Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit (3 page)

“I'M SO HAPPY YOU ASKED
me to do this with you.” Three keeps giving me shy glances from the driver's seat as she heads to a big mall on the outskirts of Atlanta.

“Totally,” I say, in my best Valley girl accent.

This silences her.

Operation Upset Three is still happening as far as I'm concerned. I can tamp down my gay for Dad, but it doesn't mean I have to open my heart to her.

At the big mall off the I-285 perimeter we find the Sephora store. I'm not completely averse to makeup. Black eyeliner is the bomb, as is that thick manga mascara, but anything else has never been my thing. So when the effete sales dude hovers over me with foundations and blushes
and eye shadows, it takes all my effort to stay in the chair.

“You know,” Three says to the guy, Derek on his name tag, “I think we're going for more of a natural look here.”

“She's right,” I say. “Girl next door and all.”

He purses his lips and tilts his head. “Whatever you say, honey.”

When he's finished, I'm loaded up with a bag full of Urban Decay Naked Palette cosmetics and a bunch of free samples of perfumes and moisturizers. Then I remember. “Wait. Time for a selfie.” I gather Derek and Three into the picture with me. Three seems especially pleased by this, and
snap
. As they head to the checkout counter, I text it to Dana. “Share this and you die.” But the picture's not bad. I look normal, kind of, and my Italian brown eyes look huge.

Our next stop is Fringe, a salon recommended to Three by one of her friends' younger sisters. Fringe is all pale wood and sleek chrome. My stylist, Stellina, picks up my mop of bangs-slash-fauxhawk. The shaved parts underneath have grown to about an inch and a half long. “You going for the tough girl look again?” She smiles at me in the mirror and my heart does a little flutter kick. But then, just when I thought she was giving me a vibe, she turns it off.

“What do you say we go for a pixie? The gamine look would definitely work for you. Maybe a little bit of dark gold highlighting on the tips?”

Even though I see the pinup girl tattoo on her right bicep, she's all business with me. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”

She raises an eyebrow at Three. Sort of a
Teenagers, you can't live with them, you can't live without them
look.

When she's finished, I'm having a seriously hard time recognizing myself. Even my nose looks smaller. If it weren't for the fact that I'm still wearing my Bikini Kill T-shirt and black jeans, I'd think the girl in front of me was cute, but not someone I'd have a thing in common with. I text Dana again.

Fuck. I don't think I can do this. I include the latest photo.

OMFG. I'd so do you. And yes you can. We'll be partying in P-Town this time next year. Be strong.

It's not your ass being dragged to A&F.

LOLOL. Pictures or it didn't happen.

Three pays for my hair and buys us both salon products. “Coffee?” she asks. There's a Starbucks a few doors down from the salon.

“Why not.”

We wait in line and I'm checking out the barista with the gauges when I get that raised-hair feeling on the back of my neck. I turn and there are two guys in line behind us, and one of them is smiling at me with this moonstruck expression.

“What?” I say.

“Um, nothing.” The boy snaps his stare to his feet. It's not like guys don't look at me—they do—but the timing is eerie.

Three starts laughing and I want to stomp her foot. The cashier takes our order, and I have to admit I'm surprised when she orders an Americano. I figured her for a caramel frap type. “Same,” I say when the barista looks at me for my order.

“Split a scone? Or wait for lunch?” Three smiles and for the briefest flash, I forget we're enemies.

“Not hungry. Still have to try on clothes.”

Three's face clouds slightly. “You know, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to mess with your life like this. I just mentioned my mom's concern to your father and he kind of ran with it.”

And . . . friends over. It's one thing to be nice after you've screwed with someone else—it's another to be nice and then try to blame it on their dad.

“Whatever. Let's just get this over with.”

From the Abercrombie & Fitch dressing room I text Dana pics of me in blue and red and green, even lilac, and not one stitch of black. I even buy a freaking sundress to make my dad happy. It will probably just hang in my closet being teased by my real clothes, but he can't accuse
me of trying to skirt the skirts.

At the shoes, I draw the line. No glittery sandals or sparkly heels. I'm going to hang on to that much of myself at least. Three tries to re-ingratiate herself. “I never wore heels in high school either. It's a big campus. Here . . .” She holds out a small bag from the neighboring jewelry store.

“What's this?”

“A present. A hope that we can be friends. I know I'm too young to be a mom to you.”

She's right. I don't need a mom. Moms leave. They die or fall in love with someone else. They don't last. I swallow a gulp of air and blurt an answer. “Too young to be a wife.” The unspoken
for my dad
hangs between us.

Three's mouth drops, but then she shakes it off. “I'll take that as a compliment. Are you going to open the bag?”

There are two tiny gold hoop earrings and a pendant, in gold, of a little round goddess, her arms upraised to the moon.

“What's this for?” Then I hear my dad's voice in my head, admonishing me to be kind. “Thank you,” I add, even though I don't really want to accept what feels like a guilt gift.

Three shrugs. “I got it because the moon is the symbol of the feminine. I thought you might like it. That maybe
it'd be kind of like a talisman or something so you don't forget yourself this year.”

I shove the box back into the bag. She should have thought of that before she blabbed to my dad about her parents' concerns. Before she married a man with a queer daughter. But it will all work out for her, I suppose. In a year, I'll be gone.

“Yeah, sure. It's nice. But you didn't need to get it for me.”

“I know.” She picks up some of my bags and heads for the nearest exit. “Time for lunch, right?” Her voice is hesitant, like she thinks I'll refuse.

“Mexican.”

“Your dad's favorite.” She smiles. How can she always smile when I'm being an ass? Is she made of plastic?

But I can't help another dig. “You think we can get a dog? I've always wanted a dog.” Three is a freak to the neat but I know she's feeling super bad about what she's done to me. I keep going with it. “Like a big pit mix. Or a Labrador. Or maybe even one of those bull mastiffs with the dangly jowls that slobber everywhere.” I make prayer hands. “They're so cute. Don't you think they're cute? Please. I know you could convince my dad.”

Three sucks in a breath.

I watch her inner battle over keeping her lovely new
house clean or making amends with her stepdaughter. I'm curious which will win.

“Sure,” she says in a high-pitched squeak. “If you want.”

Huh. Didn't see that coming.

“Naw,” I say. “On second thought, I wouldn't want the heartbreak of leaving it this summer. Let's go over there to Del Rio.” I point at a Tex-Mex place on the edge of the mall parking lot. “I'm craving one of their top-shelf margaritas.”

Her eyes bug out of her head and I know I'm being ruthless, but she makes it so damn easy.

“Kidding, Three. I'm kidding.”

This time she only looks irritated and I get the tiniest jolt of fear. Because right now, I'm pretty sure my dad would choose her side, not mine. And he'd make me call her Elizabeth.

DAD TRIED TO DRIVE ME
to school today, but I didn't spend all weekend scraping girl band and Human Rights Campaign stickers off my bumper for nothing. Not driving my car is not an option. What if I need to escape?

I look in the mirror. Who's the norm in the freaking lilac V-necked tee with
blue
jeans, a belt, and gold jewelry? Even the makeup is freaking Mary Sue. Mary Sue Gordon. Sounds like a preacher's daughter for sure.

A serious shit storm of nerves kicks up inside me as I get stuck in an endless line of parent cars. Finally I find the student parking lot and an empty spot on the far end. I have to speed walk to the office.

“Um, hello. I'm new. Jo . . . anna Gordon.” Back when
Dad married Two, she convinced him our Italian last name would never get him taken seriously within the evangelical realm and talked him into a legal name change. At the time, I was hopped up on thinking I was finally getting a mama to love me and agreed to the new name, too, but I've regretted it ever since. Dad hates the thought of us having different names, but as soon as I turn eighteen it's back to Guglielmi for me.

The secretary peers up at me over black-rimmed readers. I prepare myself for the body scan and sneer, but instead I get this pleasant smile. Then I remember—I look fucking respectable.

“Hi, sugar. Hold on a second.” She flips through some papers in front of her, and pulls out a single sheet. “Your schedule.” Then she glances over to where a group of severely nerdy-looking kids huddle. “Barnum, your peer is here.”

“Peer?” I ask.

The secretary smiles up at me, and it's like I'm being coated with sugary goodness. “Yes, dear. At RHS, we assign peer guides to new students. Barnum here is going to be yours.”

It's then I notice the boy standing next to me. He's built like a brick wall, has the goofiest smile I've ever seen,
and has an elephant silk-screened on his shirt with the slogan “Works for Peanuts.”

“Hey there, Jo . . . anna!” He repeats my name with the same hesitation I used with the secretary. “I'm B.T.B. Your peer.” He keeps grinning.

The secretary pats B.T.B on the arm. “Barnum. You'll need to look at her schedule, show her where her classes are, and take her to the assembly.”

“Right!” He nods, never losing the smile. “Give that to me.” A massive hand extends for the paper I'm holding.

The secretary winks in my direction and I get the feeling that B.T.B. might not be in my honors classes. I hand him my schedule. He scans it. “Okay, Jo . . . anna. Follow me.”

He marches, and I do mean marches, out of the office, takes a military precision turn to the right, and continues on. I almost feel like I should snap my knees along with him. The interesting thing, though, is that rather than the mocking I'd expect from the kids at my Atlanta high school, everybody we pass in the hall gives him high fives and shouts, “'Sup, B.T.B?”

Every time his answer is “Peer duty. She's Jo . . . anna.” Finally, after about the sixth such introduction, I catch up to him. “Joanna's fine. You don't need the pause.”

“The pause has a ring to it. Like B.T.B.”

I smile. He's right. “How about if
you
call me Jo . . . anna, but let's let everyone else call me Joanna.”

He glances sideways at me. “Like a secret name.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Like that.”

“Excellent, Jo . . . anna.” Then he says to a boy shouting his name, “Peer duty. She's Joanna.” His smile widens, which is kind of impossible. “I'll tell you a secret.”

“Okay,” I say.

“B.T.B. stands for Barnum Thomas Bailey.”

“Like the circus?”

“Yes!” he practically shouts. “Do you like elephants?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Elephants are awesome.”

“We're going to be great friends, Jo . . . anna. Because, guess what?” He waits with that big grin.

I shake my head like I don't know.

“I think elephants are awesome, too!” He looks up at a door. “First block. Mr. Patel. Business computer. You come here after assembly.” He leads me thusly from door to door, until he's convinced I know where I need to go.

“Do we have any classes together?” I ask.

B.T.B. shakes his head and it's the first time I see his smile falter. “No. Me and the other peers are all in Mr. Ned's class. It's for kids like us.”

“Elephant-loving kids?”

“Yes!” B.T.B. shouts and the grin comes back. “But”—he leans down in a whisper—“I can have lunch with you, since you're my peer.”

“I'd like that very much, B.T.B., especially since you're my only friend at this school.”

As I take a quick glance around at all the normal-looking, red-blooded, definitely hetero kids, hanging out with a kind, simple guy like B.T.B. might just be my best-case scenario.

At the assembly I send a clandestine text to Dana.

In the lion's den. Pray for me.

One good thing about Dana is, underneath her party girl exterior and her smartass comments, she doesn't really scoff at my need for faith. If anything, I think she has a longing, a wish, for her own place of acceptance. But church scares her, I get it; some so-called Christians are assholes to girls like us. Which is what makes this radio show I'm giving up my life for so important. I want her to feel equally accepted, whether in a faith community or at a Tegan and Sara concert.

I look around the gym. Each class level sits together in a different section. Because B.T.B. had me sit with him, we're kind of in a group to ourselves.

“Did you know elephants are scared of bees?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah, I heard something about that.” I add one of my own to up my B.T.B. cred. “Did you know, besides us, elephants are the only mammals that have chins?”

B.T.B. gifts me with his broad smile, but then he puts a finger to his lips. “Now we're quiet. Teachers.”

As the principal lays out the groundwork for this new and exciting year, I check out the senior section. Out of habit, I look for the alt kids, the ones I'd typically try to hang with. I find them, sitting toward the top of the bleachers, slumped and laughing. One girl, more goth than the others, catches me looking and does that kind of shoulder thrust, hands out,
what the hell are you looking at
motion. It's going to be a while before I'm used to people's reactions to this new version of myself.

This lying-low thing might be easier than I thought.

After school I drive over to Dad's new ministry headquarters. A radio ministry is not really like a church. It's more like a radio station with a control room and microphones and a tiny recording booth where Dad delivers his sermons. People do stop in, though, curious, hoping to meet Reverend Gordon in the flesh, so the front room is decked out like a parish hall with cushy furniture, pamphlets
about the ministry, copies of Dad's most well-loved sermons. And, of course, donation forms for all that cash. In his defense, the ministry does donate a lot of the income to our worldwide missions. Dad grew up super poor outside Baltimore, and I think the obsessive need to have an ultra-healthy bank account is the stain he can't shake.

“Hey, Althea.”

Althea runs the front room with a velvet hand. She consoles and cajoles. Flirts and comforts. Dad says she's almost like a seer, she's so tuned in to what the faithful need in a given moment. I just love her because she loves me. I guess she's as close to a grandmother as I have now. Though she's way more stylish than your typical grandmom.

“Well, look at you!”

I plop into the chair behind the reception desk with her. “God. Don't, okay?” It's bad enough Dana's all focused on my appearance—I don't need it from Althea, too.

“Don't you be using our savior's name for your personal playground. And besides, you look beautiful. Those big soulful eyes like your daddy's. With your hair like that, I see a bit of your mama poking around the edges.”

When an Italian man marries a Mississippi girl, that girl's genes get kind of buried in her children. I've got my
dad's dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, too-thick eyebrows and eyelashes—which are a bonus, I guess—his unfortunate nose, and his propensity to talk a bit with his hands. But no one ever tells me I look like my mother.

“Really?” I touch my hair without really meaning to.

“Yes, child.” She puts her hand under my chin. “Those pretty pouty lips and that jawline. Even those delicate little ears. Your mama was a joy, just like you.”

I guess that's the other reason I love Althea. She's a repository of memories that I don't have. Whereas Dad's stories of my mom are always choked with emotion, hers are tender and kind and paint a picture for me.

“So what is this new look you're cooking? A fresh start?”

“Something like that,” I say. I go ahead and tell her my deal, and I can see the storm clouds brewing under her brow.

“I'm going to have to have me a talk with your father. That's like asking you not to shine a light under your bushel. Your daddy knows better than that. You are the perfect embodiment of God's plan.” Then her eyes crinkle. “But it is nice to see you in something other than black, and I am sure you are going to charm the listeners with your sweet voice.”

I walk across the room and pour myself a cup of coffee
from the Bunn machine. “That part makes it worth it.” I twirl. “And I do look different, don't I?”

Our conversation cuts short when the door opens.

It's Three and her mother.

Mrs. Foley, my new grandmother, stiffens the moment she enters the reception area, but when she looks at me she does a double take. “Joanna.”

I'm not sure how to read her tone, but I tamp down any sarcasm. The night my dad and I made our agreement, I promised to be on my best behavior with his new in-laws. “Hello, Mrs. Foley.”

“Hi, Althea,” Three says, acknowledging me with a wiggle of fingers. “Is Anthony recording?”

“No, dear. He's writing. If he's recording you'll see a little red light lit above the recording room door. He's given me express instructions to always send you on back, though.”

She turns to me. “First day, okay?”

I shrug. “Good enough. No waves.”

With that, she nods and I'm left in the room between Althea and Mrs. Foley. A cage match made in heaven.

“Well.” Mrs. Foley sniffs around the room like she's trying to ferret out the divine. “Do you attend real church, Joanna?”

“Why yes, ma'am. Right here at Wings of Love.” After
years in Atlanta, and my dad hailing from Maryland, my accent is what you might call neutral, but this woman draws the syrup out of me. And she can't really call my dad out on not being a real pastor, because, you know, he put a ring on it. That would be poor taste. There's one thing Mrs. Foley would never do, and that's display poor taste.

“But there's no youth group. My Elizabeth so enjoyed her hours spent with the other teenagers at Foundation Baptist.”

Three and my father emerge from the back. “Virginia.” My dad reaches his arms out for Mrs. Foley. She lets him pull her into an awkward hug. “So good to see you.”

“And you, Anthony.” She pulls back and straightens her dress. “I was talking to your Joanna about our youth group. Though I'm sure you deliver her all the good word she needs, there's something that can't replace the physical closeness of a group of fellow teens in spirit.”

My dad widens his eyes at me like he's trying to get a silent response to what she just said. Three stops breathing for a sec, a sure sign she's hoping I'll say no way. Here's the thing, though—this is actually a pretty great idea. If I can get in with a group of teens who are already spiritual and faithful, then it will give me a starting place—with my target audience. Besides, like Althea says, I am the perfect embodiment of God's plan. There's absolutely no reason
why I can't be part of a Baptist youth group.

“I'd love to attend.”

“What?” Three sputters the word. “You don't have to do that.” One strand of chestnut hair falls from her bun, like I've shocked it loose.

I put on my sweetest smile. “No, seriously. I'm in a new town. Wouldn't this be a good way for me to meet people?”

“What about meeting people at school?” Three has that stricken look on her face again. It's amazing, and kind of telling, how neatly this falls into my make-Three-miserable plan. And into my small town makeover.

“Elizabeth,” Mrs. Foley cuts in. “If the child wants to attend Foundation with us, I'm not sure why you're trying to talk her out of it. She'll meet some of the nicest folks in Rome.” Then she can't resist a dig. “Certainly nicer than who she was socializing with in Atlanta.”

Althea's chuckling into her hand, trying to pretend she's got a cough.

“I can't spend ten months in my room doing homework and listening to Taylor Swift.” As if. “It may surprise you, but I like going to church.” I turn to Mrs. Foley and lay on the molasses again. “And meeting the finest families in Rome sounds like the perfect way to get myself situated.”

“That's right, baby,” Althea sings from her spot behind the reception desk. “You show them some Gordon style.”

“Wonderful.” Mrs. Foley puts her hands together lightly in a steeple. “We'll see you Sunday with Elizabeth.”

I put on my most beatific smile. “Can't wait.”

Three looks like she swallowed an egg. Whole.