Hiding in the corners of my psyche is a quieter thought, a scolding thought—Is it really timing or is it fear of reprisal? You have to come out in Rome eventually, why not stand up to your father and do it now? Have you even thought about how hurt she’s going to be? I silence the thought. It’s not an option. The timing is totally off. What would telling her the truth even look like? Um, excuse me Mary Carlson, but I’ve been lying to you since we met and I know you hate liars but maybe you’ll understand this one. And oh yes, I’m supposedly this really awesome queer girl, yet I’ve chosen to stay in the closet this school year. Well, except for the kissing you part, that was really, really gay.
Breaking up is the lesser of the two evils. If I tell her, she’s going to break up with me anyway. I would if the situation were reversed. But should I let her decide? I think about what Dana said—what if she slips and tells one wrong person—then what? Shit. This sucks every way I look at it. I should never have told her I wanted to kiss her that day at Paradise Gardens.
I text her and my stomach knots.
Can we meet at Ridge Ferry before going to the game?
She texts back immediately. Do you have something to tell me ☺☺☺
My heart constricts. She thinks I’ve told my parents already. And this time I know these emojis mean so much more. I can’t stand to be the cause of turning those smiles into frowns.
Um yeah. I need to talk to you. No smiley faces.
?? Is everything okay?
Crap, now she’s worried. But if she’s worried, maybe it won’t come as such a surprise.
Mary Carlson’s rage is way bigger than I expected. I’m heart-racing, what-the-fuck-am-I-doing panic.
We’ve walked down the paths into a cold, deserted Ridge Ferry Park and her face is a hot mess of tears and anger. “Why, Jo? I don’t understand. We agreed to start slow. That we’d only tell our parents and George and Gemma for now.” Mary Carlson keeps asking me this and I can’t formulate an answer to make her get it. Because any answer I give her is a lie, and any truth I tell her is going to make her hate me, too.
“I can’t tell my parents right now and I don’t want to hold you back. You have so much bravery and confidence.”
“You can tell your parents. I’ve known Elizabeth my whole life. She’s not the type to let someone’s sexuality interfere with how she feels about them. She’s one of the good ones.”
“But my dad.” The words unloose my tears. It’s not a lie. I’m breaking up with Mary Carlson because my dad—my kind, supportive, not-your-typical, evangelical preacher dad—asked me to do the unthinkable. And I said yes.
She pulls me into her arms and I sob against her sweater.
“Hey, hey, shhhhh.” She pushes me back and with excruciating tenderness wipes the tears from my face. “We can do this together. People will see how happy we are and be okay with it.”
A man appears on the path above us and I jump away from her. She looks at him, then me, then down at the ground.
“I can’t, Mary Carlson. It’s . . .”
She looks up again, the tenderness gone. “Too hard? Too scary? Yeah, I get that. I know who I am. Do you know who you are?”
“Yes, of course I do. But . . . it’s wrong. I can’t.” I was thinking about the timing being wrong, but she misinterprets me.
“It’s wrong? What’s wrong? Us?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I—”
She blows out a breath of cold air, then cuts me off. “You’re serious. I can’t believe you’re serious. I hate you right now. The way you acted all into this.” She wipes away a tear and flings it to the ground like she can get rid of any emotions in the movement. “I thought I loved you, Jo Gordon. But you’re a coward.”
I drop my chin and stare at the ground. Am I a coward? If I’d never met her, none of this would be an issue. Mary Carlson was the one who pulled me into her circle of friends. She was the one talking about how she couldn’t handle the handsiness of boys. She was the one who kissed me first. As far as I knew she was just messing around, experimenting after seeing that movie. It’s not my fault she chose me as her catalyst to do the thing that had obviously been building inside her since before we met.
“I’m not a coward,” I whisper. “I’ll have your back. I’ll be your ally.”
“Ally? That’s rich. Was it my ally who had her hands up my shirt between third and fourth block last Tuesday? One day you’ll figure out who you are, Joanna Gordon. And you’ll feel just like me. And hopefully the girl you love won’t be crushing your heart into dust in the process.”
“I . . .” I look up, my mouth open, the words right there sitting in my throat. I could tell her everything. I could tell her I think I’m falling in love with her, too. But then I think about Dad and Three, his hand on her stomach, her on the couch piled with blankets and pillows, and I can’t. I’m selfish if I don’t tell her and I’m selfish if I do. Dana was right. All it would take is Mary Carlson slipping it to one wrong person and things would spiral into drama. I can’t bring drama into our house right now. I don’t want to be the daughter who messed it all up. “I’ve got to go.”
Make a clean break. That’s what Dana said. I’m going to walk my feet away from this amazing girl and let her fly.
“Fine. Go. Go to the stupid party at Jessica’s without me. Maybe you can find another nice boy to fake it with.”
“Screw you, Mary Carlson.” I turn to head back up the path.
“No. Screw you, Joanna. Run back to your safe little life. In the meantime, I’ll be at home, telling my parents I’m queer.”
Every part of me is wound tight. I want so badly to turn around. To tell her I’ve been out longer than she’s probably even thought about it. But I keep walking, my head down, my hands in my pockets, and my mouth shut. Losing Mary Carlson is going to hurt like hell, but it won’t hurt as much as my dad’s disappointment.
When I finally get to my car and pull away from the park, my tears burst free.
What did I just do?
Twenty-Eight
I CALL DANA WHEN I get home but she must be out with her mom, because it goes straight to voice mail. I text but she doesn’t text back. Which sucks because it means I’m stuck alone with this pain. Mary Carlson’s face smiles at me from the bulletin board and I consider pulling the photos down, but I don’t.
I put on an old Blondie album from the record collection I inherited from my mom and listen to Debbie Harry growl. In my battered spiral-bound notebook I make lists to keep my brain occupied and out of angst mode. Topics to cover for Keep It Real when I get to make it the way I want. Coming out. Dealing with haters. Finding a support network. I think about Dana and her recent fiasco and jot down, “friends—real or users?” The list of topics goes on and on and on. When my brain is dry, I group them into categories. Romance. Parents. Friends. Questions of Faith. I get so into it I forget about Mary Carlson for whole minutes at a time. Until my phone rings.
“Hello?”
From the other end of the line I hear the cheers of guys and the blare of a television. “Girl.” It’s Gemma. “Where are you two? I’ve been stuck here surrounded by nothing but boys and the uselessness of drunk-on-a-Saturday Betsy and shamelessly flirting Jessica. I need some sanity.”
“Isn’t George with you?”
She whispers, “Yes. But he actually likes this stupid shit. He’s watching the game and there’s not enough artichoke dip in the world to keep me occupied.”
“Did you call Mary Carlson?”
“What is this? Twenty-five questions? Y’all better get your asses over here in five or I’m liable to go postal on these idiots.”
There’s nowhere I’d rather be less than at Jessica’s house, but it would be weird for me to completely drop out of the picture after I’ve worked so hard to put myself in it. Plus, Gemma seemed kind of desperate. At least Mary Carlson won’t be there.
Downstairs I grab my keys from the counter.
Dad looks up from where
he’s got the game on the television. Elizabeth must be in their room. “Going back out?”
“Yeah. My friend Gemma called for a rescue.” I hesitate for a second. Tell him. Just tell him.
The newly purchased baby monitor crackles from the coffee table. “Babe? Can you bring me some water?” Elizabeth’s voice is weak and distant as it sounds out of the speaker.
Dad pushes the button. “Be right there.” Then to me, “Have fun. Be safe.”
“Sure thing. You, too.”
He hops up and kisses me on the forehead and disappears.
My GPS leads me into a neighborhood of one-story ranch houses built in the seventies. I figure I’m at the right place when I see all the SUVs and UGA flags in the yard. There’s a giant blowup bulldog by the front door. I knock but no one answers. A cheer goes up from inside, so I crack the door open and enter. Gemma, who’s obviously been watching it, sees me and jumps up. “Finally.” She peers behind me. “Where’s Mary Carlson?”
I don’t have a speech prepared for this, so I stutter a bit and then finally shrug. “She didn’t feel like coming.” That much I know is fact.
“She’s been acting weird lately. Do you think she’s been acting weird?” Gemma leads me into the kitchen so I can load up a plate of football party food.
I shrug again. “You’ve known her longer than I have.”
Gemma screws up the side of her mouth. “Something’s off. She didn’t say anything to you about Chaz, did she? Because Jessica’s working as hard as she can to secure a spot in his long list of ex-girlfriends. We all made a pact when we started dating that breakups of shorter-than-month-long relationships didn’t count as exes, but if Mary Carlson still likes him . . .”
I shake my head and realize I’m not hungry at all. “She doesn’t like him.”
“Okay.” Gemma scratches her head in a classic thinker pose. “Well, what could it be? She’s been sort of high on life and giggly like she was crushing, but then other times she’d stare off like somebody stole her dog.”
George walks in on our conversation. Gemma holds up a hand. “Oh no, sir. You cannot abandon me for pigskin, then come butt into my girl talk. Harry Potter, you take it back out of the kitchen.”
“Can I at least get some chicken wings first?” George’s hair is different. Gone is the floppy bang that covered his eyes, and in its place is a shorter cut with a bit of a GQ gelled styling on top. It makes him look older. And hella handsome.
“Nice hair,” I say as Gemma grabs his plate and piles on wings. She shoves it back at him, but not before he sneaks in a kiss and earns himself a flirtatious swat and giggle. It makes me happy and sad all at the same time. I should be able to hook up with Mary Carlson and kiss her like that and not have it matter. Not have it be a thing that stresses Elizabeth’s family out so much it risks her pregnancy. Or makes life rocky for my dad and his ministry. Mary Carlson should be in this room telling Gemma what’s going on with her. Not me standing here acting ignorant. I fucking hate this, so I change the subject.
“How’s it going with George?”
“My uncles are making fun of me about it. They’ve handed me a long list of eligible young black men to date. Including both Tyrell and Joseph out there. But the heart wants what the heart wants. And . . .” She points at me. “You said I could have dibs. His hair looks good, huh? I cut it for him.”
“True. I didn’t want George.” The heart wants what the heart wants. “Maybe you could trim mine sometime?”
“Please, I’m saving these hands for surgery.” Then she grins. “Kidding. I’d love to get ahold of those straggly locks.”
Gemma nabs a cookie off a tray of barely-past-Thanksgiving-holiday sweets. “You’re not eating? It’s the best part.”
“Not so hungry.”
Mary Carlson’s right. We probably could have told Gemma and it would have stopped right here. She’s not of the loose-lipped variety like Betsy. Or of the judgmental ilk like Jessica. I convince myself for the millionth time that I’ve done the right thing. But I want to know for sure, so I dip a toe in the water. “Have you met George’s parents yet?”
Gemma sighs. “No. We’re not that far along in whatever this is. But I want to, you can tell he’s tight with his mom. But he’s pretty damn secretive, too. Like maybe she’s some kind of vegan hippie or radicalized socialist. At first I figured she must be racist or something, but he swears she could care less about the skin color of his girlfriend. Why? Have you met her? I know his dad’s not in the picture.”
I try to keep my surprise in check. “No, I haven’t.” I pull my toe back out of the water. If George isn’t comfortable sharing with Gemma about his moms, then maybe I’m not as big of an idiot as I think I am.
Betsy bursts into the kitchen and trips forward toward us, and the island covered with food. “Hey, girl!” She slings an arm over my shoulder and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “’Bout time you showed up. Where’s Mary Carlson?”
“She heard Jessica was moving in on Chaz and stayed home.” I’m joking, of course, but Jessica happens to appear in the doorway as I say it.
“Oh no.” Jessica’s hands fly to her mouth and her eyes grow huge, then she grabs the cross at her neck. “She’s mad? Really?” Then, “How’d she know?”
“Kidding,” I say. “Pretty sure she won’t care.”
Betsy removes her arm from my shoulder and punches me in the biceps. “Good one. Hey, want one of these?” She jumps past me to the fridge and pulls out some hard lemonade bottles. “They’re super good.”
Gemma makes a slashing movement across her throat. I intercept. “Betsy, maybe you should have one of these instead.” I grab an equally yellow Gatorade bottle.
“What?” She looks between us. “Am I sloppy?”
Gemma purses her lips and crosses her arms in a hell-yes stance.
Betsy leans forward on the bar. “But I give the best blowjobs when I’m sloppy. And my Jake does like his . . .”
“Lalalala, I can’t hear you.” Jessica’s fingers are in her ears. “Oh my God, you are so gross, Betsy. And you can not sneak off to my parents’ bedroom.”
“What?” Betsy puts the glass bottles back and takes the Gatorade from me. “Saving it for yourself?” she singsongs. “And Chaz?”
Right about then, the back door opens. Mary Carlson is framed in the doorway like some kind of Amazonian war goddess.
Gemma jumps up. “It’s about time, girl. We were worried as hell about you.” She takes a few steps forward, then stops at the grim look on Mary Carlson’s face. “You okay?”
Mary Carlson glances at me, then looks away just as quickly. My heart picks up a beat, or six. I know that expression, mouth firm, posture erect, eyes focused. Is she about to do what the grim determination on her face implies?
“I’m not staying.”
Jessica starts to babble. “I’m sorry about Chaz, I just, you said you didn’t like him, and . . .”
Mary Carlson holds up a hand like a royal, shutting off the stream of inane gibberish. “I don’t care about Chaz. I’m going to tell you all something, then I’m leaving.”
Betsy nudges in next to me and drops her chin on her hands like she’s in front of the television. Jessica steps next to Betsy. Gemma’s on the other side of the island, obviously confused about whatever is going down.
Mary Carlson lifts her chin and addresses the ceiling. “I’ve been struggling with this for a while and I know it will come as a surprise to all of you, but I hope you’ll still be my friends, and anyway I just told my parents, so I’m not going to fake it anymore, but you need to know that I’m a lesbian.”
Betsy falls off her hands and starts laughing.
Jessica grabs her cross and stops breathing.
Gemma’s eyes narrow. “What the fuck, girl? I been spending the night in your bed! Besides, that can’t be true. I’ve known you forever. And you’re so pretty.”
I can’t take my eyes off Mary Carlson. She’s a warrior princess. The co
ndemning thought comes back. Coward, it whispers.
“What does pretty have to do with it?” Mary Carlson’s fingers flex by her sides.
A football roar goes up from the other room, an argument or agreement I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. I wonder how long she was hanging out by the back door, waiting for a moment to catch us alone.
She stands even straighter and keeps talking. “If any of you had been paying attention, you might have figured it out.” At this she looks from the ceiling to me, lingers for a fraction of a second, then looks at the other girls. “But I’m sick of faking it. And y’all have been my best friends from forever, and I thought you should know now that I’ve told my parents. Now I’m going to back out of this door and leave. I hope you’re still my friends on Monday, but if you aren’t I’ll be okay.”
She turns, walks out into the fading sun, and shuts the door.
I have to clamp on to the kitchen counter not to run out after her.
Immediately, the other three burst into chatter of what the hell, and did she just, and never would have guessed.
I’m trapped when Gemma turns to me. “You’ve been spending a lot of time together. Did you have any idea? Did she ever, you know, come on to you or anything?”
Lies and truths elbow each other to get out of the way in a furious race to my words. Did she come on to me? Yes. Did I have an idea? Um. Hell yes.
An unlikely hero shows up in the form of Chaz, sneaking his way into our kitchen sanctuary, his hands circling Jessica’s waist. “Y’all are missing all the action.”
Betsy snort laughs. “Oh no, honey, we are most definitely not.”
Jessica turns to him, gossip dripping from her lips. “You will not believe . . .”
Gemma is the one to speak up. “Jessica. No.”
Jessica swivels to look at her. “No?”
“Hell. No.” Gemma reiterates.
Even Betsy nods. “We need time.” Then she glowers. “And if you so much as . . .” She makes her hand talk like a shadow puppet. “Then you are . . .” She finishes with a dramatic slash to her throat.
Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit Page 19
