was probably right. Mom would be delighted to see that Peter was safe, but I’d be in trouble for sure. She says she doesn’t play favorites, but somehow I’m always the one she decides is wrong. Plus, she still does Peter’s laundry.
“Either way—” he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket “—I’m not going home.”
“What, you want to sit here in the dark all night?”
“No. I want…” He trailed off, one hand holding tight to the cigarette pack, the other scrunching into his curly dark hair. He’s done that since we were kids. On the day he started fifth grade, when he told me how Gary Knopp had shouted “Sissy!” at him on the way into the cafeteria, he squeezed his hair so tight, strands broke off in his fist. Any time he’s overwhelmed, any time he wants to disappear, my brother scrunches up his hair. “I just want this to be over.”
“Well, it is. Miami’s thousands of miles away. They won’t be talking about it on the news after tomorrow.”
He exhaled heavily, as if I was the stupidest person he’d ever encountered. “Shar. This isn’t over. Anita Bryant and her cronies aren’t going to stop while they’re winning.”
“It’s only one city.”
“So far.” Peter tightened his fingers in his hair and let out another long breath. “I’ve got to get out of this shitty neighborhood.”
“Well…you’ll graduate next year, and in college you can—”
“Screw college.” He tugged on his hair again. It had to be hurting him. “I’m talking about right now. Tonight.”
“What do you mean?” I was getting nervous. “You’re not talking about…running away from home or something?”
“I just want to not be here.” He swept his arm out toward the darkened street. “Our fucking Catholic neighborhood. Our fucking Catholic school.”
“Did…something else happen today? Besides Miami, I mean?”
He didn’t answer.
Peter gets beat up less often than he used to, but Gary Knopp and his friends still corner him outside the library every now and then. They don’t know he’s gay, but they know he’s skinny, and that he doesn’t have many friends, and that he’s obsessed with movies but thinks basketball is boring, and that’s enough. He doesn’t talk about it much, but I always worry one day he’ll come home with a broken bone, or worse.
“You could tell Mom,” I offered. “She could speak to Father Murphy and maybe—”
“I can’t talk to Mom. How many times do I have to tell you—”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” I didn’t try to argue any more. Peter might be Mom’s favorite child now, but we’ve both heard the stories about what happens to Catholic kids whose parents find out they’re gay. If Mom kicked him out, he’d have nowhere to go.
“So what do you want to do?” I asked.
“Get out of here.” He nodded again, quickly. He was serious, which meant I couldn’t stop him. I’ve never been able to make my brother do anything he didn’t want to do, even before he got to be a full foot taller than me. “Come on, the car’s right here.”
He got to his feet, holding out a hand to help me up. I didn’t take it. “Come where, exactly?”
“Please, Sis. I don’t ask for much, but…I’m not ready to do this by myself.”
My heart started to thud again, but it was an entirely different kind of thudding than I got from climbing down the tree. He used to call me Sis all the time when we were kids, but now he only used it when something was important. “Do what?”
“I need to go where there are people who’ll get it.” Peter jingled his keys and bounced nervously from foot to foot. He wasn’t scrunching his hair anymore, though. “Castro Street.”
Shoot—it’s late. If I don’t go to sleep I’ll be useless at school. I’ll tell you the rest of what happened tomorrow.
Yours, Sharon
Tuesday, June 7, 1977
Dear Harvey,
Sorry to write you twice in one night. I didn’t plan it this way. When I wrote that first entry, I