Her lips relax, slightly. “Okay. But I am here if you need me.”
In the foyer of the church, Three’s parents are waiting. I’m greeted with a septic hug from Mrs. Foley and a warm handshake from Mr. Foley. He leads me with a hand on my back to the pew. I glance his way and inadvertently catch his eye.
He smiles. “Awfully glad you joined us, Joanna.” He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a roll of Life Savers. “Here, have one.”
The weirdest thing happens. I get a lump in my throat, because in my daydreams about my perfect grandfather, he’s kind of just like Three’s dad. Dimpled smile, slightly balding, and candy in his pockets for his grandkids. But this is stupid. How long will Three, and her family, really last in my life? I swallow the lump away and wave off the Life Saver. “No thanks, Mr. Foley.”
He whispers and winks. “Let’s cut the formalities. She”—he inclines his head toward his wife, sitting on the other side of Three—“may like them, but you and me, we’re going to be great friends. I just know it. Call me Tater. That’s what Elizabeth’s brother’s boys call me.”
“Tater?” I cock my head.
He pats his belly, which makes his shirt gap a little. “Love me some French fries.”
Okay, so I can’t blow him off. He’s too nice. But calling him Tater doesn’t mean I have to get attached. “You got it.” I pause, then add, “Tater.”
The sermon surprises me. The minister is an older man with steel-gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses that don’t do a thing to dull the piercing stare of his eyes. He preaches about the Holy Spirit and how Jesus was telling us we have a three-part role in going from lost to found. First the Spirit’s going to make us feel awkward, then it’s going to make us feel empty, like there’s something we’re missing. Then it’s going to make us feel like we have to run for salvation before the Judgment Day. But the worst thing? The example he uses to validate his ideas is some gay activist and how he went from poster boy for the “gay agenda” to reaffirmed breeder. Seriously? On my first day, this is what I’m greeted with? But even though I think he doesn’t have any kind of handle on how Jesus really felt, it doesn’t stop my discomfort and anger. Or my gratitude for Dad’s kinder, gentler brand of sermon.
When he’s finally done filling the room with a license to judge, he releases us to Sunday school.
“Three?”
She perks up on high alert, whether from my use of her nickname—it is church, after all—or her nerves, I don’t know. “Yes?”
“Maybe you could show me where to go.” Though I’d like to go straight to the parking lot, I have to remember . . . I’m on a mission.
She relaxes. “Right then, come on.”
As we walk out of the sanctuary and into the huge parish hall and classroom building, numerous people stop and say hello. There’s also an ever-increasing stream of teenagers. When I see a familiar brick wall with buzzed blond hair, in a suit no less, I laugh. “Hey, there’s my friend.” I drag Three along until I reach B.T.B. “Hey, buddy. Surprise.” I wiggle my fingers in a sort of jazz hands move.
He turns, showering us with the smile. “Jo . . . anna!”
“This is my stepmother, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, may I present Barnum Thomas Bailey.”
She smiles. “Oh, I know Barnum.”
“And I know Elizabeth.” B.T.B. looks at me in awe. “Elizabeth’s your mom? You are lucky.” He hugs Three. “I love Elizabeth. She was my favorite babysitter. I miss you, Elizabeth.”
“But you’re too grown-up now for babysitters, B.T.B.”
He beams at my stepmom. “I am.”
That knocks a little chink out of my armor. Damn.
“Are you coming to youth group with me?” There are elephants on B.T.B’s tie.
“Yes, will you sit with me?” I ask him.
He nods. “I usually sit with my sister, but she won’t mind. She’s nice, too. Like Elizabeth.”
Three takes a few steps backward. “Looks like you’re in good hands. Meet you in the parking lot after Sunday school? I think we can avoid the after-church family dinner today.”
I think about Tater. “Oh, I don’t know. If it’s what you usually do, I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She smiles and waves, then heads back in the direction we came from.
“Well, come on, best friend, what are we waiting for?” I say to B.T.B. He extends his elbow and I loop my arm through it.
The teen youth group room is massive, with rows of folding chairs but also comfortable couches and overstuffed beanbags. There’s a table covered with chips and cookies and soft drinks. It’s fluorescent-light bright and the same shit storm of nerves I had the first day of school hits me again. I really am walking into a den of lions. I have mad respect for the faithful, but sometimes that faith involves cruelty to people like me. The real me, Jo. And if the pastor is any indication of the flavor of his followers, I’m in for it.
B.T.B.’s intuition hones in. “It’s okay, Jo . . . anna. They are nice.”
He leads me into the room on his arm and stops for a second, looking around. A few of the kids smile at me like I should be nominated for sainthood. They all seriously think I’m B.T.B.’s girlfriend.
“There she is,” he says and points across the room. “My sister, Mary Carlson.”
As long as I live in the South, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the whole two-name thing. But B.T.B. is excited to introduce me, so I gamely follow along, still linked to him like a paper chain.
I’m completely shocked when he leads me, straight as I’m not, to the mussy-haired blonde from the other day. No wonder she was looking at me like I was a monkey. She thinks I’ve got a thing with her brother.
She stands up, all smiles and blushes, same as her brother. “Jo . . . anna, right?” She says it the way B.T.B. does, and I notice he does this sort of duck-under-his-eyebrows look like he’s been caught telling a secret. “I’m Mary Carlson Bailey.”
The other girl from the other day whirls into the room and plops into the chair on the other side of B.T.B’s sister. Then she sees me. “Oh, look, B.T.B brought his girlfriend to church.”
Does she even realize how condescending she’s being?
I decide to play along. If they want to make assumptions about me, let them.
“Hello,” I say, all shy and quiet.
B.T.B. points to Mary Carlson’s friend. “That’s Gemma. Marnie looks like her.”
Mary Carlson looks shocked. “B.T.B., you’re going to hurt Jo . . . anna’s feelings. You can’t talk about Marnie when she’s here.”
“I can’t?” B.T.B. looks between us.
I shake my head and he shrugs, but his grin doesn’t die. “Okay,” he says.
I’m spared from any further conversation by the entry of the youth pastor. A guy, of course. Just once I’d like to walk into something like this and see a woman leading the group.
One of the benefits of the other teenagers thinking I’m with B.T.B. is nobody expects me to answer any questions or join in any discussions. They’re happy to let us sit in the corner, eating cookies and smiling. I whisper to B.T.B., “Don’t you ever want to be a part of this?”
“I am,” he says. “I even have an elephant tie.”
“That you do.”
When the lesson is wrapped, thankfully more about the love of Christ and less about the onus of the Spirit, Pastor Hank reminds the youth group about Wednesday study, pizza, and movie night, then releases us into the hallway. I don’t think he noticed me, because I feel certain I would have been called up in front of the group and made to announce all my vital statistics.
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. “O
h, 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.
Seven
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 thin
ks 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.
Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit Page 4
