Music from Another World Read online

  It’s summer 1977 and closeted lesbian Tammy Larson can’t be herself anywhere. Not at her strict Christian high school, not at her conservative Orange County church and certainly not at home, where her ultrareligious aunt relentlessly organizes antigay political campaigns. Tammy’s only outlet is writing secret letters in her diary to gay civil rights activist Harvey Milk...until she’s matched with a real-life pen pal who changes everything.

  Sharon Hawkins bonds with Tammy over punk music and carefully shared secrets, and soon their letters become the one place she can be honest. The rest of her life in San Francisco is full of lies. The kind she tells for others—like helping her gay brother hide the truth from their mom—and the kind she tells herself. But as antigay fervor in America reaches a frightening new pitch, Sharon and Tammy must rely on their long-distance friendship to discover their deeply personal truths, what they’ll stand for...and who they’ll rise against.

  A master of award-winning queer historical fiction, New York Times bestselling author Robin Talley once again brings to life with heart and vivid detail an emotionally captivating story about the lives of two teen girls living in an age when just being yourself was an incredible act of bravery.

  Robin Talley is the New York Times bestselling author of the highly acclaimed novels Pulp, Our Own Private Universe, As I Descended, What We Left Behind and Lies We Tell Ourselves. Robin lives in Washington, DC, with her wife and their daughter. You can find her on the web at www.robintalley.com or on Twitter, @robin_talley.

  Also by Robin Talley

  Lies We Tell Ourselves

  What We Left Behind

  As I Descended

  Our Own Private Universe

  Pulp

  Robin Talley

  Music from Another World

  Contents

  Summer, 1977

  Wednesday, June 1, 1977

  Tuesday, June 7, 1977

  Tuesday, June 7, 1977

  Tuesday, June 7, 1977

  Wednesday, June 8, 1977

  Wednesday, June 8, 1977

  Wednesday, June 8, 1977

  Wednesday, June 8, 1977

  Thursday, June 16, 1977

  Wednesday, June 22, 1977

  Wednesday, June 29, 1977

  Saturday, July 2, 1977

  Sunday, July 3, 1977

  Wednesday, July 6, 1977

  Wednesday, July 13, 1977

  Wednesday, July 20, 1977

  Wednesday, July 27, 1977

  Sunday, July 31, 1977

  Tuesday, August 2, 1977

  Wednesday, August 3, 1977

  Friday, August 5, 1977

  Friday, August 5, 1977

  Monday, August 8, 1977

  Friday, August 12, 1977

  Fall, 1977

  Monday, September 5, 1977

  Tuesday, September 6, 1977

  Wednesday, September 14, 1977

  Saturday, September 17, 1977

  Saturday, September 24, 1977

  Wednesday, November 9, 1977

  Wednesday, November 9, 1977

  Wednesday, November 9, 1977

  Thursday, November 10, 1977

  Thursday, November 10, 1977

  Saturday, November 12, 1977

  Saturday, November 12, 1977

  Saturday, November 19, 1977

  Saturday, November 19, 1977

  Tuesday, November 22, 1977

  Friday, November 25, 1977

  Friday, November 25, 1977

  Monday, November 28, 1977

  Wednesday, November 30, 1977

  Friday, December 2, 1977

  Monday, December 5, 1977

  Wednesday, December 7, 1977

  Summer, 1978

  Saturday, May 20, 1978

  Tuesday, May 23, 1978

  Tuesday, May 23, 1978

  Friday, May 26, 1978

  Tuesday, May 30, 1978

  Thursday, June 1, 1978

  Friday, June 2, 1978

  Friday, June 2, 1978

  Saturday, June 17, 1978

  Sunday, June 18, 1978

  Sunday, June 18, 1978

  Monday, June 19, 1978

  Monday, June 19, 1978

  Tuesday, June 20, 1978

  Wednesday, June 21, 1978

  Thursday, June 22, 1978

  Friday, June 23, 1978

  Friday, June 23, 1978

  Saturday, June 24, 1978

  Saturday, June 24, 1978

  Saturday, June 24, 1978

  Sunday, June 25, 1978

  Sunday, June 25, 1978

  Sunday, June 25, 1978

  Tuesday, June 27, 1978

  Tuesday, June 27, 1978

  Tuesday, June 27, 1978

  Tuesday, June 27, 1978

  Wednesday, June 28, 1978

  Wednesday, June 28, 1978

  Wednesday, June 28, 1978

  Wednesday, June 28, 1978

  Wednesday, June 28, 1978

  Wednesday, June 28, 1978

  Wednesday, June 28, 1978

  Thursday, June 29, 1978

  Fall, 1978

  Friday, September 22, 1978

  Friday, September 22, 1978

  Friday, September 22, 1978

  Friday, September 22, 1978

  Friday, September 22, 1978

  Election Night, 1978

  Tuesday, November 7, 1978

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Pulp by Robin Talley

  Summer, 1977

  Wednesday, June 1, 1977

  Introducing the California Pen Pal Project

  Dear girls,

  Welcome to our first annual California pen pal project! Over the next five months, this project will foster exciting new friendships and strengthen the faith of the incoming junior girls at New Way Christian Academy and Holy Angels Catholic School.

  At the bottom of this letter are the names of one girl from each school. To earn credit for this assignment, you must write at least two letters each month to your assigned pen pal and complete a final report by the end of first term in November.

  You should answer at least one of the following questions in each letter, and include summaries of your pen pal’s responses in your final report.

  Pen Pal Questions

  Describe yourself using three adjectives.

  Who are the members of your family?

  What are your favorite hobbies?

  What is your favorite television program?

  How do you plan to maintain your strong Christian morality this summer despite the temptations of modern society?

  What is your favorite Bible story, and why?

  Do you have any interesting activities planned for this summer?

  What is it like living in your part of California?

  What is your favorite subject in school, and why?

  How can you and your new pen pal support each other in your spiritual challenges as you transition into your final years of high school and the new lives that await you after graduation?

  Pen pal pairing:

  —Tammy Larson (New Way Christian Academy, Ocean Valley, CA)

  —Sharon Hawkins (Holy Angels Catholic School, San Francisco, CA)

  Tuesday, June 7, 1977

  Dear Harvey,

  I hope it’s okay for me to call you Harvey. In school, when they taught us to write letters, they said adults sho
uld always be addressed as “Mr.” or “Mrs.,” but from what I’ve read in the newspaper, you don’t seem much like the adults I know. I’d feel wrong calling you “Mr. Milk.”

  Besides, it’s not as if I’m ever going to send you this letter. I’ve never kept a diary before, but things have been getting harder lately, and tonight might be the hardest night of all. I need someone I can talk to. Even if you can’t answer back.

  Plus, I told Aunt Mandy I couldn’t join the prayer circle because I had too much homework. Tomorrow’s the last day of school, so I don’t have any homework, but she doesn’t know that. If I keep writing in this notebook, maybe she’ll think homework is really what I’m doing.

  I guess I could write to my new “pen pal” instead. That might count as homework. It would be closer than writing a fake letter to a famous San Francisco homosexual, anyway, but I can’t handle the thought of writing to some stranger right now.

  Technically you’re a stranger, too, Harvey, but you don’t feel like one. That’s why I wanted to write to you, instead of “Dear Diary” or something.

  It’s ironic, though, that my pen pal lives in San Francisco, too. I wonder if she’s ever met you. How big is the city, anyway? I read a magazine article that said gay people could hold hands walking down the street there, and no one minds. Is that true?

  Ugh. The prayer circle’s starting over. Brett and Carolyn are leading the Lord’s Prayer again. It’s probably the only prayer they know.

  We’ve been cooped up in the church basement for five hours now—my whole family, plus the youth group, plus a bunch of the other Protect Our Children volunteers. Along with Aunt Mandy and Uncle Russell, of course. The results from Miami should come in any minute.

  You probably already know this—wait, who am I kidding? Of course you know, Harvey—but there was a vote today in Florida. They were voting on homosexuality, so our church, New Way Baptist, was heavily involved, even though we’re on the opposite side of the country. Everyone in our youth group was required to volunteer. I worked in the office Aunt Mandy and Uncle Russell set up in their den, answering phones and putting together mailings and counting donations to the New Way Protect Our Children Fund. We had bake sales and car washes to raise money to send to Anita Bryant, too.

  You know all about Anita Bryant, obviously. You’re probably just as scared of her as I am. Although, come to think of it, whenever I see you in the newspaper, you look the opposite of afraid. In pictures, you’re always smiling.

  Don’t you get anxious, having everyone know? I’m terrified all the time, and no one even knows about me yet. I hope they never find out.

  Maybe I should pray for that. Ha.

  Okay, the Lord’s Prayer is over and now Uncle Russell’s making everyone silently call on God to save the good Christians of Florida from sin. I hope I can keep writing without getting in trouble.

  Ugh, look at them all, showing off how devout they are. The only two people in this room who aren’t clasping their hands in front of them and moving their lips dramatically are me and Aunt Mandy, but that’s because I’m a grievous sinner—obviously—and Aunt Mandy keeps peeking out from her shut eyes at the phone next to her.

  I’m not sure how much you can concentrate on God when you’re solely focused on being ready to snatch up the receiver the second it starts to shake. Maybe she’ll grab it so hard, it’ll crush to a pulp in her fist like one of Anita Bryant’s fucking Florida oranges.

  I wonder what you’re doing tonight, Harvey. Probably waiting by your phone, too. Only you’re in San Francisco, and if you’re praying, you’re praying for the opposite of what Aunt Mandy and everyone else in our church basement is praying for.

  It seems pointless to pray now, though. The votes have already been cast, so we’re just waiting to hear the results. There’s a reporter from my aunt and uncle’s favorite radio station in L.A. sitting at the back of the room, ready to interview Uncle Russell once we know what happened. Even though we basically already do.

  My mom showed up at church tonight with a box of balloons from the supermarket, but Aunt Mandy wouldn’t let anyone touch them until the announcement, so at the moment the box is sitting in the closet under a stack of old communion trays. The second that phone starts to ring, though, I just bet Aunt Mandy’s going to haul out that box and make us all start blowing up those crappy balloons.

  I wonder if you’ve heard of my aunt. She wants you to. She knows exactly who you are, of course—you’re her enemy.

  Which makes me your enemy, too, I guess. I’m not eighteen, and it’s not as if I could’ve voted in an election in Miami even if I were, but I’ve still spent the past two months folding up comic books about the destruction of Sodom to mail out to churches in Florida.

  I’m a soldier for Christ. That’s what Aunt Mandy calls me, anyway. And since I do everything she says, she must be right.

  Writing to you instead of praying with the others is the closest I’ve ever come to rebelling. That’s how much of a coward I am, Harvey.

  I wish I had the nerve to tell my aunt to go shove it. That’s what I’d really pray for—the nerve, I mean. If I thought prayer ever helped anything.

  Shit, the phone’s ringing. More later.

  Tammy

  Tuesday, June 7, 1977

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve never seen anything like what I saw tonight. Or felt anything like it, either.

  I need to write about what happened. It’s almost midnight and I don’t know if I can fit this all in one entry before I fall asleep, but I’ve got to get down as much as I can.

  It all started when my brother didn’t come home.

  He said he’d be back from work in time to watch the network news with us. Instead it was just me and Mom watching static creep in from the edges of the screen as the reporter in Miami adjusted his wide, striped tie. I waited one minute, then two, to see if he’d correct himself—maybe he’d made a mistake, or someone had given him the wrong information—but he kept droning on about Anita Bryant winning by a landslide as more and more of his face got scrambled.

  The sound came through strong as ever, though, and his story never changed. The vote was two to one against homosexuality. Anita Bryant and her cronies had done what they’d sworn to do. The gay rights ordinance in Miami was getting repealed.

  “Sharon, see if you can get the rabbit ears to work,” Mom said, but she wasn’t looking at the screen. Her eyes were fixed on the clock.

  I climbed to my feet and fiddled with the antenna. By the time the static cleared, Anita Bryant herself was on the screen. She was standing on a stage in some hotel ballroom, talking proudly about how the “normal majority” had won and the militant homosexuals had lost. She was wearing at least fifty pounds’ worth of lipstick and eye shadow, and I wanted to throw a glass of orange juice straight at her painted-on face.

  Anita Bryant’s the person my brother hates most in the world, and since my brother’s the person I love most in the world, I hate Anita Bryant, too.

  She’s got this inexplicable obsession with gay people. I don’t really understand why some men want to be with other men, either, but I also don’t understand why she seems to spend so much time thinking about it. There are probably a lot more homosexuals here in San Francisco than there are in Florida, but it’s not as if they bother anyone. I’d never even met a homosexual until I found out my brother was gay.

  I’m the only one who knows that about him, though. I’m the only one who can. If Mom ever found out... I don’t want to think about what she’d do.

  “I shouldn’t stay up much later, I’m afraid.” Mom’s eyes were still on the clock. “Neither should you. Have you already done your homework?”

  “Tomorrow’s the last day.” I messed with the rabbit ears some more until the static was mostly gone. “No homework tonight. All I have to do from now until September is write to that new pen pal the
school gave me down in Orange County.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I suppose after nine months of teaching, my brain’s gotten as foggy as those seventh-graders’. Well, all the same, we have to be at school on time.” Mom bounced her foot on the lumpy carpet. The Miami report was over, and now the network anchor was talking about Queen Elizabeth. “Your brother’s never been this late before.”

  I wished Mom wouldn’t talk about Peter. I was already worried enough about him without having to worry about how worried she was.

  The Miami vote was all he’d talked about for the past week, whenever Mom wasn’t around to hear us. His shift at Javier’s Groceries had ended more than an hour ago. Mom had called the store to check on him, but no one answered. I’d snuck into the kitchen when Mom wasn’t paying attention and tried calling the pay phone at the back of Javi’s, the one next to the walk-in cooler that no one but Peter and I ever use, but no one picked up that line, either.

  “Should I call Kevin?” I asked. Kevin’s my boyfriend, and he goes to Javi’s for a Coke almost every night after he gets off work. “I can find out if he saw Peter.”

  “No, no. I’m sure your brother’s fine. Besides, it’s too late for phone calls.” Mom stood up and switched off the TV, stretching her arms over her head. She was trying to pretend things were normal, but I’d learned how to see through that act by the second grade. “Up to bed with both of us.”

  I followed her silently up the stairs, but I couldn’t imagine going to sleep.

  Peter may not talk to Mom about everything, but it isn’t like him to stay out late without telling me.

  If he’d heard about the vote, he would’ve been upset. Maybe he heard the news on the radio and was too depressed to come home. If he was at the store, though, why hadn’t he answered when we called?

  I paced across my bedroom. Forward, backward, and again. Then a third time.

  My brother and I used to share this room, and it still feels too big for just me. My twin bed is shoved up against one wall, with my dresser across from it. There isn’t much in between except a desk I never use and a laundry basket that’s always overflowing, because Mom says I’m old enough to do my own laundry, but I always forget.