Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit (22 page)

The door cracks slightly behind me. He squeezes my hands and keeps praying.

“And allow me, Lord Christ, to work through you as the ministry grows and expands into new communities
and new messages. Keep us safe and help us open hearts as you see fit. For this I pray, Lord Jesus Christ, in your name. Amen.”

“Amen,” I say, and Elizabeth's and Althea's voices join ours.

“Thanks, Dad.” I lean forward and hug him so hard my chair tips out from under me.

“Child, be careful,” Althea tuts. “There's a lot of work to do. You can't be breaking bones.”

“Work?” I pick the chair up and give Dad a hand out of his.

Elizabeth has my notebook in her hand. “We need to plan more episodes of
Keep It Real
, your public is clamoring. And you have excellent topics well under way.”

Dad chuckles. “One advantage to marrying a lady of means. She's promised me if the ministry takes a dive because the listeners can't handle doing what's right, she'll fill the financial gap.”

Elizabeth whispers in my ear. “If he's really good, I might even buy him an oversized diamond ring.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Dad asks.

“You'll have to ask your other child.” I point at Elizabeth's bump. “I'm not telling.”

He walks to us, putting an arm around each of our waists. This moment should be perfect. It's everything I
wanted and more. I can be myself again with more than I ever hoped for. An incredible stepmom, an apologetic dad, a sibling on the way, the radio show, even my crazy summer trip.

But there's someone missing from it all.

And it feels kind of empty.

I'VE SPENT THE WEEK TRYING
to figure out some sort of girlfriend-retrieval plan, but I've come up with nothing. I haven't had a minute to catch Mary Carlson alone and maybe try to have a conversation with her. Deirdre is always there, and even though there's no PDA, it doesn't mean they're not meeting behind the drink machines during class. Besides, Gemma confirmed it. Deirdre told George they were definitely dating.

Turns out I need dance party therapy now more than ever.

Dana's standing in front of her mirror, spiking her hair as high as it will go. “For real? The bitch actually worried it'd be genetic through your dad and her biological
grandkid might come down with the gay?”

I'm cross-legged on her beanbag chair. “Yep. But then Tater, Elizabeth's dad . . .”

“Your new granddad.”

“My
new granddad
said he thought I was good people and it didn't change his opinion a lick as long as I still wanted to go fishing with him.”

“They are so country.” She turns to look at me. “But it sounds like it won't be rougher than you expected.” She walks over and pokes at my hair. “God, you look pathetic. I know your girl has a new girl and that you're all sad and blue, but baby, you've got me.” She pivots and vamps. “Are you really going to be a killjoy tonight? It's a party. And we're going to look hot.” She's a lady-killer of an elf in her tight white T-shirt, red-and-green plaid suspenders, and black velvet tuxedo pants. The mistletoe necklace is a winning touch.

“Dana . . .”

“Don't Dana me. Come here.”

I haul myself out of the chair and walk over to her dresser. She grabs some black eyeliner and goes to work, winging out serious cat eyes with cool dots that go back along my temple. Then she globs gel into her hand and slicks my hair back tight against my head. She tucks my white shirt into my pants and unbuttons a couple of buttons.

“Take off your bra.”

“What?”

“Take off your bra. Just trust me.”

I do as she says, and save for the Cirque du Soleil eye treatment, she's transformed me into Berlin cabaret circa 1930 with a tease of breast showing from my low-buttoned top. I turn back and forth in the mirror. “Now I am hot.”

“Still feeling blue about rebound girl?” Dana props her chin on my shoulder and puts a hand on my waist.

“Yes. But maybe I'll dance with you.”

“That's my girl. Come on, let's go.” She spins me around and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the door.

The formal's being held at this artist's warehouse along the railroad tracks near Decatur. There are rainbow-colored lights flashing and every flavor of fabulous walking through the door. Eyes track our movement as Dana and I cut across the crowd in the parking lot. Someone lets out a low whistle. Inside, a group of friends from my old school greet me with hugs and cheek kisses and even a pinch on the ass.

Music is already throbbing. They've hired DJ Gabby F., which means it's going to be a dance-till-you-drop kind of night. To help, the ladies from Hellcat Coffee have set up a caffeine-and-treats refueling station. Dahlia waves at us from her throne behind the bar and the whole place
glows under suspended electric snowflakes that spin and shoot off rays of soft white light.

Two exquisitely beautiful blond boys dusted with glitter dance over. “We just wanted to tell you two that you are
gorgeous
together.”

Dana poses. “We are, aren't we?” She wraps her arm around my waist and pulls me close. “And you are looking beautiful as well.” It turns out she knows them. Dana knows everybody.

“Time Warp” hits the speakers and she grabs me. Everyone in the place piles onto the dance floor, jumping to the left and jumping to the right. The pelvic thrust makes it way more interesting than any wedding line dance. Some girls come up and dance with us, then spin away, and some other girls dance in. It's exactly the get-my-mind-off-everything therapy I needed. Being totally myself, dancing my ass off.

Four or five songs later, Dana waves for me to follow her over to get some water. She collapses onto a couch pushed up against the wall and pats the seat next to her. I fall down in a messy heap.

“So fucking fun.” She hands me the water cup.

I take a huge swig. “Totally.”

She leans against me, going for the tickle spot.

“Dana, quit. I'm sweaty and gross and my boob's about to pop out.”

“Oh yeah?” Her fingers poke at my side. “Let me see what you've got in there.”

I flash her. It's not like she hasn't seen it before.

“How come we never . . . ?” She leans her head on my shoulder, not even trying to hide the fact she's staring down my shirt.

I tilt my head slightly toward her. “Are you serious?”

She sits up, throws one of her legs over one of mine, and turns to face me. “Who are we kidding? We're both queer. We've been friends forever. We've both had
feelings
for each other—even if they've never happened at the same time.”

“Dana. You're a total player. I love you. But I don't want to date you.”

She leans closer. “Come on, just a kiss. Let's see if we've got sparks.”

“I'm remembering Sammy Johanna's party, summer after tenth grade, you jammed your tongue in my mouth, then passed me your pre-chewed gum. Not hot.”

She twists so she's fully facing me, a leg on either side of my thighs. “What are friends for?” She's reaching in for a double-sided tickle.

“Uncle, stop, no tickling.”

“Let's kiss then.” She holds up the mistletoe necklace. “You have to. Holiday law.”

Somehow, her tickle hand has moved a little higher against my shirt and my brain's beeping a warning, but my body reacts by shifting, so Dana comes closer.

“That's my girl.” Dana's face is all big smile and devilish eyes. “You ready?”

I close my eyes and for a split second I wonder, is this where I should have been all along?

Her lips meet mine and they're soft and warm and when she teases my lower lip with her teeth, my mouth opens of its own volition.

But then . . . there's that probing tongue again.

Ugh.

My best friend cannot kiss for shit.

“Dana.” I push her away, but she leans in for one more quick lip-to-lip kiss before falling off my lap.

She can't stop laughing. “You suck.”

“No, you suck.”

A light flashes in my peripheral vision. The blond boys wave and give us a thumbs-up. This ridiculous moment is now documented for eternity.

“I can't believe they took our picture. It's going to be plastered all over the internet. Me. Kissing you.” I shake my head and flop back. “Seriously, Dana, why did you think that would be a good idea?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. You look hot lately, but now I'll
have to tell all your future girlfriends how bad you suck when you kiss.”

I poke her arm. “I don't suck. You suck.”

She laughs. “All a matter of taste, I suppose. At least we don't suck as friends.”

“Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood comes on, and this time I drag Dana to the dance floor. We don't stop dancing until they kick us out.

MONDAY AND TUESDAY ARE FINALS
and the last days of school before the holidays. The halls look bare. I slip into the library to get in some last-minute cramming before my Latin final, but I can't concentrate on studying. My mind whirls with Mary Carlson. Who has a new girlfriend. Who hates me. It's so stupid the way I messed up the best thing that's ever happened to me. I scratch my neck, like my touch can make this inner frustration go away.

My phone buzzes. It's from a local number I don't recognize. The text it delivers sends my heart into nitrous overdrive. There are only two words.

Jo Guglielmi

I look around the library. There are a couple of
sophomores at a far table and some seniors who are sleeping in the comfy chairs. But nobody's glancing my way.

Then another text.

I know your secret.

Did Gemma finally track me down? At least I won't have to come out to her if she's figured it out herself. But then I realize, it could be anyone. And besides, if it was Gemma, her name would pop up on the screen. I turn my phone completely off and stare at the practice test prompts on my laptop, but I can only see an ocean of pixels. Whose number is that? I turn my phone back on and there's another text. This one has a link. The link leads to a girl from my old school's Instagram account. She's downloaded a bunch of pics from the formal, posted, hashtagged and tagged. There's one of Dana and me, mid-worst-kiss-ever, her hand tucked precariously near my boob, the huge rainbow GSA flag in the background.

Somebody from Rome saw her pics. Saw the tag. Put two and two together.

My phone buzzes again and I practically drop it.

Look out the window.

I do.

Deirdre's standing there, hand on her hip, phone in her other, her face locked in a victory sneer. Then, in a slow-motion blur, Deirdre turns and I follow her line of
sight. Mary Carlson's walking in from the parking lot, her head cocked, cell phone in her hand. I see her mouth move like she's calling out or asking a question. Deirdre motions for her to hurry. Mary Carlson does this little trot jog toward her and Deirdre holds out her hand. They couple up and I'm in quicksand. I am lost, my hope dissipating as the realization of what Deirdre is going to do sinks in. Her killing blow comes when she glances back, her free hand planting a giant forefinger-and-thumb
L
on her forehead, then she moves the forefinger down and slashes it across her throat. Mary Carlson doesn't notice.

But I know.

I'm going down.

I'm so going to fail that test.

Mary Carlson is waiting outside my classroom when I come out from the exam. Her face is red. Her eyes puffy.

“Mary Carlson.” I reach out for her, but she jerks her crossed arms away from me.

“No. You don't get to talk to me, ever again. Is it true? Is this true?” She holds up her phone with the pictures Deirdre must have texted her, then swipes the screen to reveal my old Insta profile, complete with tons of incriminating, I-am-totally-gay pics.

“Yes.” The lies end now.

She turns to go but not before I see the tears build in her eyes.

“Mary Carlson, can we talk, please? There's an explanation, there really is. And I'm not seeing that girl. Not the way you think.”

She starts walking.

I run after her. “Please, let me explain.” My own tears mix with the pure anger I feel toward Deirdre. She's completely fucked with my timing. I'd planned it all out—I would tell George, he would tell Gemma. If that went well, I'd tell Betsy and Jake. Maybe Mary Carlson would have understood it coming from them, but now? She hates me. And rightfully so.

When Deirdre appears at the end of the hallway, that same stupid smirk on her face, I react with a shout. “You are a hateful cunt, Deirdre.” I racewalk to catch up to Mary Carlson and cut her off, but she walks faster.

Deirdre crosses her arms, then uncrosses them to grab Mary Carlson's hand. “Come on,” she says in a sugary, soothing tone to her. “I'll get you out of here.” Some camo-wearing asshat walks by and growls at them. “Lezbos, take it to the house.”

“You take it to the house, douche bag.” I realize everyone in the hall can hear me. Everyone can see my drama. This is definitely not lying low.

Camo Boy stops and turns to look at me. My hands are clinched by my sides and I am seriously so pissed I'm going to go ninja on his ass. He takes a step forward like he's willing to go a round with a girl when George appears and pulls me away, back toward a classroom. “Let them go,” he whispers.

Camo Boy laughs and disappears into the stairwell. Deirdre is hugging a sobbing Mary Carlson and doesn't miss a chance to shoot evil eyes and a middle-finger salute at me before leading her away in the opposite direction. George eases me into a teacher-less classroom, where I pick up a textbook and throw it at the wall.

“What the hell, Joanna. Chill out.”

Then the floodgates open and I sink, the sobs racking my body as I unleash my frustration and anger and stupidity onto the floor. George pulls me up in an awkward hug, like he's not sure if he should touch me, or maybe he's worried I'm going to throw something at him next. But I turn in to him and bury my wet face in his shirt and keep crying until all that's left is my heart that I've broken.

When I'm finished I step away from him.

“You want to tell me what this is all about?”

I sit down in a desk and drop my head onto my arms. “Which part? The one where I failed my exam? Or the one where Deirdre stabbed me with the knife I handed her?”

He sits next to me. “Probably that second one.”

“I got involved with Mary Carlson. She wanted to come out. I broke up with her so she could do that and I could keep my promise to Dad and Elizabeth. Then she found out about my old life.”

George adjusts his glasses. “Wait? Back up. You were involved but she didn't know you were into girls?”

I rub my nose with the back of my hand. “Stupid, right? Like, of all the friends I could make in Rome, I chose the guy with the gay moms and the girl who's been secretly closeted all these years. I panicked, George. It was so easy to act like it was all new for me, too, and Mary Carlson was so sweet and excited. I didn't want to bring her down and then I didn't want to hold her back.”

“If you set it free, you know it loves you if it comes back sort of thing?”

“Stupid, but yes.”

He drums his fingers on the desk in a thinking sort of way. “Not really. But I still don't understand what happened.”

I raise my hands up in frustration, anger rising quick as sap. “Deirdre got ahold of my online profile under my old name and showed Mary Carlson. Including some super-incriminating, but misleading, photos of me and my best friend, Dana, from a party over the weekend. I'd planned
on explaining everything to her, but now she hates me. I mean,
hates
me.”

“We hate her.”

I glance at him. “Mary Carlson?”

“No. Deirdre. She's controlling and manipulative and a mean gossip. Nowhere near good enough for Mary Carlson. Even Jessica from her throne of judgment said something to the same effect.”

I sit up a little taller. “Well, as petty as that is, it
does
make me feel better.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I guess the first thing I need to do is tell Gemma and Betsy, maybe even Jessica, the truth.”

George nods. “That'd be a start. Want my help?”

“Yeah. Call you later?”

George pats me on the back. The teacher whose classroom we'd invaded walks back in and eyes us critically. We're gone before she can say anything.