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 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