night.”
“Sure, but there are millions of people in California, and gay people only make up a tiny fraction. If there were a statewide campaign, even if we all voted no, Orange County alone would probably have enough fundamentalist assholes to pass it. That whole place is basically one gigantic fundamentalist asshole.”
“Right.” I didn’t mention that Orange County was also where my new pen pal was from. Tammy Larson of Ocean Valley, located smack in the middle of the land of sunshine and hatred. It’s kind of strange, since Tammy seems nice from her letters—the last one was fun to read, all about her big family—but if she knew I had a gay brother, she’d probably report it straight to one of her teachers. Then her school would call my school, and Peter’s secret would be out for the whole world to know.
It’s too bad. I could see us being friends if things were different.
“Look.” Peter nudged me, angling his chin up ahead. We had a few blocks to go, but there were already two men in front of us, walking with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders.
“Come on, Shar.” Peter sped up.
“I’m coming. I’m coming.”
By the time we’d made it two more blocks, we’d seen at least a dozen other men, and when we reached Castro Street itself, the crowd swelled. Tall men, short men, white men, Black men, Latino men, young men, slightly less young men—the sidewalks were teeming with them, and the one thing they all seemed to have in common was the way they touched each other. Right out in the open, where anyone could see.
Some of these men must’ve been the same ones who’d marched with us, but the mood on the street tonight was the opposite of what it had been then. Tonight felt relaxed, simple, fun. Not at all angry.
Plus, it really did seem to be all men. Almost. I did spot one girl hovering in a doorway, talking to a man in a flannel shirt. She looked like she was in her twenties, and she was wearing a leather jacket and dark glasses, even though the sun had already set. She had shoulder-length, jagged blond hair, and she was much, much cooler than I could ever hope to be.
I shrank a little in my boring gray T-shirt and tugged my two thick braids back over my shoulders. Maybe I didn’t fit on Castro Street after all.
“Hey, that’s the place we saw on the news.” Peter pointed to a liquor store across the street. “Remember? On Gay Freedom Day?”
“Right.” Last week Mom, Peter, and I had all sat together and watched silently as the local news started its Gay Freedom Day report. Apparently, this year’s parade had been the biggest one yet. Mom made us change the channel before the report was over, since Gay Freedom Day reports always show pictures of naked men running around.
“It would be cool to go to that someday, but…” Peter shook his head. “It’s always on the news.”
“That’s true.” I tried to hide my relief. I don’t want my brother anywhere near Gay Freedom Day. If someone saw him on TV, they might try to hurt him for real. Someone worse than Gary Knopp.
“Hey, are you two registered to vote?”
I jumped, startled to hear how close the new voice was, but Peter turned and grinned. Behind us was a guy holding a clipboard and a folder. He looked a little older than us, and he was dark-skinned, with a puffy Afro. He was wearing a red flannel shirt unbuttoned over a tight white T-shirt, Levi’s, and hiking boots.
“I’m afraid we’re underage,” Peter told the guy in a stage whisper.
He laughed. “That’s all right. Want to sign up for our volunteer list? We need all the help we can get. There are ways kids can help, too.” He smiled at me, and I blushed again. I’m shorter than Peter, but did I look that much younger? I knew I shouldn’t have worn my hair in braids. “Have you heard about Harvey’s campaign?”
Peter nodded. “He’s running for supervisor again?”
“He is, and he could win it this time, but only