MUSIC FROM ANOTHER
WORLD
By Robin Talley
On Sale: Mar 31,
2020
Inkyard Press
Teen & Young Adult
20th Century United States Historical Fiction
Teen & Young Adult
Fiction about Emotions & Feelings
Teen & Young Adult
Gay & Lesbian Fiction
9781335146779; 1335146776
$18.99 USD
384 pages
About the book
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.
Excerpted from Music from Another World by
Robin Talley. © 2020 by Robin Talley, used with permission by Inkyard Press.
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 should 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
About
the author
Robin Talley studied literature and communications at
American University. She lives in Washington, DC, with her wife, but visits
both Boston and New York regularly despite her moral opposition to
Massachusetts winters and Times Square. Her first book was 2014's Lies We Tell Ourselves.
Visit her online at robintalley.com or on Twitter at @robin_talley.
Social Links:
Facebook: @robintalleywrites
Twitter: @robin_talley.
Instagram: @robin_talley.
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