Its been a fantastical trip. Thanks
to my best writer-friends, Louise Tutelian Morgenstern, Coco Myers, and Maura Rhodes, who remembered bell-bottoms and bands and helped the novel and me be better versions of our respective selves
to the ConcordiansLisa Liberty Becker, Victoria Fraser, Charity Tremblay, and the newcomers Lee Hoffman and Marjan Kamalibrownies to you (of the Alice B. Toklas variety, if you so choose) and to Jan Czech, Tess Faraci, Marianne Knowles, Angela Riley, Robin Veronesi, and Lucia Zimmitti for, as weve come to say, the usual genius
to the women who shared their vivid stories of long-ago clinic visits to staff members at Physicians for Reproductive Choice and Health and the former Planned Parenthood Golden Gate for help with the history of choice and to Jane Pincus and Wendy Sanford, contributors to the original Our Bodies, Ourselves , who were wonderfully generous with their memories
to the librarians at the San Francisco History Center archives, who brought forth scrapbooks, posters, song sheets, and more from the librarys incredible Hippies Collection
to Cynthia Bryant, pseudo-sister and real politico, who researched the state legislation and law, circa 1971
to Rabbi Alice Goldfinger, friend, confidante, and scholar and to Rabbi Jeff Salkin, who quotes Torah via Blackberry
to my parents for their high-chroma flashbacks of San Francisco in its heyday
to Rosemary Stimola for her quick wit and quicker reponses, and to Kate Farrell, who embraced and championed this project from its very early stages .
And deepest thanks to Ralph, my true love, and to Annie and Jane, for filling our home(s) and hearts with love and mischief and laughter.
T he view was wrong. Thats what Chloe kept thinking. Where was the phantasmagoric bridge? Where was the Rice-A-Roni cable car?
Shed been waiting eleven hours for this moment. Eleven hours in the Lady Bug from Phoenix, bending north past Hollywood, then Santa Barbara, then Santa Cruz, then, finally, San Francisco. Eleven hours of loading up on Tab and pulling over to pee. Eleven hours of speculating about what trouble two girls could stir up on their preNew Years road trip. Every twenty minutes, MJ would come up with a cheer, a leftover habit from her majorette days. The punch line was always 1972. Im gonna wanna screw in 1972. Well party, woo-hoo-hoo in 1972. Lets all have cheese fondue in 1972.
And then
There it is! Chloe said, getting a far-off glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge busting into the sky.
MJ started the count. And a five, six, seven, eight.
In unison they unlocked their respective sides of the Bugsconvertible roof. MJ climbed into the back seat, yanking the canvas roof along with her, and snapped it into place.
The air was minty fresh from all the eucalyptus trees at the side of the road. Chloe breathed in deeply.
No turning back now! MJ took a fistful of Cracker Jack, of happy food, and threw it like confetti.
Cut it out. Chloe batted away the sticky bits.
The bridge slipped from view, but there was no doubt they were hurtling ahead, top down, to spend Christmas break in the most grooved-out city on the planet.
MJ fiddled with the radio. Static / classical music, static/jingle bells, static / traffic report, static/sitar. Finally, she hit an FM station at the top of the dial and the Who came through. I said, now Ive got my MAGIC Bus .
The road thrummed under the wheels.
Its so huge! MJ said, when the bridge emerged again.
Its not even golden, Chloe said. Its orange . A color called International Orange, not golden at all. Thats what it said in the Triple-A guide.
The freeway zigzagged right, left, right, right, left, then straight to the bridge.
Theyd gone twenty miles out of their way, looping north to go south just to enter the city via the bridgebut instead of gunning the engine, Chloe flicked on her turn signal.
What are you doing? MJ yelled over the Who. The Saint Christopher medal shed hung from the rearview mirror swung to and fro.
Pulling over.
MJ shot her a quick look. Uh, were halfway on a bridge.
No, were either on a bridge or were not. And were not.
So far, senior year was all either / or. Either a fox or a prude. Either a partier or a dud. Either a hippie or a conformist. Either on the magic bus or off it.
Chloe downshiftedfourth, then third, then second and stopped in the makeshift emergency shoulder just before the on-ramp.
Holy shit! Youre crazy, MJ said, getting out the passenger door.
Chloe climbed over the gearshift and got out on the guardrail side, too. A pickup truck zoomed by, and the ground quivered.
The air, the realness, made her queasy. Chloe took the sunglasses from the top of her head and slid them over her eyes.
Im okay, MJ said. Are you okay?
Theyd had to read the crappy self-help book Im OKYoure OK in Girls Health. It had become their inside joke. At a party one or the other of them would say, Ive had four beers. Im okay are you okay?
I want to be, Chloe said. I want to, you know, woo-hoo-hoo in 1972.
Well find plenty of time to woo-hoo. Were staying with Kiki, remember? MJ fingered the little peace sign she always wore, twisting it around and around. You want me to drive?
No. A shot of orange flew by Chloes eye and she turned to see a blur of butterfly. I dont want to get back in the car.
MJ raised an eyebrow.
Cars motored ona pair of Mustangs, a station wagon with wood paneling, a souped-up something painted redbut no one stopped to ask if they needed help.
Chloes Snoopy watch said three fifty. She was supposed to call Kiki at four.
MJ sat on the hood and cracked her knuckles. Heres the deal I just made up, she announced.
Yeah?
One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war. If I win, you get in the car, and Ill drive.
Sitting there on the hood, they waged five thumb wars. She and MJ had been battling since first grade. They were the queens of opposable thumbs.
Chloe let MJ win. Actually, MJ always won.
After a logging truck nearly sideswiped them, logs jostling for freedom from the chains, Chloe stood up.
MJ climbed in first, over the gearshift, to the drivers seat. She slid the seat back to make room for her basketball legs and readjusted the mirror. Before they took off, MJ unlooped the Saint Christopher and pressed it into Chloes hand.
Hes the patron saint of long journeys, MJ said.
Not for me, Chloe said, dropping the pendant in the ash-free ashtray.
Well, it cant hurt.
MJ gunned it, and they were back on track. The bridges cables loomed like double-Dutch jump ropes. Chloe had to pace herself, decide when to jump in. I havent told anyone else, she said. Did I tell you that?
MJ nodded. Except Shep, the original dipstick.
Not Kiki. And not Virginia either. Since the divorce, her motherhad wanted to be called Virginia. In her head Chloe added, And definitely not Teddy .
MJs answer was to turn the radio up, loud. Elton John filled the silence. They loved this song Hold me closer tiny dancer, count the headlights on the hiiiiighway and they sang along.
As they waited in line to pay the toll, Chloe thought that driving across the Golden Gate was a little like sex. It was supposed to be this major mind-blowing experience but then it was over in three minutes, and it didnt really measure up to the hype.
![Chloe Caldwell [Chloe Caldwell] - Women](/uploads/posts/book/114454/thumbs/chloe-caldwell-chloe-caldwell-women.jpg)
