Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit (25 page)

“No deets yet, bro. I'll call you back later.” I hang up before she can talk more and turn to face Mary Carlson. “I want you to know the kiss you saw in that picture was literally the grossest kiss of my life. I'm telling you that for two reasons: one, so you'll understand Dana really is only a friend. And two, so when she hits on you, if she meets you, you won't go there. She can be persuasive.”

The phone buzzes again to prove my point and I turn it off.

Mary Carlson looks at her glasses in her hands. “I don't know, Jo.”

Jo
is good. And
I don't know
isn't no.

A breath. “I need some time. You broke my heart, and then I found out you were lying to me.”

“I had reasons, not good ones, but reasons. They made sense in my head at the time and it's why I broke up with you. Not because I wasn't crazy about you, but because I was. I didn't want to hold you back while I was being such a schmuck about things.”

She nods and puts her glasses on like she's come to a decision. When her hand moves for the door, I panic.

“Wait,” I say.

Her hand stills.

“I got this for you. That day at the mall. It's what was in my bag. Not a present for my stepmom. So I was lying about that, too, but it was one of good intentions and I still want you to have it. No matter what happens between us.”

She takes it and speaks so low I almost don't hear her. “You were crazy about me?”

My heart jumps. Her eyes are softer, her posture more relaxed.

“Of course I was. I still am. But I get that you need time. And if you decided I screwed it up too bad to fix it, then I get that, too. But I hope, if nothing else, you'll be my friend again.”

She nods, takes a breath, and this time opens the car door. On her way out, she turns and holds up the
gift-wrapped box. “Thank you.”

When the car door shuts and she drives away, I slump into my seat. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to massive disappointment. I suppose I figured she'd show up, it'd be immediate forgiveness, then we'd fall into each other's arms and kiss all the pain and dishonesty away. But Mary Carlson is bigger than that. She's not the kind of girl you can trod on and expect her to miraculously heal. And that's what makes me want to fix this even more. Because she's worth it.

MY DAD, WHO PREFERS HIS
worship with a tad less fire and brimstone, figures a Christmas Eve service will be more heavenly clouds than burning hell and agrees to come with us to Foundation because it's important to the Foleys. I might have refused because . . . hate, but there's also the chance I'll see Mary Carlson and I don't want to miss that. We walk to mid-sanctuary where Elizabeth's parents, brother, and family have saved us pew space. I don't see the Baileys yet. Mrs. Foley grimaces as she says “Merry Christmas” to me. Tater grabs my hand as I pass and gives me one of those awesome two-hand squeezy handshakes. So maybe he's not married to Althea, but between the two of them I figure I have the world's most
perfect grandparents.

I'm still looking around for the Baileys when I see a four-pack of tall honey blondes walk through the doors. The Bailey parents are hugging and greeting someone and B.T.B. is standing proud in a black suit and a loud tie with, of course, elephants wearing Christmas hats on it. Mary Carlson is hidden by her brother's bulk but when he shifts slightly, I see her. Her mussy hair is tamed tonight and she's gotten new glasses, green and round and perfect on her. She's looking around and I keep my stare focused in her direction. Then, a Christmas Eve miracle. She sees me and smiles. As they move to find a pew, she lifts her hand in a tiny wave, a flash of silver elephant glinting in the church light, and I feel reborn.

The service is beautiful. Lots of candles and singing. The preacher is in a joy-to-the-world mood, so it's not even painful to listen to him. My little boy cousins are hilarious, singing loud and off-key and so happy to get to stay for the whole service in the big room. Dad and Elizabeth hold hands and never let go once. She holds the hymnal. He flips the pages.

When it's over, families file out, hugging and kissing. George and Gemma are at the service with Gemma's folks. We say hi, but the whole time I'm scanning the room, hoping to have a chance to talk to Mary Carlson again.

B.T.B. and his mom give me an opening.

“Joanna, it's so good to see you. I just wanted to say again what an amazingly kind thing you've done for Barnum. It's all he talks about.”

“Oh, it was no problem, Mrs. Bailey. We all love B.T.B. and I'm as excited as he is to visit the sanctuary.”

“Well, it was exceedingly generous. I hope we'll be seeing you around the house again?” There's a bigger question in her voice, and before I can second-guess if I really heard it or not, she cups her hand on my shoulder. “It would make my daughter very happy, and my children's happiness is more important to me than anyone's opinions or anything else in the world.” She squeezes. “Do you understand?”

“Um, yes, ma'am.”
Dear heavenly Mother, did I just get permission from Mrs. Bailey to date her daughter? Please let this be true. Amen. Joanna.

“Good.” She lets go.

Mary Carlson appears from behind them. “Hi.” She wears the same almost smile as from before the service and has her hands on the bracelet, rolling it in a circle around her wrist.

People flow around us on their way to the vestibule and outside to waiting cars. Mary Carlson's mom gets swept away by a friend, but not before winking at me. “B.T.B.,”
she calls from the crowd. “Come with me, sweetheart. Give Mary Carlson and Joanna some time to say hello.”

B.T.B. leans in and whispers, “Mama didn't like Deirdre either.” He walks away.

The sanctuary has emptied and the altar boys are starting to put out the hundreds of candles nestled in the greenery.

I hold out my hand. “Hello, my name is Joanna Gordon. My friends back in Atlanta call me Jo. My last name used to be Guglielmi and it will be again and that's where you can stalk me if you want to.”

She slowly raises her arm and touches her fingertips to mine. “I'd say it's nice to meet you, but I've heard conflicting things about you.”

“I've had a conflicted year. Agreed to an unkeepable promise. Met a girl. Fell in love. Broke the girl's heart. Lied to the girl. Realized I couldn't live without her. Broke my promise. But then it was too late. I lost the girl.”

“You fell in love?”

The last candle gets snuffed and the altar boys disappear.

“Yes.”

She looks down, but not before I see the smile and the blush creeping onto her cheeks. “I got you something,” she says and pulls out a tiny white box.

“You didn't have to,” I say.

“I wanted to.” She crosses her arms and watches as I open it, rocking slightly on her heels.

It's from the jewelry store where I bought her gift. I pull open the lid and pull out the cotton. Nestled inside is a silver ring with the same elephant as on her bracelet.

“I've never seen you wear a bracelet,” she says in explanation.

I take it out of the box and slip it on my finger. “We match.”

“Yeah.” She's still rocking.

“I love it.”

The lights get turned out over the altar. All except for the one hanging above the portrait of Jesus surrounded by children. He smiles at us.

“Your mom . . .” My sentence hangs.

“I told her about you and me last night. I was crying when I opened your present.”

“What'd she say?”

“She said she'd listened to Barnum on the radio and already knew. She told me forgiveness was a virtue and stubbornness would block the road to happiness.”

“I'm so sorry for everything, Mary Carlson.”

She takes my ringed hand in her braceleted one. “I know and I forgive you even if I think you were stupid.”
We stand for a few seconds swinging our hands, stupid grins on both of our faces. Mary Carlson breaks first. “Are you going to kiss me or what?”

“What.”

She pushes her hand against mine in jest and I grab her and hold her in my arms. Then, in front of smiling Jesus and one shocked altar boy who stumbled back in unaware, I kiss her.

When I break away, I laugh. “Your lip gloss.”

“Peaches,” she says.

“My favorite,” I murmur and kiss her again.

SUNLIGHT FILTERS IN BETWEEN THE
sand-colored curtains. I roll over and stick my nose in the crook of Mary Carlson's neck and bring my bare leg over hers. My hand travels over her tanned stomach.

“Hmmmmph.” She rolls over, nestling into me like a stacked spoon. “Sleepy. Too many margaritas.”

I play with the charm bracelet on her wrist. There are five now. The original elephant. A heart for Valentine's. A golf bag with clubs for her massive scholarship. A rolled diploma for graduation. And now a goddess, like my necklace, to symbolize this trip. P-Town. The mecca for queer girls everywhere. My prize for good behavior from my dad.

“I love you,” I whisper into Mary Carlson's hair and
slide my hand over her hip, letting my fingers trace circles and waves and swirls onto her skin. “Let's stay here forever.”

“We have to fix elephant fences in a few weeks.”

I move my hand down her thigh. “We do. But then we could come back.”

“Our friends would miss us. We shouldn't deny them their token cute lesbian couple.”

I scoot closer to her warm morning body, her smell a combination of sleep and suntan lotion. “We are cute, aren't we?” I push against her, trying to get her to pay attention to me.

“Stop, we can't be rude,” she whispers.

“You're worried about Dana?” I laugh and nibble on her shoulder. “You seem to have forgotten that when we last saw her she was drinking vodka out of some Boston girl's navel.”

“We're alone?” Mary Carlson flips over and looks at Dana's empty bed.

“All alone.”

Her hand slides down between my legs and I gasp as she finds the perfect spot to touch me. She's still a tiger. I flip onto my back and she follows me, pressing herself length to length, skin to skin. Things heated up around spring break, but this trip is a whole new level of . . .

“Oh, whatever that is you're doing, don't you dare stop.” She rocks against me and I pull her as close as she'll go. Her hair, its usual muss, brushes my face and her eyes are closed now and we are lost in this sea of sweet nothingness . . . everythingness.

And then, my phone buzzes.

I gasp. Mary Carlson doesn't stop what she's doing but my concentration is broken because it's my dad's emergency ringtone. He promised to call me from the house phone only if the baby was near.

“Baby,” I whisper.

“Hmmm,” she says. “Come on, baby.”

“No.” I sit up from under her and grab her face. “Baby.”

“Baby!” She pushes up on her hands, her eyes round with acknowledgment and excitement.

I grab the phone.

“Dad?”

“You better get on a plane. Your brother or sister will probably be here tomorrow. Elizabeth's started to dilate.”

“Be there as quick as we can.”

Three days later, I'm curled up with Mary Carlson on the couch at home. Gemma and George are gathered around Elizabeth, who's sitting with the newest addition to our family, little Max, in her arms. B.T.B. is grinning like a
fool and holding an elephant stuffie he's brought for my baby brother. My dad can't settle, pacing from kitchen to chair to baby to kitchen. Tater's laughing at him and patting Mary Carlson's hand like we're already married or something. Althea's beaming from the kitchen, where she's put Mrs. Foley to work making lunch. Dana's called about twenty times from Provincetown, and though I'm pretty sure she's happy she stayed to finish out our condo rental, I can tell a part of her wishes she was celebrating my brother.

Elizabeth holds Max up. “Will you hold him for me a minute, Jo?”

I'm there in a flash. When Max is settled in my arms, my heart bubbles over. I brush his soft forehead and touch each of his tiny fingers. Mary Carlson smiles at us in a way that hits me on a soul level. This moment will be forever locked in my mind as one of the rightest moments of my life.

I can't know what the future holds for any of us. But what I do know is I'll never again let my own fear hurt someone I love.

Because love like this, it's the only thing that really matters.

Faith is important to a lot of the world and for far too many queer youth, growing up with religion can be a painful experience. I wanted this novel to be something a young queer person of faith could hold on to as a bright spot while they navigate the waters of finding themselves. Maybe this story is too optimistic or maybe it's exactly where we are in an exciting time of change, but as Althea says to Jo, didn't God make you in his image? Aren't you worthy of that love?

You will know when you feel safe. (Your gut is a powerful self-protector!) You will know the right time to tell your faith community. You will know if you can't. You may need a new faith community. You may leave religion altogether. But if a faith community is important to you, then you should be able to have it. And if you are an ally reading this book, stand up for your queer friends and
don't make room for hate in your belief systems.

As you walk away from this novel, there's one thing I'd like you to take with you (other than a huge ship for Jo and Mary Carlson), and that's the knowledge that there are many people in the world who think you are perfect just the way you are.

Go out and find them.

Peaches
came into being after a writer-fueled weekend when the words I'd been working on were all wrong. The first bit of the story, along with Jo, Dana, and Mary Carlson, flowed out of me and began to form a story. But stories, though solitary, don't become novels without the help of a cast of real-life characters.

My main characters are my editor, Chris Hernandez, and my agent, Alexandra Machinist. Thank you both for believing in my girls. The editorial experience was smooth and comfortable and I feel so thrilled my book landed in Chris's hands. You made it easy. Also, to the entire team at HarperTeen for your work on this novel and to artist, Steph Baxter, for my fun cover.

To Pat Esden, who bravely read the baby bump of this novel and filled me with delicious praise; then, when she knew I was ready, scolded me with “what were you
thinking.” You make me a better writer. To beta readers, Kip Wilson, Marieke Nijkamp, Kristen Lippert-Martin, thank you for your wisdom and keen eyes. To Nina Moreno, I owe huge thanks for your B.T.B. input. I love him so. To Audrey Coulthurst—you made those ledges I needed talking off of more like speed bumps. Special cigars to you.

To my writer friends who raise me up and make this community so important: The YaValentines (Vals4evah), #5amwritersclub, the Asheville YA community, Robin Constantine, Sarah Cannon, Kristin Reynolds, Frankie Bolt, Jen McConnel, Rebecca Petruck, Eliza Wass, and Lisa Maxwell. To the readers past and present—without you, there would be no reason for this. Keep turning pages. I'll be right there with you.

To Gabby F—thanks for the use of your name, telling your mom I was your BFF, and general awesomeness. To Levi P.—my curly-haired son from another mother, thanks for the hugs. To Indira Rohl—for being you. And to Anina van der Vorst, swag designer extraordinaire and student-turned-friend. I am one lucky lady.

The journey of finishing
Peaches
was a difficult one personally, and I couldn't have done it without the friendship and support of a loving community. Among those who made sure I kept my feet on the path, or gave me a pillow
when I could no longer stand, are dear friends Deana and Chuck, Jen and Polly (the original Rome girls), Paige, Susie and Steve, Karole, Elizabeth, Jada, Jody, Sylvia and Susan, Lucy, Kathleen, Shelley and Chad, Tracy, Greg, Paulette, Julia, Scott, Melissa, Jennifer F., and so many others that I don't have space to name. You are each a gift to me.

Finally, to Raven, who in the grace of dying, gave me the courage to banish the last of my fear. And the perfect ending line. I will love you always.