The Moonstone Girls Read online

  THE MOONSTONE GIRLS

  BROOKE SKIPSTONE

  Copyright © 2021 by Brooke Skipstone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-7370064-3-5

  ISBN (print): 978-1-7370064-4-2

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  Cover design by Cherie Chapman © ccbookdesign

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  First edition

  CONTENTS

  Playlist

  Prologue

  1. Jumping the Hump

  2. Itsy Bitsy Glasses

  3. Ava and the Lifesaver

  4. Shared Secrets & Scared Parents

  5. Lunch Dates and a New Idea

  6. A Boy and His Girl

  7. A Night at the Canteen

  8. Tales of Tessa

  9. Ten Bucks to Play

  10. Beep! Beep!

  11. Hairy Pits & the Money Game

  12. Flash: Find a New Life

  13. The Massager and a Closet Kiss

  14. Lucy Rips Her Bow

  15. Yellow Socks Forever

  16. Spencer Gets Physical

  17. A Song and a Journal

  18. Chasing the Sun

  19. A Bathroom & A Yurt

  20. An Opportunity Or a Nuisance?

  21. MoonStone

  22. My Hope, My Joy, My Rock

  23. The Mountain Is Out

  24. The MoonStone Girls

  Epilogue

  Appendix

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  My life would be changed forever by a photo. And saved by a girl and a mountain.

  TRACY

  PLAYLIST

  Please visit this link to find all the songs mentioned in this book:

  https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3FHQ6I55MRmqkIuFhA2mvD?si=f0b4e7f7b66141cb

  The rock/pop songs are listed first, in order of appearance. The classical pieces appear at the end of the list.

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  Enjoy!

  PROLOGUE

  I should have been a boy. Even my older brother Spencer said so in the late 60s. Yet as I look now at the three Polaroid prints on my desk in Fairbanks, Alaska, it’s hard to remember why. Taken fifty-three years ago and seen by only me and three others, the photos show two nude girls kissing and walking hand-in-hand without embarrassment in front of dozens. By then, we were MoonStone—a girl band eager for a new beginning.

  I was seventeen when I traveled to Alaska dressed as a boy in the summer of 1968, leaving my parents in turmoil, full of anger and grief. How that happened is what I want to explain—to myself, my children, and grandchildren, who are themselves in turmoil for many of the same reasons.

  In the late 60s, our country was at war with itself—war hawks vs doves, patriots vs antiwar demonstrators and draft card burners. It was much like today’s battles over masking and vaccines, police shootings, and an election. I saw riots and marches for racial justice in my teens and now in my seventies.

  What I didn’t see back then, however, were Pride Marches.

  Very few at that time wanted to be called a queer. Least of all my older brother Spencer, who’d already suffered insinuations, eye rolls, and tight-lipped head shakes from Dad. Why? Because he played piano instead of sports. Because his mannerisms were too effeminate, his emotions too affected. He was too soft.

  Of course, we both suffered from rigid expectations of how a girl or boy at the time should look and act. We were Baby Boomers, the children of the Greatest Generation, who saved the world from Hitler and Tojo and weren’t about to allow hippies, riots, student walkouts, and a sexual revolution destroy the world they had defended and preserved. And they were determined to prevent their children from losing a war against men wearing sandals and eating rice balls in Vietnam.

  Our father had volunteered for WWII at seventeen and flown Hellcats and Avengers from aircraft carriers. After the war, he became a commercial pilot where he met Alice, a stewardess, who promptly became his housewife. They went to church, bought a house, had two children who attended Sunday School and rode bikes without helmets many blocks from home because the world was safe.

  Then came the Beatles and the Stones, bleeding boys in jungles and body counts on the news every night, nudity in the movies, the pill, mini-skirts, marijuana, and flag burnings. But even with all this disruption, my parents and their friends could find solace in the basic truth of two separate genders—one who wore pants and another who wore skirts, slips, girdles, and pointy-tipped bras that lifted and separated. Boys and girls were meant for each other. Any other arrangement was unnatural and specifically condemned in the Bible.

  At that time, queer was a slur, not a proud identity. Sodomy and homosexual behavior were illegal. Which explained my reluctance to look in the mirror and say, “Tracy, you're gay.”

  Spencer and I felt awkward inside our skin and wondered whether some mad scientist or prankster-god had messed with our chromosomes before birth. Maybe one day we’d awaken from that crazy dream, me in pants and him in a dress.

  But, of course, that never happened.

  We never awoke.

  We had to face what we were and find a way to live as best we could.

  On February 27, 2020, when the world hunkered down to stop a pandemic, I began to write this book as a gift of love and often brutal honesty to myself and to others.

  From such a distance, it is difficult to know which events were causes and which were results. Can’t every decision we make in the present be the result of a lifetime of events? Is there ever a real beginning?

  Because of one critical moment—one I have regretted most of my life—I will start on the night of my brother’s fall concert during his senior year in high school, November 11, 1967.

  CHAPTER 1

  JUMPING THE HUMP

  I wrapped my arms around my chest and wished I could’ve worn a slick tux like Spencer, but no, I had to wear a puffy, frilly dress which did nothing to stop Jack Frost breathing up my legs. I leaned back against my car, shoulder to shoulder with my brother in the parking lot outside Trinity University’s Music Center. Usually the weather in San Antonio was mild in November, but a cold front had started to blow through. Oak leaves rattled above us and acorns peppered the pavement. We’d run outside after Spencer's performance because he was upset with Dad and needed to smoke. I’d forgotten my coat in the rush.

  I watched him inhale, holding the butt between his pointer and thumb, little finger raised, sucking the smoke through pursed, thick lips. He did everything with style and panache. He was as tall as me, but heavier and softer with a rounder face and a cute grin that Mom and the ladies at the Tuesday Musical Club adored. I was tall, lanky, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, shins that needed shaving twice a day, and small breasts. And I had what my friends called a handsome face—narrow, high cheekbones, strong nose, fuzz by my ears, and a widow’s peak.

  I don’t remember anyone calling me cute.

  I bumped against him and stomped my feet. “Hurry up and finish your cigarette so we can get in the car. I’m freezing.” Our parents didn’t know about his smoking, but he was eighteen, which made it legal back then. Some had accused me of smoking because of my low-pitched voice, but that was how I normally sounded.

  He looked down at the asphalt, slid his shoe next to mine, and chuckled. “God, you have big feet!”

  He’d done this comparison a hundred times, and I played along to cheer him up. I held out my shaking hand, fingers splayed. “Don’t forget the hands. They’re big too.”

  He put his hand on top of mine, his fingers shorter than mine by a knuckle. “If I had your hands, I wouldn’t have to roll those opening chords.”

  “But now you have an excuse to be flamboyant.” I smiled and leaned against him.

  “Be gay, you mean.” He dropped the butt and stepped on it.

  I grabbed his hand and squeezed as my stomach dropped. What had Dad said to him?

  Spencer had just performed the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No.1 with the Youth Symphony, the final event of a celebration of Piano Guild winners, including me. He’d wanted to play that piece since we both saw Van Cliburn perform at the Coliseum in San Antonio the previous year. Our mother had bought tickets, hoping to inspire us both to dream of playing at Carnegie Hall in New York City. It was mostly just Mom’s dream since she dragged us both to Mrs. Francis for piano lessons eight years ago. Spencer cried during Cliburn’s performance and ran to the stage afterward, trying to meet the Texan who’d won the first Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow in 1958. From that moment, Cliburn was his idol. Neither of us knew he was gay. Or cared. Fortunately, Dad was off flying cargo to various countries as he did for more than half of every month, so he missed Spencer’s emotional outburst in the car driving home. He said Cliburn had smiled directly at him.

  If Dad were driving that night instead of Mom, he would’ve glared at his son through the rearview mirror and shaken his head. We’d both seen this reaction before and many times since.

  That night in ’67, Spencer
played with more flair and confidence than I had ever seen. He almost pranced to the piano before his big bow. At times, he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, his body swooning to the heartbreakingly beautiful melodies, face sagging in sorrow or beaming in joy. At the triumphant conclusion, he leapt from the bench, sweat dripping down his face. The crowd stood and roared.

  “Bravo! Bravo!”

  Spencer clasped his heart and blew kisses to everyone. Several handed him roses, which he sniffed deeply, his eyes upraised, his face entranced. Then tears flowed and the din somehow grew louder. He shook hands with the conductor, who pulled him in and slapped his back. Spencer raised his arms toward the orchestra, asking them to stand. Once they did, he bowed deeply in appreciation.

  Our mother furiously clapped her tiny hands. Dad kept a stiff smile on his face as he applauded steadily. Mom grabbed his hand then pulled him to the stage and up the side stairs. When Spence saw Mom rushing toward him, he opened his arms wide to receive her hug then gave her the flowers and a kiss on her cheek. Spence threw out his arms for a hug from Dad, who then stuck out his hand, keeping a distance.

  I saw my brother deflate just as I stepped onto the stage. I ran toward him, pulled him away from Dad, and gave him the biggest hug of my life, lifting him off the ground. The crowd laughed, we waved, and I hurried him outside.

  He lit another cigarette as we stood in the dark parking lot, facing the trees.

  “You know what he said?” asked Spence with a squeaky voice before taking another drag.

  “You were too dramatic?”

  He barked a bitter laugh. “If only. He said, ‘Why are you being so prissy in front of all these people?’”

  “For real? Prissy? That means the opposite.”

  “Yeah. Never known for his vocab skills,” he scoffed. “All he knows is it’s an insult for a girl.” He flicked his ash then sucked smoke deep into his lungs. “Would it have killed him to hug me? I totaled that piece. The best I’ve ever played.” He tossed the butt, ground it with a grunt, and narrowed his eyes at me. “If I had announced tonight that I’d decided to be a pilot, he would have flipped out. He would’ve hugged me then. And been so proud!” He shook his head and tightened his lips. “I hate him.” His eyes blinked back tears. “I fucking hate him.”

  My hands found his face and wiped his tears. “Don’t. Just ignore him. What does it matter what he thinks?”

  “Because he’s my father, and I’d like him to be proud of something about me.” He turned around.

  I saw his back heave as he cried. I wrapped my arms around him. “I’m proud of you, Spence."

  He clutched my hands against his stomach, sniffed, and cleared his throat. "I know, Sis." He took a deep breath. "We should go back. Dad made a dinner reservation at Christie’s.”

  “Why don’t we drive somewhere? I’ll go back to fetch my coat and tell them you want a hamburger. Maybe see a movie?”

  He turned toward me and nodded, holding my hands. “Okay. You played really well tonight. I’ve never heard a more exquisite Chopin.”

  My face warmed despite the chilly air. “That’s high praise coming from the king of the Piano Guild.”

  “King only because you let me. You’d be the best if you practiced more. Why do you hold back?”

  A familiar ache settled below my sternum. “It’s a man’s game, isn’t it?”

  He frowned.

  I raised my brows. “Name one female pianist.”

  His mouth dropped open while his eyes searched above my head for an answer.

  “Name one piece we’ve ever played composed by a woman.”

  He shook his head.

  “Why devote my life to playing dead white men’s music just so I can end up like Mrs. Francis, teaching piano to children of ambitious mothers? Frankly, I’d rather learn guitar and write my own music. Like Judy Collins and Grace Slick and Joni Mitchell.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Have you mentioned that to Mom?”

  “Not yet. Here.” I gave him the keys to my Mustang, a basic model I’d bought three months ago after working at Frost Brothers selling shoes all summer. “Warm it up. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “I can’t drive a stick shift.”

  “You don’t have to drive it. Just push in the clutch and turn it on.”

  He raised his hands and backed away. “Not gonna do it. I’ll just sit inside and wait for you.”

  “Suit yourself.” I turned and walked two steps before I heard the car door open then shut. Spencer grabbed my arm.

  “I should go with you. Otherwise, he’ll call me a wuss.”

  We hurried toward the auditorium entrance. “You have to stop worrying about his comments. Who cares what he thinks?”

  “You do. You argue with him all the time about politics and the war.”

  I kicked acorns across the sidewalk. “Yeah, well, boys are dying because of him and others like him. Almost 11,000 so far this year. I have to say something.”

  We opened the doors and walked into a warm lobby full of elegant people, dressed to the nines. Somebody yelled, “Oh, Spencer! You were magnificent tonight.”

  He stopped, put his right hand to his chest, held his left out then bowed.

  “Where have you two been?” shouted Dad, standing near the women’s bathroom. My coat and Mom’s ermine wrap were draped over his arm. His eyes darted around to see who might hear or see him while his feet couldn't keep still.

  Spencer smiled at his fan and threw up his hands as if to say, “What can I do?” Then whispered, “This will be fun,” as we walked toward our father.

  Somehow, both Spencer and I were taller than Dad. Though he never said anything, I knew that difference bothered him. One of his uncles and his brother were tall, so he had the genes to give to us. To compensate, he’d told stories of having to fight his way to school and even defend his older brother, so being tough was important to him. Maybe he would’ve been more tolerant and empathetic if he’d been six inches taller and not grown up having to prove his manhood every day during the Great Depression.

  He had the more handsome version of my face with blue eyes and deep dimples. Mine and Spencer's were brown like Mom’s. Right then, however, he was just an angry forty-three year-old pilot—Captain Arthur Franks, Jr., known as Art to his friends—not Arty. That was his father’s nickname, and Dad damn well didn’t want to be mistaken for his father. The irony of his relationship with his dad and the one he’d built with us had always escaped him.

  I reached for my coat.

  He tightened his grip and glared at both of us. “You upset your mother by running off.”

  “But not you?” I asked, my neck stiffening with anger. “You must’ve been relieved that your prissy son left.”

  Spencer flinched.

  Dad tightened eyes at Spencer then looked at me, snarling. “Why do you always —”

  “Because you always do your best to hurt him.”

  He scrunched his forehead and shifted the coats to his other arm. "My God, if he gets hurt that easily . . ."

  "What?" I asked. "He can’t be a man?"

  We glared at each other. I'd decided long ago to never let him hurt me and to never back down. If I did, he’d be a shark with blood in the water.

  He clenched his jaw several times then took a breath. “How did I hurt him?”

  “Give him a hug.”

  “What?”

  “Tracy, don’t,” said Spencer, hunching down and turning away.

  I stomped my foot. “A hug. Here, now, in front of everyone. Your son brought the entire auditorium to its feet. They would have loved to see you hug him like Mom did, but no, you couldn’t do it.”