Bible class yesterday and today to talk to Mrs. Harrington about some last-minute extra-credit project.
Sometimes, when I’m with Carolyn, it feels as if my life might finally be okay. Then other times it feels like I’m about to suffocate. I only wish I knew which it was going to be in the end.
Yours, Tammy
P.S. Yes, my aunt’s stupid fucking radio show is finally happening. I don’t know how I forgot to mention that. No one at church talks about anything else anymore.
Thursday, June 1, 1978
Dear Tammy,
Wow! Sorry, I’ll write you a real letter tomorrow about everything you wrote in your letter, but for now I just wanted to say how awesome it is that you punched that guy! I’m sorry you had a reason to punch him, but still!
I’ve got to go, since I’m late to babysit (again), but I’m going to put this in the mailbox on my way just so you know you’re my hero.
Yours, Sharon
P.S. Now I’m picturing my mom’s face if I told her my lesbian pen pal from Orange County was my hero, and that it was all because she punched a guy. Ha!
Friday, June 2, 1978
Dear Diary,
Wow. Wow. WOW.
I had to bring this diary out again, because…well, you’ll see.
It started early this morning, with knocking. It was soft at first. So soft, I thought I was dreaming.
It took me hours to fall asleep last night. I don’t know why—everything was normal enough, except I had this strange sense that something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
I guess I slept, though, because as I sat up this morning, fumbling for my alarm clock, an odd dream was lingering in my mind.
I was standing beside a swimming pool. It was big, the kind of pool you’d see at a park—or maybe the country club where Tammy works in the summers, come to think of it—but no one was in sight. The space was empty except for the water at my feet and a high, dark fence on every side. The wall was smooth, with no doors or gates to break it up. Only steep, sheer walls and, in the middle, the deep expanse of water, impossibly blue and shimmering.
The pool lapped silently at the concrete edges, as if the water was inviting me in, but somehow I knew—I knew—that if I didn’t get away from that water fast, something terrible would happen.
I shook off the remnants of sleep and peered at the clock. Then I shot up in bed. I’d slept through my alarm, and I was supposed to be at the O’Sullivans’ in twelve minutes. It’s really bad if I’m late, since that makes Mr. O’Sullivan late to work, too. Mrs. O’Sullivan’s pregnant again, and the doctor just put her on bed rest, so her husband is taking on extra shifts to make up for her lost wages. I’m watching their two kids, Penny and Chris, every weekday this summer, and some weekend days, too.
I rolled out of bed, took a thirty-second shower and stepped into my clothes with my hair still wet. I never bother with makeup on babysitting days, so I had time for a quick bowl of cereal.
Mom and Peter were already gone for the day, Peter at work and Mom running errands, so I hurried to the empty kitchen and gulped down my food while I glanced at the Chronicle spread out across the kitchen table. There was a photo of Senator Briggs at the bottom of the page, next to yet another article predicting a landslide victory for his initiative banning gay teachers. The only thing I could safely predict was that I never wanted to see another photo of Senator Briggs while I was trying to eat. My cereal was already threatening to come back up.
The O’Sullivans’ house is a two-minute walk downhill from ours, and when I unlocked the front door I had exactly three minutes to get there. I stepped out into the morning fog, letting out a fat yawn and flicking my wet hair over my shoulder.