Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit (7 page)

BOOK: Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit
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“Well, hello, George.” Mary Carlson's head twists looking at him, then me, and I swear I see the flash go off in her mind. “You're coming to Rob's party, aren't you?”

“Um, well . . .” He trails off. George, I've learned, is a National Honor Society kid, cross-country runner, good church boy, and trombonist in the band. Football player parties, I'm guessing, are about as natural to him as they are to me.

“We're going.” Mary Carlson thumbs back and forth between us. She looks at me. “It'd be fun if George was there, wouldn't it, Joanna?”

I shrug, my face as red as George's. “Uh, yeah, sure, whatever.”

“Good, it's decided.” Mary Carlson beams and leans in, giving George a quick hug. “Thanks,” she says as her hair falls forward over his shoulder. I get a whiff of her shampoo. Something refreshing, like green tea and ginger.

Then I wonder, why did she tell him thanks? Am I that much of a charity case?

George's glasses slip as he bobs his head in acknowledgment.

We walk away and leave him gawking on the steps down to the band section. “Are you trying to hook me up?”

“Is it a problem?”

What do I say? “I guess not, but I'm not really looking for a boyfriend.” Totally not a lie.

“Two Diet Cokes, please. Or wait.” She looks at me. “Would you rather have regular?”

“Regular's good.”

She turns. “Make that two Cokes, please.” Mary Carlson gives the concession attendant a ten-dollar bill as a roar sounds from the bleachers behind us. “Everybody wants a boyfriend, right? And George is sweet. He won't get too handsy.”

“Handsy?” She passes me a soda and I reach for it, leaving my side exposed.

“Yes, you know . . .” She reaches out, tickling me until
I curl in like a hermit crab. She pulls her hand back and makes grabby motions. “Handsy. Like you're the football.”

“Uh. Um. I haven't dated much.” Hooked up? Sure. Dated? Love? Not so much. Boys? Never.

“You're lucky. I hate it. All the groping.” Then she blushes. “Does that make me sound weird? Jessica and Betsy are all about it. Betsy and Jake are actually having sex, which she loves to talk about. Gemma wants to be all about it if she could find a guy to handle her brainpower. But me? It sort of wigs me out.” She shrugs. “I guess I just haven't gone out with the right guy.”

Or girl, I think. “What about you and Chaz?”

She sucks on her straw. “He's pretty hot, isn't he?”

“Yep.” He is. No denying it.

“I don't know.” She leads me back up the bleachers. “We tried to go out in middle school but I was really into golf and blew him off. He was an ass about it. Started some stupid rumor about me when I wouldn't kiss him during a seven minutes in heaven game. Of course no one believed him, but that's why B.T.B. dislikes him. I'm hesitant still about him, you know? Even though it was middle school, there's not much I hate worse than liars. But maybe now that we're older, he's changed and he'll have more magic than the other guys I've been with.”

“Been with?” Was it that kind of rumor? Did he lie about what they'd done?

She stops and her mouth drops. “God, no. Not
been
with. I'm saving that. For love.” Then she rewards me with
the
smile and my stomach drops to my feet.

Nine

THE MUSIC DOESN'T STOP AS
we step through the door of Rob's house, but there's a pause in the energy of the room. It makes me feel like Jane Goodall, observing the rituals of the small town straight. And believe me, the gorilla comparison, though definitely a bit of reverse stereotyping, is entirely too apt. The gorilla groups stop their conversations to do the quick scan and approval, or dismissal, of the new arrivals. In this case, us. And fortunately, by how quickly everyone goes back to what they were doing, we're approved.

I am out of my element.

Completely. So I mimic an earlier moment.

“Hey, y'all come here.” I gather the girls around me,
and to their delight, snap a five-face selfie. As they walk in ahead of me, I text it to Dana. The need for a touchstone is great.

She texts back immediately.

Holy fucking mother of God. Which one are you? And who you going to do?

I. Am. Walking. Into. A. Football. Players. Party.

No.

Yes.

I am walking into Hellcat Coffee.

Dana is definitely winning. Hellcat Coffee is this amazing little place on South Moreland that's enough on the fringe to feel dangerous. It's also where all my friends from the last couple of years hang out on the weekends when there's no rave to dance our brains off at. If I were there, I'd be curled on a tattered couch listening to spoken-word poetry. Not waxed and polished like some freak show at the prom.

“You okay?” Mary Carlson sidles next to me and I shove the phone into my pocket before she can look at it. I'd done the great social media app purge for when Gemma eventually demanded my phone. But texts could be a problem.

“Oooh, you have a secret love? Not looking for a boyfriend because you have one already?” She nudges me with
her shoulder and because she's probably five foot nine to my five foot three, she's got to crouch a little to do it. Then she laughs.

“What's so funny?”

“Your face when I asked you that. It was like I'd given you a lemon.”

I smile and shrug. “Sorry. I was texting my dad and your question threw me off guard.” Her question is actually what I hate most in life. Why can't people say boyfriend
or
girlfriend, or him
or
her, when they ask about relationships? Why can't they drop the gender specification altogether?

“Come on.” Gemma motions for us. Betsy and Jessica have already wandered off to their respective guys, so it's down to the three of us. We exit through French doors out onto a manicured brick back patio. The keg planted in the center of the mossed bricks looks completely out of place in this
Better Homes and Gardens
layout. My phone buzzes but I can't pull it out without starting a thing. And I don't need Dana to be a thing right now. Hopefully she'll forgive me.

“Hi.” George is there with his hands in his pockets.

“Oh, hi.” Mary Carlson gives George the Bailey smile. Funny how B.T.B.'s makes my day breezier, but Mary Carlson's makes me feel like I can't breathe. Especially when she's elbowing me in the sides in a completely unsubtle
way to point out the boy she wants me to hook up with.

“Y'all want a beer?” Gemma eyes the keg suspiciously.

I shake my head. So do George and Mary Carlson. Awkward and sober. Just the way I like it.

“Well, since you're driving, I'm imbibing.” Gemma turns on the charm for the guy at the tap, and now we're two, plus George.

“Do you think there's bottled water anywhere, or Coke we can pour in a red Solo cup?” George fidgets. I grab three cups from the table by the keg. “Come on, let's go see what's in the kitchen.”

We turn in unison and smack straight into Chaz. He wolf grins when he sees Mary Carlson. “There you are. Did you come to the game? See my big play?”

The roar from the bleachers while we were getting drinks from concessions comes to mind. But Mary Carlson doesn't skip a beat and falls into some weird more-Southern-than-thou coquette role. “I did. You were amazing.” Chaz is tall enough that she has to tip her chin to look at him. He looks like he wants to consume her.

“Yeah, pretty great. Hey, you look hot.”

I'm sure to Chaz this is a compliment in the highest measure. Mary Carlson doesn't drop the smile but it freezes for a microsecond. Maybe she doesn't like him? But when he puts his hand to the small of her back and propels
her in the direction of Gemma and the keg, she lets herself be directed. I let out an audible sigh.

“Stuck with the loser, huh.”

I'd forgotten about George, so focused was I on the Taylor Swift video playing live in front of me. “What? Oh no, you're not a loser.”

“I am. To those guys.”

Poor guy, self-deprecation is going to kill his game. I take George's elbow in both my hands. “You are so not. You're a runner, an honor's student. You can speak in Latin.”

He's blushing under my attention and I drop my hands. Kindness can be misinterpreted, and though it would be easy to let George be my beard so I could fit in, it'd be a douche move. “You still want to find something to drink?” I waggle the cups.

“Yep.” He is pleasant looking when he smiles, and if I were going to date guys, it would be a George type. But yeah. No.

George inflates as we walk through the crowd because just as people made assumptions about me and B.T.B., the same thing's happening with George. He's getting fist bumps and nods in my direction. A girl even approaches me as we shoulder our way into the living room.

“Hi, you're the new girl from church, right?”

“Joanna,” I say.

“Emily,” she says, then leans in. “George is the sweetest guy.”

“Uh. Okay.”

She grins like I confirmed everything for her and bounces off to the group she split from to share her juicy bit of gossip. At one point, George pulls the Chaz move, reaching out a hand for the small of my back to guide me forward, but I do a mean twist firmly back into the friend zone.

In the kitchen, we find liquor and mixers. I figure I'll keep my mantle of designated driver going, because even though I'm tempted to get pissed to survive this messed-up night, I'm not sure how much the others are drinking.

“You don't drink?” George asks.

I grab a ginger ale and untwist the cap. “Sometimes. But not often. And never much. I don't like feeling out of control.”

“Me neither. It messes with my times.”

“Times?”

“Running.”

“Right.” I take a sip and wrinkle my nose at the spray of bubbles.

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“You know, outside interests, sports, clubs? Who'd you
hang out with in Atlanta? What'd you do?”

My mind fires with images of Hellcat Coffee, Dana, GSA meetings that were more like hookup gatherings, masquerade balls, and parties, parties, parties. I can't find a thing to share. Which is kind of embarrassing.

“Um. Not much. I guess I've always been the listening, observing type.”

“Like your dad.”

“My dad?”

George nods, then settles at a kitchen stool. I do the same.

“Yeah, I love your dad's show. Especially the ones where he takes hot-button issues and looks at them through a more moderate lens.”

“You listen to my dad?”

“Yeah.” George spins the stool back and forth. “I'm debating theology, psychology, or pre-law in college, and I like his worldview.”

“Thus the Latin.”

“Thus the Latin.” He smiles, then gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing like he's nervous, and oh damn, is this lovely conversation about to get weird? But then, “Do you think I could meet him sometime?”

I laugh. Actually laugh because his question is such a relief.

“Sure. How about one day after school? I usually stop by to see him and Althea, his office manager, on my way home.”

George lifts his red Solo cup and we toast. “Cool. To new friends.”

“To friends.”

Mary Carlson bursts into the kitchen. “Thank God.” She slams herself against the wall dramatically. “You.” She points at me. “Bathroom.”

I'm off the stool before she has to ask again.

Ten

“ARE YOU OKAY?” NOW THAT
we're in the bathroom Mary Carlson seems kind of calmed down.

She groans. “One more football play and I would have reached for a third Jell-O shot. I had to get away or I'd end up wasted.” She hops up on the sink counter and thumps her legs against the cabinets. “What about you, did I steal you away from a riveting conversation?”

“Actually, George is okay.”

“So you have a cruuuuuuush. . . .”

I don't know where to place myself. I could sit on the toilet. Or the edge of the bathtub. Or lean against the opposite wall. Normally when I'm in a tiny four by six room, I'm either having a clandestine make-out session or
bullshitting with Dana and fixing my eyeliner. I opt for lip-gloss reapplication.

“No.” I plunge the applicator in a few times.

“Careful there, killer, don't want to murder the gloss.”

My hand stops and I pull out a wand overloaded with color and shine.

“Here.” Mary Carlson grabs it from me and wipes off the excess on a tissue from the box next to the sink. “Now pucker up.” She holds the wand toward my lips and leans closer.

I grab the edge of the counter so I don't fall, and lean in.

She's coming in with the wand and I'm freaking. Is this normal? Because this feels like flirting.

With delicate strokes, she traces the applicator over my parted lips. Her eyes are focused and there's the tiniest crease in her brow as she works on getting the color just right. Can she hear how loud I'm breathing?

She pulls the wand away but doesn't move. Just stays kind of hovered in, her face leaned toward mine, her own breath sweet with the smell of strawberry Jell-O. Her face cracks into a smile. “Perfect. You have amazing lips by the way.”

There's a swarm of butterflies looking for release in my core and I better move. And fast. I close my lips and pull my body back. Kissing Mary Carlson Bailey in my second
week of school is the furthest thing from lying low as possible. Besides, I'm pretty sure this is all in my head.

She clears her throat and does this funny little shake like she's bringing herself out of a trance. “Well.” She hops down. “Back to the boys.”

“Yeah.” My voice sounds like a load of gravel was just delivered to it. “The boys.”

“Can I ask you something?” She turns and I practically bump into her. It'd be so easy to put a hand up on either side of her and lean forward. Maybe one good kiss is all she needs to topple to my side.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, sure.”

“Do you, um. Do you . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Do you play golf?” It comes out in a rush and it sounds so cliché, sort of like
Do you drive a Subaru?
or
Are you a vegetarian?
(no and no), that I start laughing.

“No. But I heard you do.”

She grabs my forearm in her Mary Carlson touchy-feely way. “Will you help me get a putting range competition going in the backyard? Something to keep Chaz busy, other than talking about football or trying to get me in a corner through Jell-O shots. He won't say no to a challenge.”

“You know, you could just tell him to back off.”

She shakes her head and her glasses almost go flying. “No, I can't. Not this time. Besides, I really want it to work. At my own pace.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess. If that's what you want. But if you don't like him . . .”

“Oh no, that's not what I meant. I like him. Totally. Right? What girl wouldn't?” She wiggles her eyebrows and elbows me, all cartoon exaggeration.

I can name a few, but I play along. “Point taken. But hey, no worries, and no judgment from me about going slow. That's your right.”

She squeezes my arm. “I'm so glad you moved here. I can already tell we're going to be great friends.” She lets go and I feel the loss of her hand immediately.

Bluster trumps blush and I push my forefinger against her shoulder. “Who knows, maybe I'll be a surprise golf ringer and kick your ass.”

This earns me a bark of a laugh. “You are so on, city girl.” She links arms with me as we exit the bathroom. “Let's go show them what we're made of.”

Hours later, after Mary Carlson and some guy named Alan kicked all our butts at short-range putting on Rob's back lawn, we're in the car headed to her house.

Betsy waves a French fry, from our drive-through
detour, in the air. “Let's hear it.”

Gemma groans.

“Hear what?” I ask from the driver's seat.

“The hookup report, of course.” Jessica laughs. “And you have to start, new girl.”

“Not anything to tell, unless you count discussing the benefits of a vegan diet. What about you, Betsy?”

“Oh, you do
not
want to hear this answer.” Mary Carlson laughs from her shotgun position.

Betsy leans forward and slugs her. “Please, I have some decorum.”

“Is that what you call what happens when you and Jake disappear into folks' parents' bedrooms?”

My eyes flit to the rearview mirror in time to see Gemma's eyebrow arch to the roof of the car.

“We're in love, guys. It took nine months before we finally did it. Quit making me feel bad. It's natural.”

“Ah, they're just jealous, girl.” Jessica giggles.

“Oh, so, Jessica.” Mary Carlson turns around in her seat to stare. “Is there a story behind that laugh?”

My eyes dart from the road to the rearview mirror and back again.

Jessica buries her face in her hands.

Betsy squeals. “Oh my God, there is!”

“I, you know, touched.” She points to her pants, then
she squeals and covers her eyes again and whispers, “His boner.”

“That's it?” Betsy says, disappointment in her voice. “You didn't even go down on him?”

“E
www,
no.” Jessica pushes her. “That's skanky.”

“You're too Baptist for your own good.”

“You're still our lone shark, Betsy girl, but Jessica here is gaining.” Gemma has her arms folded across her chest.

“Well, what about you, Gemma the lonely?” The snarked barb is sharp in such tight quarters.

“You act like that, I'm not going to tell you.”

“Oh, please, not again, you two.” Mary Carlson presses the heels of her hands against her temples.

Poor Jessica is stuck in the middle, her head swiveling between the storm that's brewing. My preacher's daughter training kicks in. “Hey, y'all. Chill out. Just because Betsy's chosen one path it doesn't mean Gemma's is wrong.” I glance at Betsy. “Is there anything wrong in waiting?”

“Of course not.”

Then I look at Gemma. “And if you had a boyfriend”—I'd like to follow my own rule and add
or girlfriend
for good measure, but I don't know how it'd fly—“you were in love with, you'd eventually have sex, wouldn't you?”

She shrugs. “Probably.”

“See.” I smile at Mary Carlson, then back at them. “It's all good.”

“Yeah, but we're not done, Madame therapist. Gemma and Mary Carlson can't get out of it that easy. Report.” Betsy's laughing again and the tension is defused.

“For your information, Marcus Billings asked me to go to a movie.” Gemma smirks and waves her hand above her head.

Jessica fist bumps her.

“And you, Mary Carlson. You and Chaz were looking cozy. Any thoughts of kissing?”

Mary Carlson glances at me. “Yeah, I had thoughts of kissing.” Damned if the butterflies don't start swarming again. She's not talking about me, but a girl can dream.

“Oooooh . . .” Gemma croons. “Finally going to get your seven minutes in heaven?”

That middle-school story with Chaz must have made quite an impact if they're all still talking about it. I wonder what rumors he spread about her?

Betsy leans forward and pats Mary Carlson's shoulder. “It's okay, baby, we know you're just frigid.”

Mary Carlson laughs. Too loud in the small car. So I change the subject for her.

“Tell us what the deed
is
like, Betsy.”

“God,” Betsy groans. “I'm saddled with
another
virgin?” But then she launches into a play-by-play and Mary Carlson mouths
thank you
so that only I can see.

Mary Carlson lives in a pretty two-story farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Even in the dark you can tell the gardens are beautiful. There's a tiny pond with a floating dock and she even has ducks, which she promises we'll feed in the morning.

The other girls, who've been here a million times before, lead the way and I follow, a few steps behind. Stars twinkle overhead and I contemplate my current insanity. This has bad idea written all over it.

“Hey, Jo . . . anna!” B.T.B. waves from the back steps. He's wearing a banana-shaped onesie pajama thing and puts up his arms, shimmying in a circle and shaking his butt for effect. “You like my banana?”

Jessica, Betsy, and Gemma about fall on the ground laughing.

Mary Carlson shakes her head. “Barnum, we've had this talk.”

“What? I'm not talking about my penis. I'm dressed like a fruit.”

“A cute fruit,” I say.

This earns a smile from Mary Carlson. She hands him the hot apple pie he'd requested via text. “Don't say penis—”

Gemma interrupts. “He can say penis. He has one. We have vaginas. And these are breasts.” She holds her hands under her boobs and B.T.B. blushes red under the yellow of his onesie's hood. “Why people want to call their parts things like bananas, and hoohoos, and the ladies, is beyond me. Be specific.”

“Fine, then, Dr. Gemma,” Betsy says. “Get your ripe gluteus maximus up those stairs so we can take the bras off our breasts.”

B.T.B. puts his hands over his ears after that.

When I get up to him he whispers. “Hi, Jo . . . anna.”

“Hi, B.T.B.,” I whisper back. “Do I get to see your elephants?”

“Yes!” He motions for me to follow him.

Mary Carlson gives the nod, and then holds out her hand. “Give me your bag. We'll take it up to my room. My parents might poke their head out into the hall when y'all come up, but they're pretty good about waiting till the morning to find out all about the night.”

The feeling lands again. The Ken Burns moment where
the world fuzzes around us and Mary Carlson and I are in bright focus. I shift the bag off my shoulder and hand it to her. She brushes my hand in the process of taking it and fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. It's a damn electric jolt that travels straight to my—sorry, Dr. Gemma—girl world.

“Uh.” I clear my throat. “See you in a minute.”

Mary Carlson laughs. “Right, good luck.”

B.T.B. leads me to his room, which is on the first floor behind the kitchen.

Gemma wasn't joking. It's like walking into an elephant research center. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A king-sized bed covered with elephant stuffies, even a comforter that is stitched with a massive elephant head appliqué. On his desk there's a miniature replica of an elephant's skeletal structure.

One by one, he leads me through each piece of artwork that he's drawn or people have drawn for him, or things he's found at stores. Then he starts in on the books. I stifle a yawn, then remember those earlier texts from Dana I left unanswered. I reach for my back pocket and freeze. My phone. What the hell did I do with my phone? My brain clicks back thinking through my movements, and damn it. I put it in the bag, which I handed to Mary Carlson, which is now up in her room with four girls who are accustomed to being in each other's business and now I'm one of
them. Oh sweet Jesus, this could get ugly.

I yawn really big and pat my mouth. “B.T.B., I'm really sleepy. Can we finish in the morning?”

“Oh.” His smile turns down a notch.

“Come on, banana man. Turn that frown upside down. A girl needs her beauty rest.” B.T.B. is a true reader of people and I'm doing all I can to keep my anxiety in check. But it's full volume under my skin. I have got to get to my phone or my life is going to blow up in my face and I can kiss my radio show good-bye.

He rubs at the floor with the foot of his pj's. “Okay.”

I follow him upstairs and my brain is stuck on yesterday's conversation with my dad when I'd given him ideas for my first couple of shows and how he was pleasantly surprised and how if I didn't get to my phone, stat, all of this was going down the toilet.

At the top of the stairs, there's the faintest music coming from a door at the opposite end of a long hall. Halfway there—I'm trying hard not to sprint—another door pops open. A woman's face, blond hair to her chin, blue robe, pokes her head out. “B.T.B., don't bother the . . . Oh, hello?”

“Mama, this is Jo . . . anna.” B.T.B. beams. “My friend from school. I'm her peer.”

Oh, crap. Parent time. Please don't talk to me long.
There is a phone I need to rescue. I can't even be appreciative of her Bailey smile, I'm so focused on that other door.

“Hi,” I say. “B.T.B. was showing me his elephants.” I yawn again. “Now he's showing me where to go.”

“Of course. I didn't want him bothering you girls. Sleep tight.” She closes the door slowly and the click of the knob seems to take forever.

Finally we get to Mary Carlson's room. “Good night, B.T.B. See you in the morning.”

He turns and wiggles his banana butt for effect as I open the door. I can't even laugh, I'm so nervous about what I'm going to find inside.

It's worse than I thought.

Gemma is on the floor, with my bag, the contents spilling from the top and my phone in her hand. She looks pissed.

I stop, my hand still on the doorknob. “What are you doing?” My voice is harsher than I intended and it garners a double take from Betsy and Jessica, who are already pajama'd and lying on a big air mattress.

BOOK: Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit
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