Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit Read online

  “Peer?” I ask.

  The secretary smiles up at me, and it’s like I’m being coated with sugary goodness. “Yes, dear. At RHS, we assign peer guides to new students. Barnum here is going to be yours.”

  It’s then I notice the boy standing next to me. He’s built like a brick wall, has the goofiest smile I’ve ever seen, and has an elephant silk-screened on his shirt with the slogan “Works for Peanuts.”

  “Hey there, Jo . . . anna!” He repeats my name with the same hesitation I used with the secretary. “I’m B.T.B. Your peer.” He keeps grinning.

  The secretary pats B.T.B on the arm. “Barnum. You’ll need to look at her schedule, show her where her classes are, and take her to the assembly.”

  “Right!” He nods, never losing the smile. “Give that to me.” A massive hand extends for the paper I’m holding.

  The secretary winks in my direction and I get the feeling that B.T.B. might not be in my honors classes. I hand him my schedule. He scans it. “Okay, Jo . . . anna. Follow me.”

  He marches, and I do mean marches, out of the office, takes a military precision turn to the right, and continues on. I almost feel like I should snap my knees along with him. The interesting thing, though, is that rather than the mocking I’d expect from the kids at my Atlanta high school, everybody we pass in the hall gives him high fives and shouts, “’Sup, B.T.B?”

  Every time his answer is “Peer duty. She’s Jo . . . anna.” Finally, after about the sixth such introduction, I catch up to him. “Joanna’s fine. You don’t need the pause.”

  “The pause has a ring to it. Like B.T.B.”

  I smile. He’s right. “How about if you call me Jo . . . anna, but let’s let everyone else call me Joanna.”

  He glances sideways at me. “Like a secret name.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Like that.”

  “Excellent, Jo . . . anna.” Then he says to a boy shouting his name, “Peer duty. She’s Joanna.” His smile widens, which is kind of impossible. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “B.T.B. stands for Barnum Thomas Bailey.”

  “Like the circus?”

  “Yes!” he practically shouts. “Do you like elephants?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Elephants are awesome.”

  “We’re going to be great friends, Jo . . . anna. Because, guess what?” He waits with that big grin.

  I shake my head like I don’t know.

  “I think elephants are awesome, too!” He looks up at a door. “First block. Mr. Patel. Business computer. You come here after assembly.” He leads me thusly from door to door, until he’s convinced I know where I need to go.

  “Do we have any classes together?” I ask.

  B.T.B. shakes his head and it’s the first time I see his smile falter. “No. Me and the other peers are all in Mr. Ned’s class. It’s for kids like us.”

  “Elephant-loving kids?”

  “Yes!” B.T.B. shouts and the grin comes back. “But”—he leans down in a whisper—“I can have lunch with you, since you’re my peer.”

  “I’d like that very much, B.T.B., especially since you’re my only friend at this school.”

  As I take a quick glance around at all the normal-looking, red-blooded, definitely hetero kids, hanging out with a kind, simple guy like B.T.B. might just be my best-case scenario.

  At the assembly I send a clandestine text to Dana.

  In the lion’s den. Pray for me.

  One good thing about Dana is, underneath her party girl exterior and her smartass comments, she doesn’t really scoff at my need for faith. If anything, I think she has a longing, a wish, for her own place of acceptance. But church scares her, I get it; some so-called Christians are assholes to girls like us. Which is what makes this radio show I’m giving up my life for so important. I want her to feel equally accepted, whether in a faith community or at a Tegan and Sara concert.

  I look around the gym. Each class level sits together in a different section. Because B.T.B. had me sit with him, we’re kind of in a group to ourselves.

  “Did you know elephants are scared of bees?” he asks.

  I nod. “Yeah, I heard something about that.” I add one of my own to up my B.T.B. cred. “Did you know, besides us, elephants are the only mammals that have chins?”

  B.T.B. gifts me with his broad smile, but then he puts a finger to his lips. “Now we’re quiet. Teachers.”

  As the principal lays out the groundwork for this new and exciting year, I check out the senior section. Out of habit, I look for the alt kids, the ones I’d typically try to hang with. I find them, sitting toward the top of the bleachers, slumped and laughing. One girl, more goth than the others, catches me looking and does that kind of shoulder thrust, hands out, what the hell are you looking at motion. It’s going to be a while before I’m used to people’s reactions to this new version of myself.

  This lying-low thing might be easier than I thought.

  After school I drive over to Dad’s new ministry headquarters. A radio ministry is not really like a church. It’s more like a radio station with a control room and microphones and a tiny recording booth where Dad delivers his sermons. People do stop in, though, curious, hoping to meet Reverend Gordon in the flesh, so the front room is decked out like a parish hall with cushy furniture, pamphlets about the ministry, copies of Dad’s most well-loved sermons. And, of course, donation forms for all that cash. In his defense, the ministry does donate a lot of the income to our worldwide missions. Dad grew up super poor outside Baltimore, and I think the obsessive need to have an ultra-healthy bank account is the stain he can’t shake.

  “Hey, Althea.”

  Althea runs the front room with a velvet hand. She consoles and cajoles. Flirts and comforts. Dad says she’s almost like a seer, she’s so tuned in to what the faithful need in a given moment. I just love her because she loves me. I guess she’s as close to a grandmother as I have now. Though she’s way more stylish than your typical grandmom.

  “Well, look at you!”

  I plop into the chair behind the reception desk with her. “God. Don’t, okay?” It’s bad enough Dana’s all focused on my appearance—I don’t need it from Althea, too.

  “Don’t you be using our savior’s name for your personal playground. And besides, you look beautiful. Those big soulful eyes like your daddy’s. With your hair like that, I see a bit of your mama poking around the edges.”

  When an Italian man marries a Mississippi girl, that girl’s genes get kind of buried in her children. I’ve got my dad’s dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, too-thick eyebrows and eyelashes—which are a bonus, I guess—his unfortunate nose, and his propensity to talk a bit with his hands. But no one ever tells me I look like my mother.

  “Really?” I touch my hair without really meaning to.

  “Yes, child.” She puts her hand under my chin. “Those pretty pouty lips and that jawline. Even those delicate little ears. Your mama was a joy, just like you.”

  I guess that’s the other reason I love Althea. She’s a repository of memories that I don’t have. Whereas Dad’s stories of my mom are always choked with emotion, hers are tender and kind and paint a picture for me.

  “So what is this new look you’re cooking? A fresh start?”

  “Something like that,” I say. I go ahead and tell her my deal, and I can see the storm clouds brewing under her brow.

  “I’m going to have to have me a talk with your father. That’s like asking you not to shine a light under your bushel. Your daddy knows better than that. You are the perfect embodiment of God’s plan.” Then her eyes crinkle. “But it is nice to see you in something other than black, and I am sure you are going to charm the listeners with your sweet voice.”

  I walk across the room and pour myself a cup of coffee from the Bunn machine. “That part makes it worth it.” I twirl. “And I do look different, don’t I?”

  Our conversation cuts short when the door opens.

 
It’s Three and her mother.

  Mrs. Foley, my new grandmother, stiffens the moment she enters the reception area, but when she looks at me she does a double take. “Joanna.”

  I’m not sure how to read her tone, but I tamp down any sarcasm. The night my dad and I made our agreement, I promised to be on my best behavior with his new in-laws. “Hello, Mrs. Foley.”

  “Hi, Althea,” Three says, acknowledging me with a wiggle of fingers. “Is Anthony recording?”

  “No, dear. He’s writing. If he’s recording you’ll see a little red light lit above the recording room door. He’s given me express instructions to always send you on back, though.”

  She turns to me. “First day, okay?”

  I shrug. “Good enough. No waves.”

  With that, she nods and I’m left in the room between Althea and Mrs. Foley. A cage match made in heaven.

  “Well.” Mrs. Foley sniffs around the room like she’s trying to ferret out the divine. “Do you attend real church, Joanna?”

  “Why yes, ma’am. Right here at Wings of Love.” After years in Atlanta, and my dad hailing from Maryland, my accent is what you might call neutral, but this woman draws the syrup out of me. And she can’t really call my dad out on not being a real pastor, because, you know, he put a ring on it. That would be poor taste. There’s one thing Mrs. Foley would never do, and that’s display poor taste.

  “But there’s no youth group. My Elizabeth so enjoyed her hours spent with the other teenagers at Foundation Baptist.”

  Three and my father emerge from the back. “Virginia.” My dad reaches his arms out for Mrs. Foley. She lets him pull her into an awkward hug. “So good to see you.”

  “And you, Anthony.” She pulls back and straightens her dress. “I was talking to your Joanna about our youth group. Though I’m sure you deliver her all the good word she needs, there’s something that can’t replace the physical closeness of a group of fellow teens in spirit.”

  My dad widens his eyes at me like he’s trying to get a silent response to what she just said. Three stops breathing for a sec, a sure sign she’s hoping I’ll say no way. Here’s the thing, though—this is actually a pretty great idea. If I can get in with a group of teens who are already spiritual and faithful, then it will give me a starting place—with my target audience. Besides, like Althea says, I am the perfect embodiment of God’s plan. There’s absolutely no reason why I can’t be part of a Baptist youth group.

  “I’d love to attend.”

  “What?” Three sputters the word. “You don’t have to do that.” One strand of chestnut hair falls from her bun, like I’ve shocked it loose.

  I put on my sweetest smile. “No, seriously. I’m in a new town. Wouldn’t this be a good way for me to meet people?”

  “What about meeting people at school?” Three has that stricken look on her face again. It’s amazing, and kind of telling, how neatly this falls into my make-Three-miserable plan. And into my small town makeover.

  “Elizabeth,” Mrs. Foley cuts in. “If the child wants to attend Foundation with us, I’m not sure why you’re trying to talk her out of it. She’ll meet some of the nicest folks in Rome.” Then she can’t resist a dig. “Certainly nicer than who she was socializing with in Atlanta.”

  Althea’s chuckling into her hand, trying to pretend she’s got a cough.

  “I can’t spend ten months in my room doing homework and listening to Taylor Swift.” As if. “It may surprise you, but I like going to church.” I turn to Mrs. Foley and lay on the molasses again. “And meeting the finest families in Rome sounds like the perfect way to get myself situated.”

  “That’s right, baby,” Althea sings from her spot behind the reception desk. “You show them some Gordon style.”

  “Wonderful.” Mrs. Foley puts her hands together lightly in a steeple. “We’ll see you Sunday with Elizabeth.”

  I put on my most beatific smile. “Can’t wait.”

  Three looks like she swallowed an egg. Whole.

  Six

  B.T.B. HAS A SET OF elephant playing cards spread in his hand. Each one is drawn in colored pencil with a different circus or zoo elephant, its name, and its stats on the back.

  “You made these?” I ask.

  He grins—well, he always grins—and nods. “Yes.”

  “Wow, B.T.B., these are really good.”

  From across the common area, I hear the peal of feminine laughter. I look up. The girls grouped near the window are all in name-brand clothes with just the right amount of layering to make it look like they haven’t tried too hard. Their posture is straight and they’re not looking around to see who’s watching, because they know they don’t have to. They’re watched all the time.

  One girl in particular stands out. She’s a tall, tanned white girl with cool tortoiseshell glasses and not quite straight, not quite curly honey blond hair that’s kind of mussed but on her looks more Ralph Lauren chic than messy. I stare for a second longer than I should and she happens to catch my eye. Then she turns and whispers something to her friends, who break out in peals of laughter again.

  “Bitches,” I mutter, ignoring the cute-girl-alert flutter of my sadly misinformed butterflies.

  “No.” B.T.B. puts his hand on my hand. “We don’t talk like that.”

  I squeeze his. “I know, B.T.B., but sometimes I mess up.”

  I smell the perfume before I see them. Two of the girls, a petite, pretty black girl and the mussy-haired blonde, are standing looking at B.T.B. The petite girl leans in. “You got a girlfriend, B.T.B.? She love those elephants like you?”

  The blonde says nothing but smiles at me like I’m a monkey at the zoo.

  “No.” B.T.B.’s answer is surly and he colors red underneath his own buzzed blond hair. “Jo . . . anna is my friend.”

  The petite girl turns on me next. “You’re even kind of pretty.”

  Before I find the right sarcastic response, the blonde flutters her fingers at B.T.B. “See you around, Barnum.” Then they saunter off, the rest of their group looking and laughing before they drift toward the halls.

  “Jo . . . anna.” B.T.B. is watching them. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “What?” I’m still staring, anger fuming from my pores.

  “I don’t want to be your boyfriend.”

  This gets my attention. “I, uh.” This is so far from where I thought this time spent with B.T.B. was going. “That’s okay, B.T.B. I’m good with being friends only.”

  He lets out a tremendous sigh. “Thank goodness. I told my sister about my new friend and she said that you must like me, to spend so much time with me. And I told her you do. That we both think elephants are awesome. I even told her that you’re one of the smart kids, like her, but she doesn’t always listen to me.”

  “So, do you have a girl you like?” I hand his cards back to him.

  He colors again and whispers, “I do. Her name is Marnie. She works at the grocery store. I think she’s real pretty.”

  I punch his arm but don’t really hit him. “Listen to you, Mr. Stud. Do I ever get to meet this special lady?”

  “Only if you go with me. Or just go to the deli. She works in that department. She finished school last year.”

  “Well, if she’s good by you, she’s good by me. Because I do like you.”

  His trademark smile is back. It matches the bananas on the shirt he’s wearing. “I like you, too, Jo . . . anna.”

  I think I can live with that. At least B.T.B. doesn’t keep staring at me like I’ve got a fresh Mohawk stretching skyward and am president of the high school freak show. If Dana were here, she’d tell me to get my ass up and go flirt to mess with the bitch. But Dana’s not here and I’ve promised my dad I’ll be cool, so I simply leave for class, counting down the minutes till another day is scratched through in my year of solitude. I send up a quick internal prayer as I walk through the crowded halls. Dear heavenly Father or Mother—’cause, you know, who knows if you’re really a guy—
give me the strength to follow my dad’s wishes and the strength not to kick some dumb country girl’s ass. Sorry. Rear end. Amen. Joanna. For some reason, I’ve always felt the need to author my prayers. Maybe there’s a filing system up there and I don’t want to make it any harder for her or him than it already is.

  Sunday morning, Three is a nervous wreck. “Really, Joanna, you don’t have to do this. Youth group probably isn’t your thing.”

  “Three.” She flinches every time I call her that—honestly, I’m kind of surprised she hasn’t fought me on it—and even though she may have my dad’s love-struck, got-himself-a-hot-trophy-wife attention right now, she’s not special. She’s just a number in a sequence.

  I plop my hand on my hip. “Oh, listen to you, so worried about little old me.”

  She sighs. “I’m not worried about you, but our pastor and my mother . . .” She folds and unfolds the kitchen towel about six times in six seconds. “She’s a force.”

  Dad walks into the kitchen, still in his robe. “Joanna is her own brand of force.” He kisses his bride’s cheek, then snugs her close, his chin nuzzling into the hollow of her neck and his hand following the curve of her body like he’s forgotten I’m even here.

  Please don’t let me see morning wood.

  “Um, Dad?”

  He pivots toward the coffeepot. “Don’t worry, you two will be fine.”

  “You’re not going?” Dad’s sermons are prerecorded, so it’s not like he has to be at the ministry station on Sunday mornings. I figured he wouldn’t let us go alone.

  “Nope. It wouldn’t look right if I was somewhere other than my own church on a Sunday morning. Even if ours looks a little different than most.”

  I offer to drive, since Three seems to have never swallowed that hardboiled egg lodged in her throat. She directs me into downtown and the massive brick church with columns. The parking lot is filling up, and judging by the cars in the lot, this is where the who-to-knows of Rome worship.

  “You’ll be fine, really. The people here are super nice and if you get nervous you can come find me and . . .”

  I stop her. “Three, look at me. I have on my one pair of church shoes.” I circle my face. “I followed Sephora guy’s advice to a T. One thing you should know about me—when I say I’m going to do something, I do it. Besides, just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I don’t pray to the same God as you.”