“And now you’ve told me about her, and I’m guessing you didn’t ask her if that was okay, either.”
I bit my lip. He was right.
I hadn’t even realized how badly I’d screwed up until he said that, either.
I’m so sorry, Tammy. I don’t blame you if you hate me. Peter already seems to.
“This is just great.” He scrunched a fist in his curly hair. “How do you know she’s even telling you the truth? This whole thing could be a trick.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. We were randomly assigned to be pen pals, so it’s not as if she could’ve—”
“She knows where we live. Obviously. She’s been writing to you for months.” Peter plunged his other hand into his hair. I hadn’t seen him this upset since the Miami vote. “She could write a letter to Mom. Or look us up in the phone book and call her.”
“She’d never do that!”
“Okay, but even if that’s true, what about her parents?”
“She’d never. She lives in terror of them finding out about her.”
“Or so she says.” His face was red. “What if she only tells one person, the way you did, and it gets back to us somehow? I trusted you, Sis!”
“I’m sorry.” I was on the verge of crying. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“A lot of good that does me.” He swung his leg, kicking out at a pebble in the grass. It skittered away. He jammed his foot again into the empty patch of dirt.
“I was trying to make her feel better.” I shut my eyes tight. “I thought if I told her about you—”
“What, you’d score pro-gay points? This is my life. It’s up to me to decide who knows!”
“I’m sorry.” My tears finally broke through. “I’m sorry.”
“That doesn’t matter.” When we were little, if I cried, my brother would stop whatever he was doing to tell me it would be okay. Now, he only shook his head. “I’m going to find Dean. You do…whatever the Hell you want. Just leave me alone.”
He turned his back on me.
I waited, thinking maybe he’d turn around and give me one last look, one little hint that he didn’t completely hate me. Instead he moved faster and faster away into the darkness, until I couldn’t see him at all.
Soon, Alex called me over to join the softball game. I tried to play, to act as if everything was normal, but it was dark out, and in the dim light of the street lamps I couldn’t think about anything except how badly I’d screwed up.
I shouldn’t have told you about my brother. And I never should’ve told him about you.
I’m home now, lying on my bed, staring up at your collage. All of a sudden, everything’s going wrong. I betrayed my brother and you. I’m barely talking to my friends at school.
Things are awkward between me and Kevin, too. There’s a strain between us, and I can’t pinpoint why. The space between us is filling up with all the things I don’t know how to tell him.
I wish we didn’t have to write letters. I want to hear how your voice sounds. I want to stay up all night talking to you. I want to ask you a question and hear what you think right away, instead of having to wait days to get your answers back. I wish we could listen to Patti Smith together, instead of me having to put on the record and pretend you’re listening with me.
I’m just so sorry, Tammy. If you hate me, I guess I understand.
Yours truly, Sharon
Monday, December 5, 1977
Dear Sharon,
Okay, well…the truth is, I kind of assumed you’d already told your brother.
He’s right, though, now that I’m thinking about it. You probably should’ve asked first.
I can see why he wouldn’t trust me. I trust him, the same way I trust you, but that’s different. We’ve been writing