by Robin Talley
Did she not tell me because she thought I couldn’t handle it?
Could I handle it?
The drums kicked in. Kevin leaned back, stretching his arm across my shoulders. “You sure you’re all right? You seem kind of on edge.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
I turned to face him. He smiled his standard Kevin smile, warm and comfortable and real. I relaxed and smiled back easily. Any time he smiled that smile, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
His deep brown eyes were soft and warm, and I reached over to loop my hand through his. I turned up the music as high as it would go, and I kissed him.
I wanted to stop him from asking if I was all right. I wanted to stop all these thoughts whirling in my head. I wanted to stop this fear that kept churning through me with no explanation.
This was where I belonged. With my lips against Kevin’s, his arms curving around my waist.
With my eyes shut, it was easy to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. Being in that spot, with that eerie music playing and this boy running his fingers up and down my spine, was all I’d ever want.
I sank into the feeling of being close. I lost track of time as we kissed and kissed again, and suddenly the whole world was nothing but kissing and music and warmth. Deliciously uncomplicated. As though I was dreaming it all.
We kissed some more, and before long his hand was up my shirt. Usually I tried not to go much further than that, but tonight, I couldn’t remember why. I wanted to keep feeling the way I did. I wanted to feel even more of it.
I climbed onto his lap, my knees straddling his hips, and he ran his hands up and down the sides of my skirt. He looked as though he was about to say something, but I kissed him before he could.
When I moved in closer, he made a noise in the back of his throat. I took in a deep breath and ordered myself to relax and let whatever happened, happen.
And what happened was, I gave Kevin my first-ever blow job in the front seat of his Camaro.
Wow. It feels strange to write those words. It feels strange just thinking about it, now that it’s over. I know it’s supposed to be a big deal, and I can only imagine how Sister Catherine would react, ha, but now that I’m at home and trying to think back on what a big deal it was...
I’m mostly still thinking about Tammy. Just like before.
When Kevin and I were sitting in the car at the end of the night, listening to the last song, the words Tammy wrote popped into my head out of nowhere.
Not from the letter about Carolyn—from the one she wrote to me. When she said she’d miss me.
Can you miss someone you’ve never met?
I can. I do. I miss the real Tammy. The one I never got to know, because she didn’t tell me the truth.
But I know why she didn’t tell me. She couldn’t.
She couldn’t tell anyone. Just like Peter.
Now that I know about her, I could hurt her, if I wanted to. I could tell one of my teachers, and they could tell one of her teachers. Her family would find out.
That’s when I knew I had to write back to her. I had to make sure she knew I’d never do that.
I should go volunteer at Evelyn’s bookstore, too. Maybe I can help stop Prop 6 from passing. My friends might think it’s gross to be gay, but I’m not like them. I need to make sure Tammy knows that.
“Are you, um...?” Kevin cleared his throat. He was staring straight ahead through the foggy windshield. “All right?”
“Yeah. I’m good. Great, actually.”
He smiled at me and turned on the ignition.
Half an hour later, as he was walking me to my front door, his cheeks were pink, but for once I wasn’t blushing.
“I love you,” he said at the front door. It was the first time he’d ever said that. Maybe he thought he had to.
I didn’t say it back. Girls don’t have to say that, right? It’s just something guys say.
I don’t see what love has to do with sex, anyway. I don’t see what it has to do with much of anything. Why do all those pop musicians write so many songs about love? Are they out of ideas? They should try listening to Patti Smith. She has plenty of ideas for songs that have nothing to do with it.
The house was dark when I let myself in. Mom’s door was shut. So was Peter’s, but when I peeked in, I spotted the lumpy pillows he’d left under the covers. It was obvious he was three miles north of here.
I shut his door, came back to my room, peeled off my clothes, and sat on the edge of the bed in my underwear. My head was thrumming, as though I’d never left the club.
I reached for my headphones, tracing my thumb over the Horses spine. I listen to it every night now, the same way Tammy does. I know every word.
Patti stared up at me from the cover of the album, her strong, constant gaze stark in black-and-white.
Her eyes are fierce. Uncompromising.
I slid the record out of its sleeve and dropped it onto the turntable, setting the needle and pulling the headphones over my ears. I slid between the sheets, my head rolling back against the pillow, my eyes falling shut. I wanted to get out this diary, write about everything that had happened, but I needed Patti first.
I shut my eyes, trying to imagine Tammy was there, listening along with me. That I was talking to her, telling her the story of tonight. I could never describe it in a letter, but if I could talk to her, really talk, I was certain I could tell her absolutely everything. She was the only one who’d understand.
Yours, Sharon
Saturday, November 19, 1977
Dear Sharon,
Hey...is it possible I sent you something in the mail by accident?
If you didn’t get anything unusual from me, don’t worry about it. There’s just something I was looking for and I couldn’t find it, and I thought I might’ve sent it to you by accident.
But if you could please write and let me know, that would be great.
Thanks.
Yours truly, Tammy
P.S. I handed in my pen pal report last week. As far as I could tell from talking to my friends, we’re the only set of pen pals who actually wrote to each other the whole time and answered all the questions. Everybody else wrote one or two letters and then made stuff up for the rest of it. Ha.
P.P.S. Please do write back soon, if you can. Please.
Tuesday, November 22, 1977
Dear Tammy,
Yes, I got your letter.
Sorry. I should’ve written sooner.
And...I’m sorry again, because...I read it.
I really shouldn’t have. When I opened the envelope and saw all those pages, addressed to someone who wasn’t me, I should’ve figured out what that meant. It should’ve been obvious you didn’t mean to send it to me.
But I didn’t think about any of that until much later. I could’ve just pretended I didn’t read it—maybe that would be easier—but we made that pledge, so...
All this time, I’ve been trying to think of what to write to you. I’ve gotten used to thinking of you as a friend—a good friend—and I’d feel wrong not saying anything to my friend about this.
So I’ll say that I haven’t told my teachers, and I’m not going to. I never would have, anyway.
And, I’ll also say...
My brother’s gay. So I understand how important it is to keep this secret.
And the Harvey you were writing to—is that Harvey Milk? Do you really send letters to him, like another pen pal?
I got in trouble at school just for talking about Harvey. In our neighborhood, most people despise him.
But I saw him once. I went with Peter to Castro Street after that vote in Miami, the one where Anita Bryant had the gay rights law overturned. Harvey was leading a protest march with a bullh
orn. Everyone was chanting.
I’d never seen anything like it before. Or since, either.
It was hard for me, at first, finding out you were gay. It was hard when I first found out about Peter, too. I couldn’t shake the thought that you’d been lying to me all this time.
Except...I think I understand. We said we trusted each other, but you could never really trust me. Right? You can’t really trust anyone.
I’m the only one who knows about my brother. Or I was, until he started going up to Castro Street. That’s different, though, because his friends up there are all gay, too. He can’t tell anyone else, because he doesn’t know who he can trust.
Well, I’m glad he trusted me. And I know you didn’t tell me on purpose, but I want you to know you can trust me, too.
There are so many things we have no control over. Things that just happen to us, like my dad leaving. We get stuck structuring our entire lives around all these things we didn’t choose. It isn’t fair, but no one else seems to see that.
I used to think being gay was wrong. I almost told on my brother when I first found out. I can’t believe now that I ever considered that.
To be totally honest, I think part of me still thinks it’s wrong. That’s why I had trouble when I first read your letter.
Every adult I know has always said it’s wrong, and I’m supposed to believe what adults say. My friends at school do.
But it’s not as if all adults think the same way. Harvey Milk doesn’t. And those people I saw in the Castro—there were thousands of them. They don’t think it’s wrong to be gay. I know what it says in the Bible, but the Bible says wives are supposed to submit to their husbands, too, and my mom did that, but my dad abandoned our whole family regardless.
I don’t think we’re all meant to live exactly the same way. How can we, when our lives are defined by all these accidents? Maybe being gay or straight is an accident, too.
That’s why I listen to punk. It’s all about being different, and how it’s a good thing.
I mean, look at you and me. You happened to be born in Orange County, and I happened to be born here. I happen to be Catholic, and you happen to be Baptist. I happen to be white, and you happen to be, too.
And I happen to be straight, and you happen to be gay. If I were you, though—if I’d been born in your house, with your family—would I be gay, too? If you’d been born into my life, would you be straight?
How much of who we are is there from the beginning, and how much gets added later?
God made each of us the way we are. Why are we supposed to think being different is a bad thing?
Anyway, if you don’t want to write back, that’s okay. I shouldn’t have read your private letter. I understand if you’re mad.
But if you did write back, that would be cool. I’ve missed writing to you, too.
Yours truly, Sharon
Friday, November 25, 1977
Dear Harvey,
Wow.
I... God. I don’t know where to start.
I just got a letter from Sharon, and it says—it says so many things, but it says...
Harvey...her brother’s gay.
Her brother, Peter. The one she writes about all the time.
He’s gay. She’s known for a while, apparently.
This is the closest I’ve ever come to knowing another gay person. Not counting Carolyn, or you. Since let’s face it, I don’t really know you, and Carolyn is...complicated.
I’d given up on ever hearing from Sharon again. To be honest, I’d given up on a lot of things.
Last night I couldn’t even work up the energy to put on a record. I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, until the sun came up and my sister started knocking on the door. It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and my mother always makes us spend hours in the kitchen packing up the leftovers and making big vats of turkey soup.
When the mail came in the afternoon, Mom sent me out to see if there was anything from Grandma in Ohio and there it was, on the very top of the stack in the mailbox. A letter with Sharon’s return address in the corner.
For a second I was so groggy from not sleeping and inhaling all those turkey fumes, I honestly thought I was imagining it. Then I grabbed the letter, ran back to my room, and ripped it open. My mom kept yelling for me to come back to the kitchen, but I ignored her until my brother started banging on my door saying Mom was going to ground me for the next five years if I didn’t come back that instant. I had to hide the letter behind my bed and pretend everything was normal so Mom wouldn’t notice my head was four hundred miles away.
I haven’t slept since I read it. Maybe that’s why my brain’s looping into odd places. But...all this stuff she wrote? About the accidents that define our lives? About us switching places?
She said part of her thinks being gay is wrong, but then, part of me does, too.
There was a time when I wanted Sharon to know the truth. I was afraid she’d hate me. Now, though...
She promised not to tell anyone. Maybe I shouldn’t believe her, but I do. I don’t think you write the kinds of things she wrote in that letter if you hate the person you’re writing to.
She might be my first real friend. Well, there’s Carolyn, but ever since we kissed, she’s barely looked at me. Our Sunday school teacher put us in the same group to read Bible verses and Carolyn spent the whole time sitting with her back to me, talking to Brett about whether he should go to UCLA or if USC would be better.
I don’t know what’s going on, Harvey. I’m so confused.
It’s just...if I can be honest with Sharon, if I could be truly honest with someone for the first time ever...that might be the best accident that’s ever happened to me.
Peace, Tammy
Friday, November 25, 1977
Hi, Sharon.
I keep starting to write this letter, then crossing everything out and ripping up the paper.
It’s late now, though, and I think I’ve made up my mind. This is going to be the letter I finish. I’ll mail it, too.
If I don’t do it right now, though—if I don’t write this down, put it in an envelope, seal it, and drive the three miles to the post office so it can go in the mail tonight—I’ll never have the nerve.
It’s either write this now or carry these words to my grave. You already know, but I need to tell you anyway.
Here goes. This will be the first time I’ve ever actually told anyone.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God...
You obviously already figured this out, but...I’m gay.
I’m sorry. My handwriting is probably harder to read than usual. I’m just so freaked out, knowing you know.
I trust you. I do. I wanted to tell you months ago. And when I read your letter...
I think of you as a good friend, too, Sharon. Maybe my best friend.
Who am I kidding—you’re definitely my best friend. I’m sorry, that’s probably strange since we’ve never met, but I’ve never had a friend who really knew me before.
I always thought I’d never tell anyone. I’d go to bed praying that the next morning I’d miraculously wake up straight, and this was all a bad dream.
All along I knew better, though. I’ve liked girls ever since I was a kid. It started with...
God, this is embarrassing, but...it started with Cher.
I never missed an episode of her show. I’d sew exact replicas of whatever she’d worn that week for my Barbies. I was too old to be playing with Barbies by then, but my parents didn’t notice, thank God.
I don’t remember exactly when I figured out that my fixation wasn’t on Cher’s clothes—it was the fact that Cher was in those clothes. She had this one outfit where you could see her belly button, and I remember so clearly when my mom gasped and switched off the TV. I had to stop myself from lunging to turn it back on.
; Your brother’s so lucky. He gets to live in San Francisco, and he has you.
I could never tell my sisters. They’d go straight to my parents, for one thing, but also, they’d hate me if they knew.
I think my aunt might suspect already, though.
I’ve never really told you about her, but ever since Anita Bryant started her campaign, my aunt and uncle have been running a group to support her. Now they’re leading the Orange County branch of the campaign to pass Proposition 6. You’ve heard about that, right? The initiative to ban gay teachers? Last week my sister and I stood out in front of the grocery store and got a hundred pledges to vote yes in an hour.
I hate having to lie to everyone in the middle of all this. I started a whole diary to get through it. That’s what my letters to Harvey are. I always thought writing to an imaginary Harvey Milk was the closest I’d come to telling anyone, but...well, here I am now. Telling you.
Write back, please. As soon as you can. I’m nervous putting this in the mail, but also...I just enjoy getting letters from you. Especially now.
Yours truly, Tammy
Monday, November 28, 1977
Dear Tammy,
I just got your letter, and tonight I’m going to walk down to the post office so I can put this back in the mail to you. That way you’ll get it faster than if I leave it in the mailbox out front. I wish I could send it faster. Having to wait for the mail is terrible sometimes.
But you don’t need to be nervous. I meant what I said before—you can trust me.
How about we both try writing to each other, the way we write in our diaries? I did that a few times during the summer, but I guess you never really could. Now that I know, though, if you wanted to write to me the same way you’ve been writing your letters to Harvey Milk, I’d want to read them.
I’ll start. Here’s what I would’ve written in my diary about today.
I went to the women’s bookstore on Valencia Street after school. It was my first time, and I was nervous. I’d changed out of my school uniform and put on some lipstick and a leather jacket I’d just bought at a secondhand store. As soon as I stepped off the bus and walked inside, though, I could tell no one there cared how I looked.
