men to date. Including both Tyrell and Joseph out there. But the heart wants what the heart wants. And . . .” She points at me. “You said I could have dibs. His hair looks good, huh? I cut it for him.”

“True. I didn't want George.” The heart wants what the heart wants. “Maybe you could trim mine sometime?”

“Please, I'm saving these hands for surgery.” Then she
grins. “Kidding. I'd love to get ahold of those straggly locks.”

Gemma nabs a cookie off a tray of barely-past-Thanksgiving-holiday sweets. “You're not eating? It's the best part.”

“Not so hungry.”

Mary Carlson's right. We probably could have told Gemma and it would have stopped right here. She's not of the loose-lipped variety like Betsy. Or of the judgmental ilk like Jessica. I convince myself for the millionth time that I've done the right thing. But I want to know for sure, so I dip a toe in the water. “Have you met George's parents yet?”

Gemma sighs. “No. We're not that far along in whatever this is. But I want to, you can tell he's tight with his mom. But he's pretty damn secretive, too. Like maybe she's some kind of vegan hippie or radicalized socialist. At first I figured she must be racist or something, but he swears she could care less about the skin color of his girlfriend. Why? Have you met her? I know his dad's not in the picture.”

I try to keep my surprise in check. “No, I haven't.” I pull my toe back out of the water. If George isn't comfortable sharing with Gemma about his moms, then maybe I'm not as big of an idiot as I think I am.

Betsy bursts into the kitchen and trips forward toward
us, and the island covered with food. “Hey, girl!” She slings an arm over my shoulder and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “'Bout time you showed up. Where's Mary Carlson?”

“She heard Jessica was moving in on Chaz and stayed home.” I'm joking, of course, but Jessica happens to appear in the doorway as I say it.

“Oh no.” Jessica's hands fly to her mouth and her eyes grow huge, then she grabs the cross at her neck. “She's mad? Really?” Then, “How'd she know?”

“Kidding,” I say. “Pretty sure she won't care.”

Betsy removes her arm from my shoulder and punches me in the biceps. “Good one. Hey, want one of these?” She jumps past me to the fridge and pulls out some hard lemonade bottles. “They're super good.”

Gemma makes a slashing movement across her throat. I intercept. “Betsy, maybe you should have one of these instead.” I grab an equally yellow Gatorade bottle.

“What?” She looks between us. “Am I sloppy?”

Gemma purses her lips and crosses her arms in a hell-yes stance.

Betsy leans forward on the bar. “But I give the best blowjobs when I'm sloppy. And my Jake does like his . . .”

“Lalalala, I can't hear you.” Jessica's fingers are in her ears. “Oh my God, you are so gross, Betsy. And you can
not
sneak off to my parents' bedroom.”

“What?” Betsy puts the glass bottles back and takes the Gatorade from me. “Saving it for yourself?” she singsongs. “And Chaz?”

Right about then, the back door opens. Mary Carlson is framed in the doorway like some kind of Amazonian war goddess.

Gemma jumps up. “It's about time, girl. We were worried as hell about you.” She takes a few steps forward, then stops at the grim look on Mary Carlson's face. “You okay?”

Mary Carlson glances at me, then looks away just as quickly. My heart picks up a beat, or six. I know that expression, mouth firm, posture erect, eyes focused. Is she about to do what the grim determination on her face implies?

“I'm not staying.”

Jessica starts to babble. “I'm sorry about Chaz, I just, you said you didn't like him, and . . .”

Mary Carlson holds up a hand like a royal, shutting off the stream of inane gibberish. “I don't care about Chaz. I'm going to tell you all something, then I'm leaving.”

Betsy nudges in next to me and drops her chin on her hands like she's in front of the television. Jessica steps next to Betsy. Gemma's on the other side of the island, obviously confused about whatever is going down.

Mary Carlson lifts her chin and addresses the ceiling. “I've been struggling with this for a while and I know it will come as a surprise to all of you, but I hope you'll still be my friends, and anyway I just told my parents, so I'm not going to fake it anymore, but you need to know that I'm a lesbian.”

Betsy falls off her hands and starts laughing.

Jessica grabs her cross and stops breathing.

Gemma's eyes narrow. “What the fuck, girl? I been spending the night in your bed! Besides, that can't be true. I've known you forever. And you're so pretty.”

I can't take my eyes off Mary Carlson. She's a warrior princess. The condemning thought comes back.
Coward,
it whispers.

“What does pretty have to do with it?” Mary Carlson's fingers flex by her sides.

A football roar goes up from the other room, an argument or agreement I'm not sure, but it doesn't matter. I wonder how long she was hanging out by the back door, waiting for a moment to catch us alone.

She stands even straighter and keeps talking. “If any of you had been paying attention, you might have figured it out.” At this she looks from the ceiling to me, lingers for a fraction of a second, then looks at the other girls. “But I'm sick of faking it. And y'all have been my best friends from
forever, and I thought you should know now that I've told my parents. Now I'm going to back out of this door and leave. I hope you're still my friends on Monday, but if you aren't I'll be okay.”

She turns, walks out into the fading sun, and shuts the door.

I have to clamp on to the kitchen counter not to run out after her.

Immediately, the other three burst into chatter of
what the hell,
and
did she just
, and
never would have guessed.

I'm trapped when Gemma turns to me. “You've been spending a lot of time together. Did you have any idea? Did she ever, you know, come on to you or anything?”

Lies and truths elbow each other to get out of the way in a furious race to my words. Did she come on to me? Yes. Did I have an idea? Um. Hell yes.

An unlikely hero shows up in the form of Chaz, sneaking his way into our kitchen sanctuary, his hands circling Jessica's waist. “Y'all are missing all the action.”

Betsy snort laughs. “Oh no, honey, we are most definitely not.”

Jessica turns to him, gossip dripping from her lips. “You will not believe . . .”

Gemma is the one to speak up. “Jessica. No.”

Jessica swivels to look at her. “No?”

“Hell. No.” Gemma reiterates.

Even Betsy nods. “We need time.” Then she glowers. “And if you so much as . . .” She makes her hand talk like a shadow puppet. “Then you are . . .” She finishes with a dramatic slash to her throat.

Chaz laughs. “Y'all were talking about me, weren't you?”

At this I speak up. “Yep. No doubt. It's all about you, Chaz.”

Betsy elbows me in response and for a split second part of me thinks everything might work out great for Mary Carlson. And maybe, eventually, me.

Until Jessica crosses her arms and turns toward Chaz. In a whisper, loud enough for us all to hear, she spits out, “Lesbians. Gross, right?” Then she grabs his arm and hauls him out of the room.

Gemma's and Betsy's mouths drop open, but neither one of them jumps to go after Jessica or make her take back what she said. All that's left is this awkward silence between the three of us, as we stand, kind of shell-shocked, around the kitchen island.

“To hell with Gatorade.” Betsy puts it on the counter and grabs a hard lemonade and a beer out of the fridge. “I'm going to find Jake.” She disappears.

Gemma and I stare at each other, neither knowing
what to say. It must be kind of wild to find out your best friend, who you thought was straight, is not, in such a dramatic way.

George comes back into the kitchen looking for Gemma. I use it as my out. “Um, I'm going to go home. I promised Dad I'd only stay an hour so he could leave for the station while I take care of Elizabeth.”

Gemma doesn't fight me like she usually would, and as I step toward the door I see her slump into George. I hope he has the strength to bolster her. I don't know how she's going to react, to Mary Carlson or to his moms. This might be their end, too.

SUNDAY NIGHT, I'D TEXTED MARY
Carlson to see if she was okay. When she didn't answer me, I thought about texting George, but then I worried it would open up a whole line of conversation I wasn't ready to participate in. He was bound to be suspicious of me. Which is why I couldn't bring myself to text any of the other girls either. What if they'd started putting two and two together? In the end, I texted B.T.B. a link to a video of baby elephants in a plastic swimming pool, but even he hadn't responded, which had me the most freaked out of all. Our texting game is always strong.

So when I get to school Monday, I make a point of looking for him first. I find him standing near the door where
the handicapped bus pulls up, no doubt waiting for Zeke.

“Hey, buddy, where's your sister?” My breath beats hard in my chest.

He grins and I gulp a huge sigh of relief. It's a normal B.T.B. smile with no glimpse of him knowing my secret. But my heart also breaks because that Bailey smile floods me with all the stinking emotions I've been trying to tamp down.

“Auditorium!” he shouts. “The cast list was released last night. She got a speaking and singing part in
Seussical
! She went with her new friends to a morning meeting.” He waits for my reaction.

I try to be happy. “That's fantastic.”

“And know what else?”

“What else?”

“She promised to find out if I can help work backstage moving props and stuff. She promised that.”

“I can't imagine the drama teacher could say no to a guy like you.”

He whispers, “That's what Mary Carlson said.”

I start to make my way to class. “When you see her, tell her I said congratulations.”

At this his brow furrows. “But you'll see her. You're her best friend, aren't you?”

I hesitate. What do I tell B.T.B.? But he keeps talking.
“She told my parents that she is going to have a wife someday instead of a husband. They told her she would lose some people. You're not one of those people, are you?”

Tears spring to my eyes and something about the unguarded expression in B.T.B.'s face, and the fact he's more concerned with her losing people than the gender of her future spouse, makes it hard to stop from letting a few run down my cheeks. “No, B.T.B., I'm not one of those people. But Mary Carlson was mad at me before she told your parents that.”

“Oh.” It seems as if he doesn't know what to do with my answer. Then, “I'm not mad at you.”

I wipe my cheeks. “I'm glad, B.T.B.”

He cocks his head and a smile lights his face. “I know! You could be Mary Carlson's wife. Then you'd be my sister, too.”

I lean over and hug him. “You know, B.T.B., I'd love to be your sister.” The bell rings. “Come on,” I say. “I'll walk you to class.”

At lunch, I'm struck with the complete and utter irony of my life. Mary Carlson, in total avoidance of our table, settles with the drama crowd—Kiana and Bethany across from her—and Deirdre right by her side, looking more than happy to fill the shoes I vacated on Saturday. Me? I'm
sitting with the straight girls who have not put two and two together after all.

Jessica whispers, “Do you think she's going to kiss one of them?” Then she shudders. “Guess this is what the pastor means when he talks about how the devil can slip into your house in disguise.”

“Loving someone is not a sin, Jessica. It's a blessing.” I can't help myself. Besides, I did promise I'd be Mary Carlson's ally, and a good ally speaks up in the face of bullshit.

She holds up her water bottle and points it toward me. “Oh, so, preacher's daughter, your dad would be perfectly fine if you came home and told him you were woman lying with woman?”

“That's not how the passage goes.”

“Doesn't matter.” She twists the cap closed and primly crosses her hands on the table. “Gay is gay, is gay, is disgusting.”

Betsy slurps her chocolate milk, then cuts in. “Jake asked me once if I'd ever consider being with a girl.”

“What'd you say?” I figure I know the answer, but hope conversation will buffer the pokers of jealousy irritating my skin and the plain old irritation of Jessica.

“I said if she was hot, then I totally would. But more for the experience than for the lifestyle.”

“Ho bag,” Gemma mutters.

“Slut shamer,” Betsy fires back.

“Shut up,” I say.

This does shut everyone up. I'm usually the fly on the wall, the observer, the one who speaks only when spoken to. “Have y'all even talked about what Mary Carlson said? Thought about it? Don't you think she's in pain?”

Gemma looks over at the drama table. Mary Carlson is animated with her five-hundred-watt smile shining on her new friends. “Seems like she's already moved on. That doesn't look like pain to me.”

“Our friendship is over,” Jessica says. “It's a sin. It's disgusting and I don't want to talk about it.”

Betsy's mouth drops open. “Really, Jess. We've been friends since fourth grade. You're okay with walking away from that? I mean, yeah, it's weird and all, but to just ax her out of our lives?”

“I'm just pissed,” Gemma says. “I was too mad to call her last night. She has to have been thinking about it for a while. Nobody has that sort of revelation overnight. It's like she didn't trust us. She could have trusted us. We wouldn't have told a soul.”

Chaz and Jake plop down next to Betsy and Jessica. Jake looks over at the drama table. “Is it true? Bailey's a carpet girl now?”

Gemma mutters, “Well,
I
wouldn't have told a soul.”

George arrives. “Told a soul what?”

Chaz opens his chicken-filet-filled mouth. “Bailey. She's turned Lebanese.”

George stills and glances over at me. Gemma glances between the two of us. “What? Did y'all know? Is there something you're not saying?”

Most of the time I enjoy Gemma's uber intelligence, but today it's working against me. “No.” I pop all the knuckles on my left hand. “Y'all are being assholes. It's not that big of a deal.”

“Reverend Wilson will think it's a very big deal, and Pastor Hank, there's no way he'll be able to include her in some of the stuff. They may not even let her come back to Foundation at all. I think we should pray for her.” Jessica, the hypocrite, says this as her hand, in a Betsy move, slides between Chaz's thighs.

I can't take any more and stand up with my tray. “You know, y'all are damaging my calm.” I stick a forefinger out and point it at Jessica's hand. “Pastor Hank is not so close-minded, but he's close-minded enough that he wouldn't allow whatever's happening with your hand and Chaz's lap either. The Bible's only explicit reference to homosexuality is that passage in Leviticus you misquoted, and even
it
is sort of vague. Man shall not lie with man. Says nothing
about sex or love or long-term commitment.” Or women, I think.

I grip my cafeteria tray so I don't fling it at the unsuspecting table of sophomores who are side-eyeing my outburst. I point at Betsy. “That tattoo of a unicorn on your ankle, that's a sin according to Leviticus.” I turn to Gemma. “As is your love of shellfish. So y'all need to quit gossiping, act like you live in the twenty-first century, and get over yourselves.”

Then what's really bothering me pushes its way out. “Do you know how lucky you are? To have such a tight-knit group of friends? You're seriously going to let this split you up? Because of something so minor?” I walk away before I make it worse, and as I pass behind Mary Carlson's back, I want to say, “I'm so sorry.” But I don't. I just have to get out of there.

The secretary falls for my stomach grab and moan and picks up the phone, dialing home. “Okay, hon,” she says to Elizabeth. “I'll send her on, then.”

I'm tempted to drive straight to Atlanta and find Dana and drag her to Hellcat. But the weird thing is—I'm not sure she'll understand. This total assimilation idea of hers started out as a joke, a way to fill ten months without dying of boredom, a peek into the other side. But beyond the fledgling relationship with Mary Carlson, I really like
hanging out with Gemma and Betsy, even Jessica before she started acting like an overzealous turd.

My whole life, I've been so tucked away, me and Dad, me and Dana, that the idea of a group of friends, a community that wasn't about hooking up with each other, never registered. It wasn't until I started to have it that I realized what was missing. I guess part of me fantasized that now that they knew me, I'd be able to tell my truth and Mary Carlson and I would be just another flavor of couple in the high school grab bag. But I'm not sure that's what's going to happen now that I've fucked everything up and none of them seem okay with it.

When I get home, Elizabeth's tucked onto the sofa. Dad finally listened when the doctor said she could move around a bit in the house, just no lifting, no stairs, nothing more than walking to and from the bed to the couch. “Don't come near, okay?” She looks terrified, and I suppose the idea of getting a stomach bug clashes entirely with the idea of hanging on to her baby.

“I'm not really sick.” I throw down my bag and keys on the island and sit on a stool, swiveling right and left.

“What happened?”

I'm not going to tell Elizabeth about Mary Carlson, because all that will do is make her feel guilty about her
part in my needing to call it off. But narrow-mindedness? That I can talk about.

“People are stupid.”

“Meaning?”

“Ignorant. Dumb. Trapped in the dark ages.”

She waits.

I sigh. “Just some kids mouthing off about homosexuality being a sin. I couldn't take any more today.” Elizabeth and I have never had this talk. I was part of the package when she walked into my dad's life, and all I know is she needed me to turn down the volume for her family. Maybe it was really for her. But she was so cool that day at Hellcat. I look at her. “Do you think it's a sin?”

“Would you come over here and sit with me?” She pats the cushion next to her.

I slide off the stool and go and perch on the edge of the couch.

She clears her throat. “Joanna. My beliefs were founded in the same church you're going to now. Their interpretation of the dogma is older, stodgier, and just that—an interpretation.” She reaches out for my hand. I let her take it. “Part of my growth was watching the world around me change. It made me question some of those ideas I'd been taught were true.”

I feel like I'm going to be sick. Does Elizabeth think I'm a freak, too?

“But.” She squeezes my hand. “I discovered that I think God is a more generous savior than some would want us to believe. Ultimately, none of us can truly know how we'll be judged. And any mere human who thinks their judgment is somehow mightier than another's, well, they're in the wrong.” She smiles at me and it's like being wrapped in the softest cashmere throw. “Is it a sin? I can't answer that with a yes or a no. I'm not the one deciding. There are certainly people in the world making dreadful choices who love people of the opposite sex. Are you a beautiful person who is kind and true and dear and deserving of faith and justice just like the rest of us? Absolutely. I don't think God would have put you here only to torment you.” She squeezes my hand again. “So my short answer is, don't worry about it. You're perfect as you are.”

And Jesus H. Christ, here come the tears again. I'm such a fucking girly girl these days. Elizabeth opens her arms, beckoning for me to fall into them, and I do. I cry and she strokes my back and somewhere up in the heavens, an angel shaped like my mother finally feels satisfied. When my tears are spent, I sit up.

Elizabeth wipes my face. “Okay now?”

“Pretty much.”

And she's savvy. She's not going to let me linger and feel awkward about our shared moment. “Good. I'm dying to decorate this house for Christmas, but your father won't let me lift a finger and he's been too busy. Can I boss you around for the rest of the afternoon since you ditched school?”

I bow. “At your service, Madame.”

Before I drag unfamiliar boxes marked “CHRISTmas” down from the attic space, Elizabeth has me put on Dad's favorite Harry Connick Jr. Christmas CD and heat up water for tea. She points and I hang garlands and place knickknacks on shelves and string twinkly lights around the curtain rods until the whole family room looks like elves threw up on it.

Dad comes in around six, dragging Althea and a huge tray of takeout lasagna, garlic bread, and holiday packages filled with goodies sent from faithful listeners.

“Well, would you look at this?” Althea's hands are on her hips as she surveys the room. “I don't think I've ever seen the Gordon house looking so festive.”

I laugh. “We've never had an Elizabeth Gordon at Christmas before.”

Dad frowns at his bride. “You didn't hang this stuff, did you?”

Elizabeth tsks from her throne on the couch. “I did not. The lovely Joanna Gordon was my minion.”

Dad smiles at both of us. “So you had a good day.”

I'm the one who answers. “Elizabeth made it good.”

Althea grabs the countertop and fans her face like she's drying off tears. “Well, isn't this the moment of your Althea's dreams.”

Only one thing could make it better.