laying out a new piece that I’ll slip up and forget to watch what I say. It gets hard to keep track of what I’m supposed to be thinking about. As if I’m constantly on stage, and I know I’m playing a role, but sometimes I forget which one.
Shoot, my sister’s banging on my door. She said she’d help me with the flyers. I promise I’ll write more next time!
Yours truly, Tammy
P.S. Can I steal your answer for the question about how I’ll resist temptation? It was a good answer. That’s what I’ll do, too. Except for going to confession, obviously.
P.P.S. My sister keeps yelling at me to hurry up, but I kind of want to keep writing anyway to annoy her.
P.P.P.S. Shit Shoot, she’s out for blood. Write back when you can!
Monday, August 8, 1977
Dear Tammy,
Thanks. For promising not to tell anyone, and also for that pledge idea. I promise not to tell anyone anything you don’t want me to, and I’ll hide your letters, too. Not that it matters much in my house, since my mom never comes inside my room and my brother’s never home anymore, but all the same.
I got your letter this afternoon, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I went out tonight, to the same club on Valencia Street where I saw my first punk show, and I kept thinking about your letters while the bands were playing—about how you said we could write to each other about whatever we want. I kept thinking of things I wanted to tell you. The show itself, for one thing. It isn’t fair that you like this kind of music as much as I do but you’ve never gotten to see a show.
Now that I’m back home, normally I’d write in my diary about what happened, but I thought this time I’d put it in a letter to you instead. I hope you don’t mind, this might be longer than usual, but here goes…
My birthday’s tomorrow. I’ll be sixteen years old, but I feel about nine. I’ve always done what people tell me—my mom, the nuns at school, the priests at church—as though I’m not capable of thinking for myself. They see me as a little kid who needs other people to do everything for me. They don’t know me at all.
I guess that’s part of why I went out alone again tonight. To prove to myself that I could.
I got to the club early, and for the first hour, everything was exactly the way I wanted it. I was in the middle of the crowd, my body thrumming to the music, not paying attention to anyone else. I was dancing with my eyes shut, in my own world, enjoying the anger that pulsed through the music and the air.
Then the pain came, and everything turned upside down.
At first, all I knew was that something had slammed into my back, jamming me right between the shoulder blades and knocking the breath out of my chest. I stumbled forward, and my face crashed into the back of the tall girl in front of me. She stumbled, her high heels wobbling, and turned to scowl at me from under a thick layer of jet-black mascara.
“I’M SORRY!” I whipped up my hands, shouting so she’d hear me over the pounding music. My nose was throbbing and I was seconds away from keeling over.
“FUCK YOU!” a guy shouted behind us. It had to be the same one who’d shoved me. I steadied myself and craned my neck around to scowl at him, but he wasn’t looking at me. He’d turned to the side, and he was pulling back his fist, snarling at a shorter guy who was wearing a dog collar and snarling right back at him. I dodged fast to avoid getting an elbow in the face.
“Shit!” The tall girl grabbed my wrist. “This way!”
I followed her into the crowd, my heart thudding. I’ve seen fights before, but never this close.
The music from the stage never faltered even as the crowd surged, some people moving toward the fight and some running away. The tall girl let