Georgia Peaches and Other Forbidden Fruit by Jaye Robin Brown

he’s made me so comfortable I’m actually smiling. Not once has he cast a sidelong glance at me, or treated me as anything other than a typical high school senior. I’d never admit it to my dad, or Dana, but there’s a part of me that feels okay being incognito.
    People cast shy glances my way as they settle at tables with homework and paper plates of pizza and chips. I see George from Latin class walk in and decide, what the hell, I’ll sit with him while I wait for B.T.B. to show up.
    â€œHey.” I plop down my plate and my notebook.
    â€œOh, hi.” He talks louder than he should. Like I can’t hear. Because he thinks that Asperger’s or developmentaldelays can totally make you deaf. “Do you need help with your homework?” He enunciates each word carefully and keeps very still, like any sudden movement on his part will make me bolt. I guess the guy is actually pretty considerate, given all his other possible reactions. Misguided, but still considerate.
    It’s time to end this, though. I mimic him, rounding my vowels and speaking very loud. “Do you need help talking?” Then I flip open my Latin homework to show off neatly written rows of conjugated verbs. His eyes get kind of wide and he pushes his bangs off his forehead.
    Before our conversation goes any further, B.T.B., Mary Carlson, and her friend Gemma, I think it is, walk through the door with a couple of other girls who fall into the same primped and pretty category. B.T.B. waves. He’s wearing his Babar T-shirt tonight. I grin back, but before they can even load up their plates with his favorite pizza, Pastor Hank walks to the small, elevated stage at the front of the room.
    â€œGreetings, young people. It’s always nice to see your enthusiasm for Foundation Baptist, our Holy Father, and the communion of community. I’d like to welcome a special guest tonight who I was remiss in not introducing on Sunday. I hope she’s going to be joining us regularly.” He holds out his hand to me. “Miss Joanna Gordon. She’s thenew stepdaughter of one of our favorites, none other than Elizabeth Foley, now Gordon as well. It’s her first year in Rome. I hope you all give her a warm welcome.”
    A few kids clap and say hello. George clears his throat. “So, you’re not in Mr. Ned’s class?”
    â€œObviously.” I tap my notebook paper with the eraser end of my pencil.
    B.T.B. and crew land at our table. “Hi, Jo . . . anna!”
    Mary Carlson is still looking at me like I’m going to be her sister-in-law, until one of the other girls speaks up.
    â€œHey, you’re in my English class.” She picks up her slice of pizza. “I’m Betsy, this is Jessica, Gemma, and Mary Carlson.”
    I nod. “Joanna.”
    â€œYou’re in AP English?” Mary Carlson cocks her head and her glasses slip a little on the bridge of her nose.
    â€œYeah.” I shrug, my reflexes sending my lip into the start of a snarl, then I remember, lie low. Don’t be a smart ass. “Ms. Smith seems like a good kind of challenge.”
    Mary Carlson looks back and forth between me and B.T.B., like she can’t quite make sense of it all. “Wait. You’re not with Barnum in Mr. Ned’s class?” She pokes her glasses back up, then does the hair thing, which takes me back to my lunchroom fantasy. I flush. Then tell my brain to squash the crush buzzer in my belly. Obviously,my gaydar is broken or having some kind of existential straight girl crisis.
    â€œI told you she was smart like you.” B.T.B. holds up a hand in frustration. “You never listen.”
    Now she’s blushing. Which makes the swath of freckles across her nose stand out more. Mary Carlson groans. “I’m such a doofus.” She looks at her brother. “So she’s really not your girlfriend?”
    He laughs. Big and booming. “No, sister. I told you.