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.