“Ask? Right. More like telling.”
“Jo, stop. Ten months. I’m asking for ten months of compromise. Besides, Rome is not like Atlanta. It won’t be as easy here as it’s been for you in the past. When have I ever stood in your way when something was important?”
“Um, you’ve stood in the way of my summer trip.” I cross my arms. “You’ve stood in the way of my doing a radio show for the ministry.” Over the privacy fence I hear kids splashing in a neighboring pool. They sound like they’re having way more fun than me.
He sighs. “Fair enough. If you are big enough to do this for me, then I can be big enough to let you travel with a friend. You have my permission for your summer trip with Dana.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I imagine I would have relented closer to graduation, but your point is solid, so yes, I’ll say it now. You can go.” He grabs my arm and pulls me back to sitting by his side. “I know this is going to be hard, Jo. And I wouldn’t ask unless I thought I needed to. I want you to be safe and I want us to make a good life with Elizabeth and the Foleys. You can keep busy with school. You can even do some work at the station with me. You have talked about that for a while.”
Not just a while. But since I came out. The whole being-gay-and-a-preacher’s-daughter thing comes with some weird mixed messaging—Jesus Loves You. Well, maybe not you. It’s been a constant internal struggle, having grown up in a religious household, desperately wanting to believe in the great goodness all around me, yet hearing so much hate even when my dad did his best to shield me. About a year ago, I decided starting my own ministry within his could be an amazing way to help other queer and faith-filled youth. Maybe now, with what he’s asking of me, I’ll get him to listen.
“You mean work like my radio show?”
My dad straightens. His ministry, Wings of Love, is not a brick and mortar church. It’s a radio station with Christian evangelical programming. He tapes his sermons and they go on throughout the day on Sundays and Wednesdays. In between he runs syndicated programs with topics of interest for his listeners. I want my own show, about youth topics and how Jesus was not the kind of dude to preach any type of hate. He was a total out-of-the-box guy and I’ve always loved him. But some of his followers are fucking nuts. And they might stop sending Dad donations if I go on the air.
“Joanna—”
I cut him off. “No. You moved me my senior year. You swear how cool you are with my choices, and now it’s like you’re saying that was all a lie. The trip offer is awesome, but like you said, you would have agreed eventually, and I’ve saved my own money for it. What would really make me okay with this is the radio show.” I know I’m pushing here. But maybe this show would be the thing that could make living in this town bearable. If my new grandparents figure out I’m intelligent and thoughtful, if the local listeners get some insight into how to be better Christians, Dad might not freak out about us having to be on our best behavior. And I won’t have to adhere to this ridiculous new rule. I could help make the world, and my new town, a safer place for kids like me.
Now Dad’s the one pacing. Five steps toward the yard, five back to me. He does this twice. Twenty steps to decision.
A kid yells, “Cannonball!” and there’s the sound of a huge splash from somewhere over the fence.
Dad stops walking. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I’m sort of shocked.
“But.”
Nothing good ever comes after that word.
“Any agenda you have needs to be approached cautiously. I want us to work on the planning together.”
I deflate onto the stone wall, then shake my head and roll my eyes. Yeah, it’s what I wanted, but if it’s too watered-down it might as well be pointless. Although, maybe a foot in the door is better than being locked out. Once I’m in, proving my salt, gaining my own following, then I can pull out the big guns . . . and, blam—queer girl sucker punch. I can do anything for a year if there’s a rainbow at the end of it. If they love my dad, they’ll love me. And maybe once they love me, I can make some real change and talk about being young, queer, and faithful. It might make this worth it.
“Okay.”
This time he’s the one who’s shocked. “Okay?” He lets out a huge breath of air and plops back next to me, pulling me into a side hug. “This means a lot to me, kid. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise. You know I’m proud of you.”
I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow. “I love you, Dad. I want you to be happy.” But I don’t tell him I know he’s proud. Because for the first time since I told him my truth, he’s acting like it may be a problem.
Three
DANA’S STRAIGHT UP GUFFAWING ON the other end of the phone. “Are you serious? That old lady that stuck her head out of the room when I had my hand up Cougar Jen’s skirt was your new grandma? I guess I wasn’t really paying attention. Had other things keeping me occupied.”
“Yep. That’s who it was. New grandma.”
“You sound pissed.”
Somehow between my talk with my dad, the awkward post-honeymoon dinner at our new family table, and me finally escaping to my room to call Dana, I have gotten pissed. She knew what the wedding was going to be like. She knew the folks there were on the more conservative end of the spectrum. Who the hell acts like that in the hallway at the Ritz-Carlton? It’s like she thinks she’s Shane from The L Word and nothing she does is going to come back on her. “Three’s mom recognized you as my friend. And now she thinks my dad is the Antichrist because he can’t manage his offspring. An apology wouldn’t hurt my feelings.”
“No way. I did us a favor. The trip is on, and besides, you’re going to get that stupid show you wanted. I swear, I do not understand why you’re still all up in Jesus’s house. You know those people don’t like homos.”
“Wrong. Some of those people. And that’s the whole point—my show is supposed to change hearts and minds.”
I press the bottom of my feet against the padded headboard and push up into a stretch as I wait for her response.
“So, what’s your approach?”
“Be myself.” I drop flat again against my new bed.
Dana snorts. “Isn’t that exactly what your dad said you couldn’t do?”
“You have a point.” I hate when she’s right. It takes all the anger out of my balloon.
“I’m serious. Your dad wants you to blend in for the year. Then fucking blend. If you think you have half a snowball’s chance in hell to turn some of those haters into allies, I’ve got your back.” She pauses and I can tell she’s strategizing. “This is too nuts for me, but what if you do the whole small town makeover?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, girl-next-door, cool-kid table—I mean, not the really cool kids, but the ones who think they are—county fairs, and prayer group. Oh, and Sephora. You have to promise me you’ll go, with Three, and get a makeover. No more fauxhawk. Let that shit grow out. You’ll be so pretty with a dark little pixie cut and some rose lips. And finally, new wardrobe. No Docs. No ripped jeans. No black.”
“Screw you, Dana.”
“No, screw you. Papa D. is only trying to help you out here, and you have to admit this idea is brilly.”
It’s so stupid I can barely stand it, but again, the girl has skills at getting to the heart of an issue. It might make my transition easier.
“Papa D. could be right.”
“Yaaaas! And pictures or it didn’t happen. Besides, maybe Three will try on clothes with you and you’ll get to see what your dad’s hitting.”
“That is the nail, dude.”
“Yeah, but who’s in the coffin?”
“So we’re cool?”
Dana’s quiet on the other end of the line, then she sighs. “Yeah, bitch, we’re cool. But I’m serious. If you’re going to do this shit for the cause, you might as well go for broke. Then we can bust you out of your chains on graduation day. But don’t be thinking you can avoid my texts. Me with no car and you
with your new life, I don’t know how often we’re going to get real-life visits.”
“You’re going to be my lifeline, dude. Don’t forget about me.”
“As if.” She laughs. “Give my regards to Grandma.”
“Later, gator.”
I hang up and stare at myself in the mirror. Normal makeup, hair, clothes? No time like the present to start a slow death. There’s genius in Dana’s plan. Blend in. Keep my enemies close. Maybe I’ll even figure out how to pilot my own life instead of always being her wingman. I lean in closer and look myself in the eyes. “You’ve got this, girl.” The fear worms its way in again. I’ve never lived in a small town before and they’re not known for being kind to girls like me. Maybe Dad’s edict won’t be the worst thing in the world.
Four
“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.
Five
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.”
Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit Page 2
