Damn it, George. I know what he’s getting at, but if I’m going to have a big reveal, it’s going to go in this order: Dad, Mary Carlson, then these guys.
“I got that. But if she won’t talk to her lifelong friends, what makes you think she’ll talk to me?” I shoot dagger eyes at his face until he looks away.
“Why do you think she’s avoiding us?” Gemma’s voice sounds so little.
It’s then I realize. “Where’s Jessica? Shouldn’t she be here?”
Betsy sighs and shakes her head. “Not going to budge on the sin thing. And you were right. Totally hypocritical, because I know what really happened with Chaz after the game on Saturday. Guess she was proving her heterosexiness to herself.”
Gemma holds up her hand. “Can we please not talk about the sex life of our members?”
“Did you just call your friends ‘members’?” George starts laughing.
In perfect mimicry, Betsy makes her voice sort of tart and all knowing. “Members. Don’t call them that. They are penises and vaginas.”
“Ugh.” Gemma drops her face in her hands. “That is not what I meant. I meant friends!”
Betsy side whispers to me, “She really needs to get laid.”
George overhears and turns the color of the Christmas cookie frosting in his hand.
“Stop. All of you.” I press my hands on the kitchen counter.
Betsy sits up. “I love bossy Joanna.”
I can’t believe that I, a lesbian, am going to give guidance on how to approach Mary Carlson, while pretending to be a straight girl. This may be the weirdest moment in my short life. “She’s probably scared of rejection. It obviously took a tremendous amount of nerve and courage to come over to Jessica’s house, during a sort of party, to split us off from the group and tell us that.”
“So what should we do?” Gemma snuggles into George, who still looks kind of shocked every time this happens.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Give her time. Smile when you see her. Act normal around her like nothing’s changed. Text her the same kind of stuff you would have before she told you.”
Betsy grabs two cookies with one hand and a third with the other from the lazy Susan. “I bet she’s doing somebody.”
“Really, Betsy? Always with the sex.” Gemma mouths really to me a second time.
George gets bold. “What’s wrong with the sex?”
Gemma shuts completely up.
“No. That’s not what I meant.” Betsy’s thoughtful. “It’s just, why now? What was the catalyst for her to feel like she needed to get it out there? I’m guessing she likes someone.”
“Interesting theory,” George says and looks at me for agreement—or suspicion?
“It is an interesting theory,” I say, trying to muster up the most neutral expression I can. “But has she hung out with anyone but us?”
Betsy nods. “Jessica says she’s been going for ultra-long bathroom breaks during the class they have together. And that she comes back looking all smirky and satisfied.”
My heart cramps.
Gemma steps forward and addresses me. “Yeah. Remember what I said to you. About her acting all flitty one moment and all mopey the next.” Then she looks at Betsy. “I think you may be right.”
Betsy jumps up from the stool and spreads her arms wide. “Sweet Jesus. Did my ears just hear what I think they heard? Did you say those words I’ve been dying to have cross your lips?”
Gemma groans and laughs before enunciating. “You. Are. Right. Betsy.”
Betsy bounces over and pulls Gemma into a squeezy hug. “I love you.”
“Ho bag,” Gemma mutters through a laugh.
“My repressed little slut shamer.” Betsy plants a kiss on her cheek.
“See?” I joke. “You two already have a start on how to be friends with Mary Carlson now that she’s gay.”
They freeze and look slightly stricken. George guffaws. I hold up my hand. “Kidding. Totally kidding. It’s a proven fact that gay girls have zero interest in hooking up with straight girls, unless those straight girls are actually gay girls in disguise.”
“Like Mary Carlson,” George says, the rest of his sentence unspoken between us.
I’m quick to change the subject. “Y’all want to hang out and watch a movie or something?”
Betsy vaults and grabs the big leather club chair. “I’m in.”
Gemma has out her phone and is hitting keys.
“What are you doing?”
She looks up. “Taking your advice and inviting Mary Carlson, of course.”
It takes only a minute.
“She’s in.” Gemma’s face is bright and smiling.
Me, on the other hand, I’m pretty sure I look like I’m staring into the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
When the doorbell rings, the others are already engrossed in an episode of Gilmore Girls, so I leave them in the den and get up to answer it. On the other side is Mary Carlson, hope in her expression. Her cheeks are red from the cold and she looks beautiful with a multicolored scarf wrapped around her neck, lighting up the greens in her hazel eyes. She steps toward me, a hand out like she’s going to grab my waist and pull me toward her for a kiss. I take a step back.
Her smile slips.
“Oh,” I say, realization smacking me in the head. “You thought . . .”
Her openness disappears and she wraps her arms across her chest. “I’m going to go.” She turns to walk back down the front steps.
“No, Mary Carlson. Don’t go. They want to talk to you.”
She turns. “You know. I thought you’d grown a pair and you were going to use this moment so we could tell our friends. We would sit down together and tell them we’re a couple. I thought you were ready to shout our love from the rooftops.”
I reach for her hand but she pulls it away.
“No,” she whispers. “You lost your right. I get it, Jo. I really get it. I’m only good enough for you in private. Well, fuck you.”
Gemma appears behind me. “Girl, get your ass in here. What are you doing hanging out there in the freezing cold?” Then she hesitates, sensing the tension hanging between us. “Did I interrupt something?”
Mary Carlson recovers in a second, plastering back on a cautious smile. “No. I just, are you sure?” She tilts her head and twists her ponytail around her finger.
No wonder she got a role in the school musical.
Gemma pushes me aside and grabs her arm, pulling her through the door. “Bailey, we’ve loved you since fourth grade when you threw up on us riding the Tilt-A-Whirl at the carnival. That was way worse than this.”
I follow behind them, but really I want to charge up the stairs and throw myself onto my bed. This is so messed up. She said our love. Which means she loves me—it wasn’t a first-time fling like Dana suggested. Mary Carlson Bailey loves me and I’m throwing it all away.
Thirty-One
AFTER A TORTUROUS NIGHT OF fake laughter and avoiding Mary Carlson’s eyes while we watched a movie, I need a break from the Rome crowd. Dana was the one who told me to break up with Mary Carlson, and I need her to remind me exactly why she thought that was the right move.
I walk into Hellcat and Dana pounces off the sofa, then pulls me down onto it.
“Darling.” She covers my face with disgusting raspberry kisses.
“Get off me, you creeper.”
She rolls off laughing and Dahlia the barista smiles at us. “Your usual?” she says.
I raise my thumb and kick off my boots, then pull up cross-legged onto the couch. “This week has put the yuck in suck.” I lean my head on Dana’s shoulder.
She pats my hair. “There. There. No sad. Papa Dana has big plans for you.”
“Baby Jo doesn’t want plans. Baby Jo wants her girlfriend back.”
Dana pushes me up and brushes the hair out of my eyes, her expression tender. “You did the right thing, Jo. You hate disappointing your dad. And you’ve got that baby to think about. Besides, how
long is a high school fling going to last anyway? If you’re going to crash and burn, you want it to be for something real.”
Dahlia walks over and hands me my Americano. I wrap my hands around the warm mug. “Real?” My eyes question her meaning.
“Yeah. Like us.” Dana leans in and rabbit kisses me with her nose, rubbing the tip of hers against the tip of mine.
Why do I get the sense that this is more about Dana and her lack of Holly Bad News than it is about me?
She snuggles in next to me on the couch and bats her eyelids several times. “See those girls?” She points to a group of girls with sketchbooks at the back of the coffee shop. “And those?” She points out the window to some baby scene girls walking in from their car.
“Yeah, so?”
“My mother, impressed with my growing bank account and complete responsibility since my release from jail, has agreed, on one condition, that I can attend the Atlanta Area Youth GSA Holiday Formal. And all these girls will be there looking fine as wine.”
“And the one condition is?”
Dana grabs my hands in a prayer. “You, sweet baby. My little preacher’s daughter best friend. My good example. My savior keeping me from the sewer. If you will be my date for the formal, my mother will let me go.”
Now I understand the bunny kiss. I shake my head slow. “I don’t know, Dana. I feel kind of far removed from all of this. Besides, my heart’s busted.”
“We had a blast last year. Come on. You don’t have to wear the bridesmaid dress. Have you not been riding a wave of good behavior? Doesn’t your battered heart need some salvation through a dance?” Dana pleads with her eyes. “Come on,” she cajoles. “It will be like old times. We’ll get dressed up in thrift store finery. Look rad. You and me, we’ll own that formal.” She tilts her head onto my shoulder. “Please, Jo. Will you let me take you to the formal?”
A night with Dana, now that she’s on the straight and narrow—well, not narrow and not really straight either, but whatever—may be the perfect release for this fucked-up-ness I’m feeling. I’ve owned this Rome experience. Put everyone before myself. A night of dancing my ass off might just be the thing I need. “Yeah, I’ll ask.”
“That’s my girl.” She pokes me with her foot. “Now in a world where your heart wasn’t broken, who would you choose?” She inclines her head toward the three girls who’ve settled at a table across the shop from us.
“You’re on your own, tiger.” I pat my heart and think of what Gemma said. The heart wants what the heart wants. In my case, what my heart wants is forbidden fruit. One sweet, mussy blond-haired, hazel-eyed, Georgia peach.
Dana sighs in exasperation. “Fine then. But formal night, it’s all about happiness and hooking up. It will do your heart good.” She stills when she looks at me. “You know I want the best for you, right?”
“I thought you only wanted a wingman and someone to drive you around when you seduce one of them.” I lift my foot toward the girls.
“Well, your reliability is one of your better attributes.” She pokes me in the ribs in a spot she knows makes me squirm. She doesn’t stop till I’m begging her.
“Dana, quit, please, uncle, uncle.”
She pulls back. “Bet golfer girl doesn’t know your tickle spot.”
Golfer girl never had time to figure it out, I think.
One of the scene girls keeps cutting sneaky glances at Dana. “Aren’t you going to go talk to her?”
“Nah. She can wait. Besides, what kind of shit would I be if I suggested you call it off with golfer girl, then abandon you in your time of need?”
It’s out of character for Dana, but I like it.
When I get home that night, Dad’s in the kitchen trying to manage pork chops in a fry pan and chopping vegetables for a salad, but the box of rice is sitting untouched on the counter. “Um, rice first, Dad.” For all his years between my mom and Two, then between Two and Elizabeth, the only meal he ever truly mastered was breakfast for supper and grilled cheese with tomato soup. Fortunately, we had good takeout and Althea was always quick to cook more than she needed and gift us the “leftovers.”
I put the box of rice back in the cupboard and pull a bag of rolls out of the freezer. “Garlic rolls will be quicker.”
“Thanks, butter bean. I got home kind of late. Elizabeth’s cranky from boredom and I’m trying to make it up to her. Did you eat with Dana? I threw a pork chop in for you just in case.”
“I could eat.”
He smiles and slides me the chopping board. “Finish the carrots?”
“Sure thing.”
We work in companionable silence for a minute or two, then I figure now’s as good a time as any to ask him about the formal. “So . . .” I start.
Dad nods. “I looked through that notebook you left on the table.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t meant to leave it out. I can’t believe he looked through it. All my topics on being queer and Christian, with detailed notes on my thoughts, Bible verses, people to interview. Tension builds under my skin and I can feel an outburst about to claw its way out, but another thought strikes me before I react. He might fire me for this.
“We’ve talked about this, Jo. The ministry isn’t ready to be so definitive in its stand on issues of sexuality.”
I chop faster. Fury releases through my hand. Dad is the ministry. The ministry is Dad. Dad isn’t ready to take a stand on sexuality.
“Yeah. I know.”
“You’re angry.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I’m so tired of this year. It’s been almost four months since we moved to Rome and every day while he’s been merrily going about his business, I’ve been slinking around, looking over my shoulder, worried who’s going to find out and basically tamping down everything that is completely awesome about me. “Yes. I’m angry, okay?”
The carrots slide easily off the cutting board into the glass salad bowl. I grab the tongs and dressing to finish it off. He grabs my hand to stop me. “Talk to me, Jo.”
I clamp my lips and shake my head instead of talk. Then walk across the room and throw myself into the club chair.
He sighs and turns off the burner, then comes to sit near me but doesn’t reach for me. We don’t talk. It’s his tactic, waiting. The other person always breaks. But I’ve got the pastor gene, too.
“What’s going on?” Elizabeth’s standing in the doorway, her hair all scrunched sideways, wearing an old flannel robe and cat face slippers.
Dad rushes to her, taking her elbow to lead her to the table. She flings him off in a fit of annoyance. “Anthony, stop.” But then Elizabeth smiles and pulls Dad to her in the sweetest kiss. She rests her head on his chest for a minute, then looks up into his eyes. “I’m sorry. Sitting around is not what I do.”
I’m angry as hell at my dad, but now there are reasons bigger than myself for lying low. My brother or sister.
I break.
“Nothing’s going on. Just talking about Keep It Real.”
She nods and pulls the notebook absently toward her. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you, would you be interested in more help for the program? I loved my time working with the youth at Foundation. And sitting around is making me insane. I need a project and I know your dad is always so busy—maybe I could step in and help out some?”
She flips the pages and her eyebrows arch as she reads.
The slow simmer starts to boil over inside me. “You know, I’ll tell you what. You can have it. It will never be what I want anyway.”
Elizabeth looks from the notebook to my dad. “Anthony?”
He sighs. “What was going on when you walked in was Joanna being upset with me for looking at her notes and disagreeing.”
“No, Dad. I’m upset because you won’t take a stand. And by not taking a stand, you’re saying more than you realize. I’ve been lying for you for months and you think it’s okay. You don’t see a problem. But I’m telling you. It is a problem.” I stand up. “I’m not hu
ngry after all.”
“We’re not done here, Joanna.”
“Dad.” I turn but don’t come back to where he’s sitting. “I made a mistake promising you what I did.” I look at Elizabeth. “And the last thing I want is to stress you out during this pregnancy. I’m totally excited you’re having a baby.” I take a deep breath. “But I can’t keep living this way. And I don’t want a radio show if you’re not willing to try and practice what you preach here at the house. You need to decide. Do you really love me as God made me and believe that I’m put here on this earth as your equal? Or am I, and all the others like me, something that can only be talked about off the airwaves? What do you want me to believe, Dad?”
This time when I walk out of the room, he doesn’t stop me.
Thirty-Two
SUNDAY I GO TO CHURCH just to avoid my dad. Dana was right about one thing. Mary Carlson’s coming-out made its way around the community faster than teachers give a pop quiz on Monday mornings. Even at church there are whispers and raised eyebrows. One mother put her arm on her child’s shoulders and steered her far around Mary Carlson in the hallway. Like she was contagious. I can only imagine the ruckus if Mrs. Foley, my step-grandmother, knew I was part of the issue. I tell myself it’s better this way, Mary Carlson is strong, she doesn’t need my wishy-washiness splotching up her trajectory.
At school, toward the end of the week—I’m still avoiding my dad like the plague and to be honest, he’s kind of doing the same with me—I jot random ideas and lines I think will sound wise in my spiral-bound notebook. I’d left it sitting on the kitchen table for a day, but then decided I didn’t break up with Mary Carlson just to walk away from the show. I had my say with my father, but it took me four months to get to my boiling point. I’m not giving up on him yet. Besides, it’s a welcome distraction from the Mary Carlson–sized gap in my school day.
I text Dana when I get stuck.
What’s another word for “clear of vision”?
Enlightened? Steadfast? Transcendence?
Transcendence, that will work. Thanks.
Got a bitching velvet Elvis tux for the formal. You’re going to have to douse yourself to put out the flames. You should wear the bridesmaid dress after all.
Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit Page 21
