Nov. 24, 1966

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Dear Anthony,

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I hope you're having a good Thanksgiving. We went to Nanna's as usual. She's very proud of me for going to Montague Academy, not because of the high academic standards (I realize now how easy my old high school was), but because "you meet a better class of people at a private school." Mother muttered, "Unfortunately, all female." But they both hope I'll date the brothers and cousins of my classmates. At this point, I'd be happy to date at all. But, yes, it is easier to concentrate on my studies.

I don't want to be a snob like Nanna, but I am aware that an A average at private school means more than an A average at a public school. I hope to get into a very good colllege, like Vassar, Bryn Mawr, or Radcliffe. Yes, I know those are all women's colleges, but they do have social events with their "brother schools." Yes, Montague does, too, but the boys at the nearby schools are such drips! I know, I can't afford to be choosy. But I still think about Jake, and sometimes you. I would like a boy with an edge to him.

Yes, good thing I'm here at what Mother calls "the nunnery." No chance for me to do anything too wild. It's for the best, really.

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Happy Thanksgiving,

Angela

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February 12, 1967

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Dear Anthony,

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Oh, I can't believe I did that! Last night was the Valentine's Dance with our brother school, but my roommate Jane Barth talked me into instead buying a fake ID with her! It gets worse. We walked into town and headed for the Boom-Boom Room, which is an awful dive. We weren't even supposed to be off campus without permission! But she kept daring me to do more, and I did.

They didn't even question the IDs, maybe because Jane and I are so fat. You see, fat women are sort of ageless. We could be 16, we could be 60. No one wants to look at us too closely.

I had my two first real drinks, Grasshoppers, because it's such a cute name. Also, they're my favorite color, green. (Well, mint green, from the crème de menthe, while my exact favorite color is emerald green.) They're so sweet and yummy that I would love to have more, but it turns out I'm a lightweight and it doesn't take much to get me drunk.

I didn't go as crazy as I could've. I mean, I didn't lose my virginity! But I did dance with a 24-year-old sailor. (To "Going to a Go Go" by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles and then their "Tears of a Clown" for the slow song.) He was on leave and he'll be shipping out, back to Vietnam. I wanted to kiss him goodbye, since he might die, but Jane dragged me out of the bar because it was getting late and she didn't want us to be caught. On the way out, I threw up on my pumps. Yes, it was a full evening.

I'm going to tell Mother I went to the Valentine's Dance and was a wallflower. I figure she'll believe that more easily. But I had to tell someone, and who better than my sort of pen-pal?

Oo, I have such a hangover! And it's time to go to Sunday morning chapel. I don't think I'll ever do anything like this again, but I am glad I did it once and got it out of my system. I can go back to being the serious, academic good girl again.

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Your pal,

Angela

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April 29, 1967

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Dear Anthony,

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Well, I might tell my mother about this, once I get over the humiliation, but I want to tell you first, since I don't have to worry about your reaction. The good news is I was actually asked to the prom by a terrific guy, Kenny Bigelow! He's movie-star handsome. The bad news, well, there's a lot of that.

I was all dressed up and ready to go, with Jane (who didn't have a date but was happy for me) having played lady's maid. Then at the last minute, Kenny called and said he had the flu. I of course felt bad for him, but it wasn't his fault. With Jane's encouragement, I decided to go to the prom anyway.

"That blue dress looks really nice on you, Ange. And who knows? Maybe you'll meet a boy who's going stag."

I didn't know about that, but I thought I may as well go. Yet, when I got there, I couldn't bring myself to go inside alone. So I stood outside, with my nose pressed to the window. The funny thing is, I wasn't having that bad a time. The theme was Tahitian Twilight. The gym looked like a South Seas Island, with palm trees, fishing nets, and conch shells. It was so romantic! And the music was catchy and I thought of dancing by myself, out in the garden.

But then I saw Kenny jitterbug by, glued to a cheerleader! I was so hurt and mad that I threw my crinoline up in the air and mooned him! And, believe me, my butt is so big that it was some mooning!

If you and I really had stayed in touch all these years, obviously I wouldn't be telling you this, but then maybe you would've been my prom date. I picture you in a rented tux, which you'd taken a part-time job to pay for. You'd look very handsome, even more than Kenny. You'd be taller than me by now, since you're 16 or 17.

I know, I still live in a dream world. But can you blame me, when this is my reality? I told Jane that I went into the gym and got asked to dance once, by a drip, but I was mostly a wallflower. I figured she'd believe that. She still sees it as a "triumph for fat girls everywhere."

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Triumphantly,

Angela

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August 1, 1967

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Dear Anthony,

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This is my first summer in a long time that I didn't go to camp. Instead, I got a summer job. I don't have to work (Jane and my other friends at Montague don't), but it's not really about the money. It's about being responsible, and I don't want to just drift through life like an heiress, or a hippie!

Ironically, my job involves keeping people from drifting. I'm an "oar girl." I work out at the lake, renting canoes and other small seacraft. I told them I had experience, since I did go out on the lake at camp, although I was never a very good rower or paddler. Mother was proud of me that I went in and got the job.

My boss almost didn't hire me because he didn't think the job could be done by a pretty, young girl. (OK, I'm sort of plain, but people tell me I have pretty eyes. And I am young, 17, when he usually hires college men.) Even after I got the job, he made me doubt myself. I got so nervous that one day I sent boat #17 out oarless! Mother joked that the scandal would spread all through town and we'd have to move. But she also encouraged me to go back and insist I could do the job. As it turned out, I wasn't fired. Most of the college men were smoking pot and I was definitely the hardest worker.

So I think I can keep the job through the rest of the summer, and it pays enough for me to go to the movies. Mother lets me go into the City, now that I'm living away from home anyway, and my favorite thing is to go to the revival theaters and see the classics. I of course went to Casablanca when it was playing last week. It feels longer ago than four years that I pretended to be "Ingrid."

I'll admit that I half hope I'll run into you, although you're probably not an old-movie buff. There was one boy in the theater that I thought looked a little like you, but he must've been only 15 or 16, since he was my height and he looked like he was trying to grow sideburns but wasn't quite ready for them. I wonder if it was your younger brother, but I could hardly ask him if he has a brother named Anthony. I mean, he looked Italian, so that wouldn't mean anything, would it?

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You must remember this,

Angela

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August 1, 1967

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Dear Ingrid,

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I've been thinking about you again, for the first time in a long while. I went to see Casablanca at a revival theater. Just on my own, no date, no buddies, just me and the popcorn. No one I know likes old movies as much as I do, even Pop. I mostly watch them on TV, but I'm 15 now and I don't want to hang around the neighborhood all the time. So I've started exploring other parts of New York. I even saw a protest march! None of the girls wore bras. (Another sentence to cross out if I was actually sending this.)

Anyway, I found this cool theater and there were Bogie and Bergman. Yeah, Ingrid, not Ingmar. And I had this crazy thought that maybe you'd come down from Connecticut. I mean, you are 17. Even if your parents are over-protective, they're probably loosening the apron strings a little. After all, you'll probably be going off to college next year.

I wish I could go, but the money isn't there, and my grades aren't good enough that I could get an academic scholarship. I'm a good athlete, but I'd rather play pro ball than college ball, even if I could get an athletic scholarship.

Anyway, there was this moment when I sensed somebody was looking at me in the theater. I turned around and it was this fat girl with dark hair. Her eyes were kind of like I remember yours, so I looked to see if she had braces, but it's been four years and they're probably off by now, yours I mean. She had straight teeth, a nice shy smile. But you're not fat and brunette, right? Anyhow, she looked down at her pile of refreshments after awhile, so I went back to looking at the screen. That couldn't have been "my Ingrid," right? Not that you're mine, obviously, but you know what I mean. The Ingrid I kissed when I was a kid.

If you had been there, I would've gone over and said hello, even if you might not have remembered me. I'm getting really good at talking to girls, asking them out. Maybe I would've asked you to see Duck Soup next week. The Marx Brothers are my favorite.

I remember when the Beatles first arrived in America, and people compared them to the Marx Brothers. That seems like a long time ago. Now they've turned into something else. I still like their music. I even got stoned to Sgt. Pepper. That was Philly Fingers's idea. It was just pot. I heard LSD messes up your hormones, and I want lots of kids when I'm older. Anyway, I don't think I'll make the drug scene. It's just not my style. Even Philly admits beer is better. (Not that we drink a lot. His fake ID is very fake-looking.)

I wonder what you're doing, here in the Summer of Love. I can't picture you as a hippie, even when you go off to college. Maybe you look like Twiggy, you know, tall and skinny and blonde, but that's more fashionable now. (I hope you don't have a pixie cut though. I like long, flowing hair.) Maybe you're graceful and sophisticated now. And, yeah, still too old for me, although I'm taller than you were when we met, 5'6". Maybe someday when I'm taller than you, our paths will cross. I'd at least like to go out for coffee with you. Or a beer.

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Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I'm 64 (and you're 66),

Tony