Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit

by Jaye Robin Brown

  She shakes her head, still laughing, but then her phone rings. “Ministry of Love, Althea speaking. What can God do for you today?”

  As she listens to the caller, I flip open my Latin book and start to write down vocabulary words, then my phone buzzes. It’s Mary Carlson.

  I’m bored. Practice got cancelled.

  Want to hit some balls?

  No, Barnum’s with me.

  “That’s an awful big smile on your face, my girl. Who you talking to? Your friend Dana?” Althea’s hung up the phone and is crinkling her eyes at me again.

  “Actually, no. It’s my friend Mary Carlson. The golfer.”

  I text back.

  You want to do something else.

  Duh.

  Should I meet you? Or you could pick me up at my dad’s ministry station. I text her the address.

  Awesome. I’ll pick you up in ten.

  Sure enough, ten minutes later, in walk Mary Carlson and B.T.B., twin superpower smiles activated. My stomach does triple forward handsprings. She’s so damn pretty. I can’t believe I called George my boyfriend.

  “Althea, these are my friends B.T.B. and Mary Carlson.”

  Althea stands up and comes around the desk to give them each a strong-armed Althea hug. She pushes B.T.B. back. “Child. I don’t call anyone by initials. Please tell me you have a baptismal name.”

  “Barnum Thomas Bailey!”

  “Why, that’s a beautiful name.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is. And just like the men who ran the circus, I love elephants!”

  “All right then, Barnum. I can already tell you and I are going to be grand friends. Elephants are special animals.” She turns her healing light on Mary Carlson. “And you, sweet thing, you’ve gone and gotten yourself a friend in my Joanna, I see.”

  Mary Carlson’s glasses slip as she ducks her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Ooh, and manners, too.” Althea looks at me. “I like this one.”

  She knows me better than anyone. Even my dad at times. I figure she’s already seen straight through me and my secret feelings.

  “Where y’all headed on this beautiful fall afternoon?”

  “Paradise.” B.T.B. throws his arms wide.

  “Paradise?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Mary Carlson steps closer. “Paradise Gardens. It’s up in Summerville, about forty minutes north. This folk artist, Howard Finster, lived there and they’ve turned his house and gardens into a historic site. It’s pretty crazy and completely awesome.”

  It’s hard to turn off the crush. Every time I lump Mary Carlson into some white Baptist girl box, she surprises me. Bored usually means Starbucks, or grabbing an ice cream downtown. Bored rarely means a genuine cultural learning experience.

  “We better get going. They close at five, if we leave now, we’ll have about forty minutes to wander around.”

  “I’ll let your dad know, child.” Althea waves me out.

  Barnum gives me shotgun. It’s the first time I’ve been next to Mary Carlson since golf and the pizza shop snafu. During school this week she was super involved with homework, always running off to the library away from everyone, complaining about how behind she was. I’m hoping it’s not because of me and my stupid proclamation.

  “How’s all your school work going?”

  “Oh, it’s good. Getting caught up. How’s George?”

  Maybe it’s my own guilt, but I swear I detect the slightest bit of melancholy in her voice.

  “Good, I guess.”

  “You guess?” Her eyes are focused intently on the traffic, but I get the feeling she’s completely tuned in for my answer.

  “Yeah. It was probably premature for me to call him my boyfriend, you know? We only had one sort of real date.”

  “You seemed pretty confident to me. Even after you seemed so confident about not wanting a boyfriend.”

  I can’t look at her, so I turn in my seat and use B.T.B. as a diversion tactic. “So this artist guy. His work is cool?”

  Objective achieved. B.T.B. fills the awkward silence with facts about Howard Finster and the pieces with Elvis and the bottle wall at the gardens and there’s even an elephant or two in some of his work.

  When we get there, we park and B.T.B. charges ahead of us to the gardens, excited to explore. But Mary Carlson lags and I get the feeling this drive out to the middle of nowhere was not really about being bored. We walk into the building and look around. There are stories and pictures of Howard Finster’s life on the walls.

  “This stuff is cool.” I like the work. It’s folkish and funky, plywood cutouts covered with bright paint, scrawls of scripture and advice in black Sharpie handwriting.

  “Yeah, it is. My dad always liked his stuff. He’s got a couple of Coke bottles and an Elvis piece in his office.”

  We push through the doors out into the gardens. I walk a few steps in front of Mary Carlson, ready to find B.T.B. “Um, Joanna. Can you hold up a sec?” When I turn, she’s stopped in the path and has her hands shoved into her back pockets.

  “Yeah?” My stomach ratchets into nerve overdrive. Something is up.

  Just off the path is a wall made of concrete and Coke bottles turned so the ends create the illusion of clear stone. She walks over to it and sits. I follow her. A massive live oak with low-hanging branches spreads out around us. “Look, I want to apologize,” she says.

  “Apologize?”

  She lifts her hands to a low limb, stands up, then swings, her shirt riding up to show the slightest belly pooch and the same fine down of blond hair as her arms. The belly button piercing surprises me. She drops down again and stands against the rough trunk. “Just let me talk, okay?”

  I sit cross-legged on the bottle wall. “Sure.”

  She takes an enormous breath, and when she talks it’s so fast it jumbles together. “I know I’ve been acting weird, in the movie theater, and at the golf course, and the thing is I thought—oh never mind . . .” She pulls herself up onto a branch, where she drops her face in her hands and lets her feet swing.

  My heart is racing.

  She starts talking again, more to the tree than me. “What you need to know and please promise me you won’t freak out because I would never ever do anything you didn’t want and I really like you but, oh my God.” She pauses and gulps air again. “Remember that seven minutes in heaven game we were talking about?”

  “Yeah.” My voice catches on the way out.

  “I completely gagged when Chaz tried to kiss me. His feelings were hurt so bad he told everyone I was a dyke. Those were the rumors he started and the mean words Barnum doesn’t like. But he was . . . right. I like girls and have for a while and I like you.” She glances at me for a second, then looks at the bark again.

  I open my mouth to respond but only a squeak comes out.

  She holds up her hand. “Stop. You don’t have to say anything. If I didn’t get it out it was going to kill me. And I’m sure you don’t like me, but now that it’s out we can move on and be friends again and I can let go of this stupid crush.” She looks at me now. “Or do you think I’m vile?”

  My brain is exploding in Paradise. She likes me. This beautiful, athletic, faithful, nice girl likes me, Jo Guglielmi. Except not really. I’m Joanna Gordon and she doesn’t think I’m queer, too. “You’re not vile.”

  “No?” She’s hesitant now.

  I stand up and grab the branch next to where she’s sitting. The bark is warm and rough and alive. “Uh-uh.”

  So many roads are diverging in front of me now. The one that admits the truth and officially outs myself in Rome, Georgia, to the detriment of summer plans, my radio show, my father’s wishes, and maybe my social life. The one that denies and loses out on this chance for the perfect girlfriend. And the third path, the one that plays along and admits some mutual feelings but maybe doesn’t share the all of it. I twirl, holding on to the branch with one hand. “So are you like, questioning, or something?”

  She crosses her arms and s
hakes her head. “No.” There’s beautiful defiance on her face. “I’m sure of who I am. But I’ve never found a person to make it worthwhile to come out for. I always thought I’d wait till I got to college.”

  This. Is. Perfect. If she’s waiting until college, then maybe we could start something. A secret something.

  From ahead of us B.T.B. calls, “Come on, slowpokes.”

  I yell back, “Coming!”

  Mary Carlson jumps down from the tree, landing gracefully in front of me. “I figured since you moved from Atlanta you’d be more understanding. And . . .” She trails her fingers along the bottle wall. “I kind of thought—forget it.” She cuts herself off again. “So you and George, huh?”

  “Me and George,” I say, then kick myself. What am I doing?

  “Too bad. I was hoping you’d save me from Chaz.”

  Have you ever had that feeling of a football pummeling into your chest and knocking all the breath out of it? Yeah. Then I realize I’ve stopped walking and she’s ahead of me. Mary Carlson turns back. “You okay?”

  “I didn’t really kiss George,” I blurt.

  She tilts her head. “You didn’t?”

  “No, he likes Gemma. I said that for her benefit.”

  “He does? You did?” Now Mary Carlson looks confused.

  I take a few steps closer to her. “If I tell you something, you have to swear not to tell anybody.”

  “Okay.” Her word is a drawl.

  “I’ve thought about kissing you ever since the night you put my lip gloss on for me.” That is definitely not a lie.

  “You have?” She steps closer, her hands hanging by her sides.

  I nod. My breath comes in shallow sprints.

  “Wow,” she says. “I’d hoped . . .” She stops talking and reaches out for my hand, gently touching the tips of my fingers.

  Oh. My. God. This feeling is like squealing and fireworks, and fuck, I’m not supposed to be getting involved with a girl. Especially not a girl from a conservative Rome family, like Mary Carlson.

  “So you like me?” she whispers.

  I nod.

  “It’s okay, Joanna. We’ll figure it out together.”

  I know I should tell her right now that I’m gay. Have been gay. Could write the book on being a teenage lesbian. But somehow this feels sweeter. Special. Mary Carlson gets to make the decisions. Write our story.

  “So now what?” I circle my toe in the dirt, instinctually drawing a heart, then quickly brushing it away before she sees.

  She lifts one brow and tilts her head. “I have some ideas.”

  I drop my hand and pinch the side of my thigh to remind myself I am really standing here and this is really happening.

  B.T.B. calls from ahead of us, “Jo . . . anna! Mary Carlson! Come on.”

  She turns to walk toward him and beckons for me, her hand out for mine. It’s no different than at the football game, but now I’m shy. Now it means something.

  “Come on,” she says. “You don’t want to keep my brother waiting.” When she notices my hesitation, she softens. “It’s okay, nobody will think anything about it. We’ll be okay.”

  She is adorable in her confidence. But crap, I am not supposed to be going here. She wraps her fingers in mine and pulls me closer and I forget reason and my promise. I will follow Mary Carlson anywhere she wants to take me.

  Which turns out to be a hidden alcove at the back of Paradise Gardens.

  B.T.B., in typical fashion, strikes up an energetic conversation with another Finster fan, and when we tell him we are going to keep looking around, he simply waves us on. The last word we hear is elephant as we disappear around a bend in the path.

  The tiny building Mary Carlson finds is embedded with colored glass and Coke bottles and is the perfect size to hide two people. Tucked into its barely hidden alcove, we stand front to front. My heart is about to jump out of my chest.

  “Joanna,” she says.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m going to kiss you now.” She pushes her glasses up on top of her head and leans into me, holding tight to my arms. Mine hang awkwardly until she hesitates. I quickly place my hands on her hips and she eases forward again, our lips meeting in the softest hello. It’s an entire conversation.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hello, again.”

  “Hello to you.”

  And then talking stops as our lips decide they can do away with the pleasantries.

  Here’s what I know. Kissing Mary Carlson is spooning homemade peach ice cream into your mouth on the hottest Georgia day. It is shooting stars and hot lava. It is every goose bump you ever had in your entire life built up and exploding all at once. It is going to be the end of me, but I don’t care.

  Mary Carlson grins, letting her fingers trail the side of my neck. “This is more amazing than I’d dreamed.”

  “Yeah.” My fingers are hooked into the belt loops of her jeans and I stand on tiptoes, my mouth pressing against her, quieting her with my tongue. When she starts making little moaning sounds, I pull back. I don’t want to come across as too experienced.

  She pulls me back. “Don’t you dare stop.”

  “Someone might see us,” I whisper.

  She hooks her leg around mine and pulls me close. Mary Carlson is kind of a tiger. “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t?” Panic slips into my voice as reason sneaks in.

  She kisses the side of my chin and brushes her fingertips against my neck, then pulls back, staring straight into my eyes with the sweetest expression I’ve ever seen. “Of course I care. We’ll need to be careful. But we can make it work? Can’t we?”

  Against everything I know I’ve promised, I answer her with a quiet “Yes.”

  B.T.B.’s voice carries over the garden. “Mary Carlson? Jo . . . anna? They’re closing. I’m hungry.”

  We break apart. Mary Carlson glances over at me. “I know you were adamant about not wanting a boyfriend, but does this mean that maybe . . . we’re starting a thing?”

  I kiss her again as her answer.

  Twenty

  “I’M REALLY PROUD OF YOU, Joanna.” Dad forks up another big bite of food.

  Three’s made this amazing wild rice and sausage casserole, and stopping to talk takes real effort, so I’m suspicious. My dad is the master of the raise-you-up-when-you’ve-done-wrong technique—it’s a surefire way to get you to repent—and I have a sinking feeling that somehow, through a secret pastor crystal ball or direct line to Jesus, he knows I broke my promise.

  “For what?” Maybe if I act all no big deal, it can become a non-topic.

  “For toeing this hard line I gave you. For stepping back from the path you were on.”

  He knows.

  But that’s impossible.

  “Elizabeth said it looked like you had a bit of a row with your friend Dana the other day.”

  I glance at her. What did she say to him to keep him from jumping on my case about skipping school?

  He waits while I chew.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really,” I mumble through the remains of my rice.

  “Why don’t you invite her up for a weekend?”

  I look up. “Really?” On the one hand I’m excited about the possibility of a Dana weekend. But on the other is Mary Carlson. She is my girlfriend, I guess. Girlfriends meet best friends. I’m not sure sooner is better than later when it comes to meeting Dana. There’ll be no hiding my truth when she’s around.

  “My intention wasn’t to kill your friendship.” Dad puts his hand on Elizabeth’s and squeezes. So they talked about this together, I’m guessing. Score for the stepmom.

  I feel extra guilty. Dad’s being all nice and loving, while I’m completely breaking the rules with Mary Carlson. Kissing one of Rome’s finest females is not at all part of our deal. But then, another part of me rises up. One that is slightly pissed. At him for coming up with this. At me for going along with it. But I�
�m not going to miss a chance for Dana time.

  “I’ll see when she can come.”

  Dad nods. “Just let us know so we can load the freezer with ice cream.” He winks. Polishing off a pint each of Cherry Garcia is nothing for us. “Now, shouldn’t you be off for your study date? Don’t want to make you hang out with us old people any longer than necessary.”

  Three swats him with her napkin. “Speak for yourself, Grandpa.”

  I don’t know what’s worse, watching your father bite onto your deception, hook, line, and sinker or watching him flirt with his new wife.

  “Yeah.” I scoot my chair back from the table and pick up my plate. “I’ll just leave y’all to it.”

  Three blushes beet red as I disappear into the kitchen.

  It’s been two days since Mary Carlson came out to me . . . and we kissed. Two days when we haven’t had a minute to ourselves to explore whatever this thing is. Two days of secret smiles and secret looks and acting as normal as we can in front of the other girls. Now it’s Thursday and Mary Carlson managed to throw off the scent and invite me, only me, over to her house. I am a bundle of anticipation and nerves.

  B.T.B. hears my car and is waiting in the open doorway. “Jo . . . anna! You came to my house again.”

  “Yeah, buddy, your sister and I have to study for a big test.” Does he know we’re not in any classes together? I’m an asshole for thinking I can even try to slide that by him. “We each have a test. In our own classes. That’s what I meant.” Where is this awkward coming from?

  Mary Carlson bullies her way past him in the doorway and skips over, skidding to a stop in front of me, a crazy smile on her face. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” That’s where it’s from. I run my hand over my mouth, trying to tame the stupor. But I can’t; my own huge smile breaks through.

  “Come on.” She grabs my arm and drags me past a surprised B.T.B., past her parents, and straight to her room, where she closes the door. “I thought you’d never get here.” She walks me backward to her bed.

  I barely have time to drop my backpack on the floor before she takes her hand and lightly pushes me. I plop backward onto her comforter. She straddles my lap and her hair falls around her face. “Do you know how hard it’s been not to kiss you every single time I see you?”