by Robin Talley
It’s summer 1977 and closeted lesbian Tammy Larson can’t be herself anywhere. Not at her strict Christian high school, not at her conservative Orange County church and certainly not at home, where her ultrareligious aunt relentlessly organizes antigay political campaigns. Tammy’s only outlet is writing secret letters in her diary to gay civil rights activist Harvey Milk…until she’s matched with a real-life pen pal who changes everything.
Sharon Hawkins bonds with Tammy over punk music and carefully shared secrets, and soon their letters become the one place she can be honest. The rest of her life in San Francisco is full of lies. The kind she tells for others—like helping her gay brother hide the truth from their mom—and the kind she tells herself. But as antigay fervor in America reaches a frightening new pitch, Sharon and Tammy must rely on their long-distance friendship to discover their deeply personal truths, what they’ll stand for…and who they’ll rise against.
A master of award-winning queer historical fiction, New York Times bestselling author Robin Talley once again brings to life with heart and vivid detail an emotionally captivating story about the lives of two teen girls living in an age when just being yourself was an incredible act of bravery.
ROBIN TALLEY is the New York Times bestselling author of the highly acclaimed novels Pulp, Our Own Private Universe, As I Descended, What We Left Behind and Lies We Tell Ourselves. Her books have won accolades including the Amnesty CILIP Honour and have also been shortlisted for the CILIP Carnegie Medal.
She worked in digital communications for LGBTQ rights, women’s rights, educational equity, and other progressive causes for fifteen years before she turned to writing full-time. Robin lives in Washington, DC with her wife and their daughter. You can find her online at www.robintalley.com or on Twitter @robin_talley.
Also by Robin Talley:
Lies We Tell Ourselves
What We Left Behind
As I Descended
Our Own Private Universe
Pulp
Music from Another World
Robin Talley
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Robin Talley 2020
Robin Talley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9781474073196
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Praise for Robin Talley:
‘The main characters are terrific in what is a moving novel. And an important one’
The Telegraph
‘Absolutely loved it – romantic and funny and gripping and just generally excellent!’
Tom Ellen, author of Freshers and All About Us
‘Touching, clever and absolutely hilarious’
The Herald
‘I really loved the book… it was just a lovely, refreshing read for me, and I’m so glad there are authors like Robin Talley out there’
Bookseller
‘One of the most interesting and informative LGBT books I’ve read recently!’
Reader
‘I read it in one sitting!’
NetGalley reviewer
‘A must-read for anyone interested in LGBTQ+ history’
NetGalley reviewer
‘A very timely novel’
NetGalley reviewer
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Praise
Summer, 1977
Wednesday, June 1, 1977
Tuesday, June 7, 1977
Tuesday, June 7, 1977
Tuesday, June 7, 1977
Wednesday, June 8, 1977
Wednesday, June 8, 1977
Wednesday, June 8, 1977
Wednesday, June 8, 1977
Thursday, June 16, 1977
Wednesday, June 22, 1977
Wednesday, June 29, 1977
Saturday, July 2, 1977
Sunday, July 3, 1977
Wednesday, July 6, 1977
Wednesday, July 13, 1977
Wednesday, July 20, 1977
Wednesday, July 27, 1977
Sunday, July 31, 1977
Tuesday, August 2, 1977
Wednesday, August 3, 1977
Friday, August 5, 1977
Friday, August 5, 1977
Monday, August 8, 1977
Friday, August 12, 1977
Fall, 1977
Monday, September 5, 1977
Tuesday, September 6, 1977
Wednesday, September 14, 1977
Saturday, September 17, 1977
Saturday, September 24, 1977
Wednesday, November 9, 1977
Wednesday, November 9, 1977
Wednesday, November 9, 1977
Thursday, November 10, 1977
Thursday, November 10, 1977
Saturday, November 12, 1977
Saturday, November 12, 1977
Saturday, November 19, 1977
Saturday, November 19, 1977
Tuesday, November 22, 1977
Friday, November 25, 1977
Friday, November 25, 1977
Monday, November 28, 1977
Wednesday, November 30, 1977
Friday, December 2, 1977
Monday, December 5, 1977
Wednesday, December 7, 1977
Summer, 1978
Saturday, May 20, 1978
Tuesday, May 23, 1978
Tuesday, May 23, 1978
Friday, May 26, 1978
Tuesday, May 30, 1978
Thursday, June 1, 1978
Friday, June 2, 1978
Friday, June 2, 1978
Saturday, June 17, 1978
Sunday, June 18, 1978
Sunday, June 18, 1978
Monday, June 19, 1978
Monday, June 19, 1978
Tuesday, June 20, 1978
Wednesday, June 21, 1978
Thursday, June 22, 1978
Friday, June 23, 1978
Friday, June 23, 1978
Saturday, June 24, 1978
Saturday, June 24, 1978
Saturday, June 24, 1978
Sunday, June 25, 1978
Sunday, June 25, 1978
Sunday, June 25, 1978
Tuesday, June 27, 1978
Tuesday, June 27, 1978
Tuesday, June 27, 1978
Tuesday, June 27, 1978
Wednesday, June 28, 1978
Wednesday, June 28, 1978
Wednesday, June 28, 1978
Wednesday, June 28, 1978
Wednesday, June 28, 1978
Wednesday, June 28, 1978
Wednesday, June 28, 1978
Thursday, June 29, 1978
Fall, 1978
Friday, September 22, 1978
Friday, September 22, 1978
Friday, September 22, 1978
Friday, September 22, 1978
Friday, September 22, 1978
Election Night, 1978
Tuesday, November 7, 1978
Acknowledgments
Extract
About the Publisher
Summer, 1977
Wednesday, June 1, 1977
Introducing the California Pen Pal Project
Dear girls,
Welcome to our first annual California pen pal project! Over the next five months, this project will foster exciting new friendships and strengthen the faith of the incoming junior girls at New Way Christian Academy and Holy Angels Catholic School.
At the bottom of this letter are the names of one girl from each school. To earn credit for this assignment, you must write at least two letters each month to your assigned pen pal and complete a final report by the end of first term in November.
You should answer at least one of the following questions in each letter, and include summaries of your pen pal’s responses in your final report.
Pen Pal Questions
Describe yourself using three adjectives.
Who are the members of your family?
What are your favorite hobbies?
What is your favorite television program?
How do you plan to maintain your strong Christian morality this summer despite the temptations of modern society?
What is your favorite Bible story, and why?
Do you have any interesting activities planned for this summer?
What is it like living in your part of California?
What is your favorite subject in school, and why?
How can you and your new pen pal support each other in your spiritual challenges as you transition into your final years of high school and the new lives that await you after graduation?
Pen pal pairing:
—Tammy Larson (New Way Christian Academy, Ocean Valley, CA)
—Sharon Hawkins (Holy Angels Catholic School, San Francisco, CA)
Tuesday, June 7, 1977
Dear Harvey,
I hope it’s okay for me to call you Harvey. In school, when they taught us to write letters, they said adults should always be addressed as “Mr.” or “Mrs.,” but from what I’ve read in the newspaper, you don’t seem much like the adults I know. I’d feel wrong calling you “Mr. Milk.”
Besides, it’s not as if I’m ever going to send you this letter. I’ve never kept a diary before, but things have been getting harder lately, and tonight might be the hardest night of all. I need someone I can talk to. Even if you can’t answer back.
Plus, I told Aunt Mandy I couldn’t join the prayer circle because I had too much homework. Tomorrow’s the last day of school, so I don’t have any homework, but she doesn’t know that. If I keep writing in this notebook, maybe she’ll think homework is really what I’m doing.
I guess I could write to my new “pen pal” instead. That might count as homework. It would be closer than writing a fake letter to a famous San Francisco homosexual, anyway, but I can’t handle the thought of writing to some stranger right now.
Technically you’re a stranger, too, Harvey, but you don’t feel like one. That’s why I wanted to write to you, instead of “Dear Diary” or something.
It’s ironic, though, that my pen pal lives in San Francisco, too. I wonder if she’s ever met you. How big is the city, anyway? I read a magazine article that said gay people could hold hands walking down the street there, and no one minds. Is that true?
Ugh. The prayer circle’s starting over. Brett and Carolyn are leading the Lord’s Prayer again. It’s probably the only prayer they know.
We’ve been cooped up in the church basement for five hours now—my whole family, plus the youth group, plus a bunch of the other Protect Our Children volunteers. Along with Aunt Mandy and Uncle Russell, of course. The results from Miami should come in any minute.
You probably already know this—wait, who am I kidding? Of course you know, Harvey—but there was a vote today in Florida. They were voting on homosexuality, so our church, New Way Baptist, was heavily involved, even though we’re on the opposite side of the country. Everyone in our youth group was required to volunteer. I worked in the office Aunt Mandy and Uncle Russell set up in their den, answering phones and putting together mailings and counting donations to the New Way Protect Our Children Fund. We had bake sales and car washes to raise money to send to Anita Bryant, too.
You know all about Anita Bryant, obviously. You’re probably just as scared of her as I am. Although, come to think of it, whenever I see you in the newspaper, you look the opposite of afraid. In pictures, you’re always smiling.
Don’t you get anxious, having everyone know? I’m terrified all the time, and no one even knows about me yet. I hope they never find out.
Maybe I should pray for that. Ha.
Okay, the Lord’s Prayer is over and now Uncle Russell’s making everyone silently call on God to save the good Christians of Florida from sin. I hope I can keep writing without getting in trouble.
Ugh, look at them all, showing off how devout they are. The only two people in this room who aren’t clasping their hands in front of them and moving their lips dramatically are me and Aunt Mandy, but that’s because I’m a grievous sinner—obviously—and Aunt Mandy keeps peeking out from her shut eyes at the phone next to her.
I’m not sure how much you can concentrate on God when you’re solely focused on being ready to snatch up the receiver the second it starts to shake. Maybe she’ll grab it so hard, it’ll crush to a pulp in her fist like one of Anita Bryant’s fucking Florida oranges.
I wonder what you’re doing tonight, Harvey. Probably waiting by your phone, too. Only you’re in San Francisco, and if you’re praying, you’re praying for the opposite of what Aunt Mandy and everyone else in our church basement is praying for.
It seems pointless to pray now, though. The votes have already been cast, so we’re just waiting to hear the results. There’s a reporter from my aunt and uncle’s favorite radio station in L.A. sitting at the back of the room, ready to interview Uncle Russell once we know what happened. Even though we basically already do.
My mom showed up at church tonight with a box of balloons from the supermarket, but Aunt Mandy wouldn’t let anyone touch them until the announcement, so at the moment the box is sitting in the closet under a stack of old communion trays. The second that phone starts to ring, though, I just bet Aunt Mandy’s going to haul out that box and make us all start blowing up those crappy balloons.
I wonder if you’ve heard of my aunt. She wants you to. She knows exactly who you are, of course—you’re her enemy.
Which ma
kes me your enemy, too, I guess. I’m not eighteen, and it’s not as if I could’ve voted in an election in Miami even if I were, but I’ve still spent the past two months folding up comic books about the destruction of Sodom to mail out to churches in Florida.
I’m a soldier for Christ. That’s what Aunt Mandy calls me, anyway. And since I do everything she says, she must be right.
Writing to you instead of praying with the others is the closest I’ve ever come to rebelling. That’s how much of a coward I am, Harvey.
I wish I had the nerve to tell my aunt to go shove it. That’s what I’d really pray for—the nerve, I mean. If I thought prayer ever helped anything.
Shit, the phone’s ringing. More later.
Tammy
Tuesday, June 7, 1977
Dear Diary,
I’ve never seen anything like what I saw tonight. Or felt anything like it, either.
I need to write about what happened. It’s almost midnight and I don’t know if I can fit this all in one entry before I fall asleep, but I’ve got to get down as much as I can.
It all started when my brother didn’t come home.
He said he’d be back from work in time to watch the network news with us. Instead it was just me and Mom watching static creep in from the edges of the screen as the reporter in Miami adjusted his wide, striped tie. I waited one minute, then two, to see if he’d correct himself—maybe he’d made a mistake, or someone had given him the wrong information—but he kept droning on about Anita Bryant winning by a landslide as more and more of his face got scrambled.
The sound came through strong as ever, though, and his story never changed. The vote was two to one against homosexuality. Anita Bryant and her cronies had done what they’d sworn to do. The gay rights ordinance in Miami was getting repealed.
“Sharon, see if you can get the rabbit ears to work,” Mom said, but she wasn’t looking at the screen. Her eyes were fixed on the clock.
I climbed to my feet and fiddled with the antenna. By the time the static cleared, Anita Bryant herself was on the screen. She was standing on a stage in some hotel ballroom, talking proudly about how the “normal majority” had won and the militant homosexuals had lost. She was wearing at least fifty pounds’ worth of lipstick and eye shadow, and I wanted to throw a glass of orange juice straight at her painted-on face.
