Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit (5 page)

I'm actually relieved when I make it to the car and find Three waiting.

“How was it?” she said. “Did you meet some of the others?”

“Yeah, B.T.B.'s sister and her friend. Mostly I laid low.”

I unlock our doors and am getting in, when I hear Mary Carlson across the parking lot. “Oh, look, B.T.B.
Your friend drives a car. If she can do it, I know you can.”

Three gives me a strange look and I start the engine before they get any closer. “What was that about?”

“No telling,” I say.

At after-church lunch, the buffet at the local steak house, Three recounts her walk with me to the youth group room and how delighted she was to see that I'd already made friends with the Bailey kids.

Mrs. Foley dabs at her mouth with her napkin. “The daughter is delightful. Such a shame about the boy.”

Three stiffens and Tater sighs.

I cough up a bread stick. “You mean B.T.B.? He's awesome. He's been incredibly kind to me this first week at school.” My
you can't be serious
glare lands on my step-grandmother.

Tater pats my hand. “Don't listen to her. She doesn't always think before she speaks.”

“You two are always twisting my words to make me out as a monster.” Mrs. Foley huffs. “I only meant that with their parents' good genetics and even better family name, I'm surprised that God would have sent them such a trial.”

“Mom, Barnum is a blessing, not a trial.” Three looks annoyed, and for the second time today it makes me
question my stepmom misery plan.

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Mrs. Foley flags her napkin onto her lap.

“Yes, dear,” Tater says. “I think we actually do.”

Mrs. Foley's mouth stretches into a thin line as she stabs her fork into a green bean. The rest of the lunch is silent.

I FEEL LIKE A GUEST
in my own room. I did choose the color, a cool smoky purple with an off-white, barely lavender trim. And the bedspread is this gorgeous shiny pewter fabric I found at an Indian import store. It has tiny bits of mirror sewn into a raised curly embroidery pattern all over it. I even picked out some purple and cayenne colored throw pillows to pile over the matching pillow shams. But for some reason I haven't been able to unpack my boxes of books, my ancient stuffed animals, or any of my twisted attempts at craftiness. There are a few black and white photos on the walls, botanical images from a summer trip my mom and dad took before I was born. Dad says Mom was a skilled photographer, but I inherited my creativity (or
lack of it) from him. Other than that, the room is bland. What's the point in unpacking, though? All the things that will make my room feel like me—my Pride memorabilia, pictures of Dana and me, my coveted Ruby Rose poster—won't fall into Dad, or should I say Mrs. Foley, approved décor.

I pull up one of the DIY boards I follow on the computer and start looking at cool light fixtures when Dana pops up on my chat.

How goes it, oh suburban one?

It's tight. Got me a boyfriend. Took myself to the Baptist church. Call my grandpa Tater.

You're shitting me.

Sort of. The guy is my friend and Tater gives me Life Savers.

Any babes?

My eyes are closed to babes.

Don't believe you.

Dana should believe me. I've never looked at girls, except for some clandestine make-out sessions on the fly, because girls mean heartbreak and I've never needed a girlfriend because I've had her. Except right now I feel confused. B.T.B.'s sister keeps popping into my head. And even though Mary Carlson thinks I'm straight (go me) and dating her brother, I couldn't stop glancing her way during
youth group. It's stupid because I don't even know her, but sometimes you see someone and there's just this flicker. Like a light bulb that glows around the person, making them shine brighter than all the others. It's not that they're more attractive or smarter or funnier than anyone else. It's just they have a combination of all the things that speak directly to you. And Mary Carlson, stranger that she is, fascinates me. But it's stupid. Mary Carlson probably has a six-foot-tall boyfriend named Charles III who they call Trey and a promise ring on her pinky. And I'm not like Dana, I can't hook up for funsies. Truth be told, I'm terrified to hook up at all.

Seriously, Dana. Better off not to look if I can't sample.

Whatevs. Off the hook party this weekend you missed.

She attaches a selfie of
her licking a shot off some little pink-haired scene girl's chest.

Nice. You playing it safe?

Condoms in my pocket, bitch.

Not what I meant. I want you with me next summer on those killer waves.

Mama's in Rome. Baby's gonna play.

That pisses me off. I'm not her mother, and even if I am a bore compared to her when it comes to drinking and drugs, she doesn't have to treat me like I bring her down. Most people would kill to have their very own designated driver.

OD for all I care.

You worry too much.

My residual anger over the whole wedding night incident flares.

Because you're an idiot.

Oooh, pink-haired girl on my chat. She calls herself Willow.

As quick as Dana bounced on the screen, she bounces off. I rub my face and am surprised when my hands come away with makeup on them.

The next week at school, I follow my newly established routine. Discuss elephant facts with B.T.B. in the morning. Go to my first two blocks. Discuss elephant facts and Marnie with B.T.B. at lunch. Go to my second two blocks. On Wednesday, in my Latin I class, a guy with glasses and a perfectly round face turns around from the desk in front of me.

“You came to my church on Sunday. With B.T.B.” He smiles. “I didn't know they let Mr. Ned's kids take foreign language classes. I'm George.” I guess he must have gotten a schedule change, because I don't remember him being in here before. He holds out his hand to shake mine. I stare at it. People are quick to jump to any conclusion up here.

“Right,” he says, pulling his hand back. “You might not like contact. I've heard that. But hey, you know, if you want help don't be afraid to ask.”

I don't bother opening my mouth, only stare till he turns around and faces the teacher. I would text Dana to tell her about my ongoing disguise, but I haven't heard from her since she ditched me for Pink Willow on Sunday night. I'm waiting her out. So what if she's mad about my nagging.

At lunch, B.T.B. is all excited. “You're coming tonight to youth group, aren't you? Mary Carlson had them order pineapple, jalapeño, and ham pizza, which is my favorite.” He pauses.

I hadn't planned on going. I'd planned on a
Lost Girl
marathon in my favorite flannel pajamas, pouting about Dana, and making myself sick on nachos. But I can't freaking say no to his smile.

“I'll come for a little while. Just long enough for pizza.”

“Oh, but they're showing a movie.” He seems perplexed I'd want to miss that.

Across the lunchroom, I spot his sister at the drink machine. She's by herself, concentrating hard on the choices between flavored waters. She scratches her hair and it poofs up a little. I smile. There's something off-kilter about her.
Like even though she's hanging with the popular kids, she can't quite get it together. My mind plays out a fantasy. I walk over and lean against the drink machine and smile at her. She smiles back. I tell her I like her hair. She blushes. She tells me nobody ever likes her hair and she can't do a thing with it. I reach out my hand and finger comb the strands until it lies flat. She starts breathing a little faster. And then . . .

Fantasy crushed. Some tall boy in a letter jacket actually plays it out in real time. The leaning-on-the-machine part, anyway. Mary Carlson takes a step away from him. But the boy doesn't seem dissuaded and says something that makes her laugh, then hands her the drink when the beverage door opens.

I nudge B.T.B. “Is that your sister's boyfriend?”

He looks and his expression darkens. “No. That is Chaz.”

Of course. If not Trey, it would have to be Chaz. B.T.B.'s actually working his own pretty good glare. “I'm guessing you don't like him?”

B.T.B. shakes his head hard. “He is a mean boy.”

“How so?”

He's scowling. “He thinks I should play football because I'm big. But I don't want to play football and he calls me names.”

“He's bullying you?”

B.T.B.'s mouth locks in a tight frown and he shakes his head again in an equally tight motion. “No more talking about him. I don't like the words he uses. They are wrong.”

He's getting agitated, so I switch the subject. “So I should stay for the movie tonight?”

B.T.B.'s smile lights up immediately. “We're watching
Soul Surfer
. It is very scary but very good. You can sit with me.”

“Deal.” I pat his hand, then climb out from between the lunch table and attached stool. I wonder if his sister will be there.

That evening, at the church, I park and wind my way inside. There's no escaping Pastor Hank tonight, as I've somehow gotten my times turned around and arrive at five instead of five thirty.

“Joanna Gordon,” he says, “I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk on Sunday, but I didn't overlook you. Glad you're here early this evening so we can chat. Any friend of B.T.B.'s is a friend of mine.”

This is getting sort of crazy. Does Pastor Hank think I'm B.T.B.'s girlfriend, too?

“Elizabeth used to help me lead youth groups on Sundays. She's a bright star. You're lucky to have her in your life.”

So maybe he's not making assumptions. “Yeah, I guess.”

He gives me the thoughtful look that is the universal therapist, counselor, pastor, pre-insightful-comment gaze. I freeze. I don't need another person telling me how great Three is. Whatever he sees in my face must change his mind about delivering platitudes. He clears his throat. “Help me set up the room as long as you're here.”

This I can do.

By the time the other kids arrive, he's made me so comfortable I'm actually smiling. Not once has he cast a sidelong glance at me, or treated me as anything other than a typical high school senior. I'd never admit it to my dad, or Dana, but there's a part of me that feels okay being incognito.

People cast shy glances my way as they settle at tables with homework and paper plates of pizza and chips. I see George from Latin class walk in and decide, what the hell, I'll sit with him while I wait for B.T.B. to show up.

“Hey.” I plop down my plate and my notebook.

“Oh, hi.” He talks louder than he should. Like I can't hear. Because he thinks that Asperger's or developmental
delays can totally make you deaf. “Do you need help with your homework?” He enunciates each word carefully and keeps very still, like any sudden movement on his part will make me bolt. I guess the guy is actually pretty considerate, given all his other possible reactions. Misguided, but still considerate.

It's time to end this, though. I mimic him, rounding my vowels and speaking very loud. “Do you need help talking?” Then I flip open my Latin homework to show off neatly written rows of conjugated verbs. His eyes get kind of wide and he pushes his bangs off his forehead.

Before our conversation goes any further, B.T.B., Mary Carlson, and her friend Gemma, I think it is, walk through the door with a couple of other girls who fall into the same primped and pretty category. B.T.B. waves. He's wearing his Babar T-shirt tonight. I grin back, but before they can even load up their plates with his favorite pizza, Pastor Hank walks to the small, elevated stage at the front of the room.

“Greetings, young people. It's always nice to see your enthusiasm for Foundation Baptist, our Holy Father, and the communion of community. I'd like to welcome a special guest tonight who I was remiss in not introducing on Sunday. I hope she's going to be joining us regularly.” He holds out his hand to me. “Miss Joanna Gordon. She's the
new stepdaughter of one of our favorites, none other than Elizabeth Foley, now Gordon as well. It's her first year in Rome. I hope you all give her a warm welcome.”

A few kids clap and say hello. George clears his throat. “So, you're not in Mr. Ned's class?”

“Obviously.” I tap my notebook paper with the eraser end of my pencil.

B.T.B. and crew land at our table. “Hi, Jo . . . anna!”

Mary Carlson is still looking at me like I'm going to be her sister-in-law, until one of the other girls speaks up.

“Hey, you're in my English class.” She picks up her slice of pizza. “I'm Betsy, this is Jessica, Gemma, and Mary Carlson.”

I nod. “Joanna.”

“You're in AP English?” Mary Carlson cocks her head and her glasses slip a little on the bridge of her nose.

“Yeah.” I shrug, my reflexes sending my lip into the start of a snarl, then I remember, lie low. Don't be a smart ass. “Ms. Smith seems like a good kind of challenge.”

Mary Carlson looks back and forth between me and B.T.B., like she can't quite make sense of it all. “Wait. You're not with Barnum in Mr. Ned's class?” She pokes her glasses back up, then does the hair thing, which takes me back to my lunchroom fantasy. I flush. Then tell my brain to squash the crush buzzer in my belly. Obviously,
my gaydar is broken or having some kind of existential straight girl crisis.

“I told you she was smart like you.” B.T.B. holds up a hand in frustration. “You never listen.”

Now she's blushing. Which makes the swath of freckles across her nose stand out more. Mary Carlson groans. “I'm such a doofus.” She looks at her brother. “So she's really
not
your girlfriend?”

He laughs. Big and booming. “No, sister. I
told
you. Marnie is my girlfriend. Jo . . . anna is my friend. There's a difference.”

Mary Carlson drops her face into her hands. “Oh my gosh.” She looks up, her own eyes crinkled with laughter. “I just thought . . . well . . . since y'all had been hanging out. You must think we're such idiots. Can we start over? Anybody who can put up with Barnum and his incessant elephant talk is destined to be my friend.”

She holds out her hand.

I hold out mine.

Her handshake is firm, her skin powdery and warm.

“Welcome to Rome, Joanna Gordon.”

The way her mouth hooks on my full name makes me willing to forget I was ever Jo.

Gemma butts in. “Girl, you were holding out on us. You didn't say a word last week. And you are so pretty.
You've got kind of a cool look. Not many people can pull off short hair.” She turns to Betsy. “What's that actress? You know, the one who played in the
Star Wars
movies. Porter.”

Betsy, who kind of looks like my distant cousin Lola, all boobs and eyelashes, says the name like she's doing Gemma the biggest favor on the planet. “Natalie Portman.”

“Right. That's her. You got that Natalie Portman look but with bigger lips.”

My transformation must have been more dramatic than I realized. Then I remember. I've been given what they consider a compliment. “Um. Thanks.” I point to my mouth. “The lips are Italian. Costs a damn fortune in lip gloss.”

Mary Carlson laughs. “You're funny.”

Gemma sits back and puts her hands across her chest. “We could fix those eyebrows, though.” She points above my eyes. “I know the tweezing hurts, but beauty is worth the pain.”

“Says the girl who bitches about trips to the salon.” Mary Carlson jumps to my defense.

“That is a whole different thing for me than it is for you, coconut. At least
I
know how to use a brush.”