Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit (4 page)

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.”

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.