Pulp: the must read inspiring LGBT novel from the award winning author Robin Talley. Robin Talley

this an author who’s written other books you like, too? What does that say her name is—Marian Love?”

      “No, that’s what’s weird, she never wrote another book. That’s not even her real name—all these books were written under pen names because everybody was closeted back then. People have figured out who most of the writers really were, but Marian Love disappeared without a trace. And since it was the olden days, she didn’t leave a digital footprint, either. It’s as if she vanished into nothing.”

      It sounded glamorous when she put it that way. Although come to think of it, Marian Love probably was pretty glamorous.

      She must’ve been a lot like Paula. Abby could picture her perfectly—an older version of the women on those book covers, standing in a shadowed doorway in a chic vintage suit with one eyebrow cocked, holding a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

      “Are you trying to find out what happened to this author for your project, then?” Mom asked, finally looking up from the phone.

      “Well, I don’t have to look into that specifically, but—” Although now that Mom had mentioned it, that did sound interesting.

      Maybe Ms. Sloane’s historian friend could help Abby do some extra research and track down the real Marian Love. It couldn’t be that hard to find her now that the internet existed. If she were still alive, maybe Abby could even email her. She could ask her about Paula and Elaine and what had happened to them after the book ended.

      Or maybe they could even meet. Marian Love probably lived in New York, and that was an easy train ride from DC. Abby imagined walking into some trendy coffee shop in Brooklyn where Marian Love was waiting. She’d be so impressed Abby had found her.

      “I bet I’d even get extra credit,” Abby mused, picturing herself shaking Marian Love’s perfectly manicured hand. “I could definitely use some extra credit.”

      “You could?” Mom cocked her head to the side. “Are you having trouble in your classes?”

      “Oh, uh...” Abby looked away, trying not to think about that paper on Danica Roem she still hadn’t turned in, or how close she was to missing Ms. Sloane’s deadline. “No, it’s just—extra credit’s always good.”

      “Of course.” Mom seemed satisfied with that answer. “Well, I definitely want to hear more about this project of yours. First, though, honey, there’s something I need to tell you.”

      Abby’s stomach jerked violently. She didn’t know what Mom was going to say, but she knew she didn’t want to hear it.

      She stood up. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

      “Sure.” Mom got up, too. “I only wanted you to know that Dad’s trip is running longer than he expected. He’ll be back Friday instead of tomorrow.”

      “Oh.” That was all? “Okay.”

      Mom was watching her closely. “He’ll hate to miss coming with us to services, but he’s trying to get a ticket to one out in California.”

      “Oh. Oh...okay.” Now Abby understood why Mom was making a big deal about this.

      Thursday was Rosh Hashanah. Their family wasn’t particularly religious, but Mom, Dad, Ethan and Abby always went to the High Holiday services at the temple up on 16th Street, the one where Abby and her brother had gone for preschool. Even with all of Mom’s and Dad’s travel schedules, the whole family was always supposed to be together on holidays. “If he’s going to services there, why can’t he come back here instead?”

      “He has a very important meeting, sweetie, and it’s a five-hour flight. Don’t worry, you’ll see him Friday. He’ll be home by the time school lets out.”

      Right in time for Mom to leave on her next trip.

      Usually they were slightly less obvious about it. This week, though, they each kept going away and staying only one or two nights at a time. Did they seriously expect their kids not to notice when they pulled this kind of crap? Suddenly Abby was in the mood to hurl some water bottles of her own.

      She reached for the doorknob. “I really do need to go to the bathroom.”

      “All right.” Mom followed her, brushing invisible lint from her pants. “Then I want to hear all about this new book you’re writing.”

      “I don’t have time to talk about it. I have to email my first set of pages to Ms. Sloane tonight or I’ll get points taken off. Plus I have to do research on Marian Love.”

      Mom looked as though she wanted to argue, but she nodded. Abby walked down the hall as fast as she could and closed the bathroom door behind her. She leaned against it, staring at the ceiling.

      So Dad wouldn’t be home for Rosh Hashanah. Whatever. It wasn’t as if their family was especially into the holidays.

      Maybe Abby wouldn’t go to services, either. She could go to school instead. If doing stuff together didn’t matter to her parents anymore, she didn’t see why it should matter to her.

      She turned on her phone screen and ran a search for Marian Love. The first few results were stuff she’d already seen—articles about Women of the Twilight Realm and the mystery of how its author had disappeared—but farther down on the page was one she hadn’t spotted before called “Marian Love Changed My Life.”

      It turned out to be a blog. Each entry was a letter someone had sent to Marian Love, care of her publisher, since Women of the Twilight Realm first came out in 1956. The blogger must have gotten the letters from Marian Love’s publisher and scanned them, blocking out the identifying details.

      They were mostly scans of old handwritten pages, some with lines crossed out and notes scribbled in the margins. A few had been written on old typewriters and still had ink smudges. Some had dates in the corners—December 4, 1957; February 2, 1959; May 7, 1964. Abby had to squint to make out what the letters said.

       Dear Miss Love,

       I’m sure you’re very busy and probably don’t have the time to read my letter, but I simply had to write to you. I’ve just finished your novel, Women of the Twilight Realm.

       I thought I was the only one in the world who felt the way I did. When I read about the girls in your book, I realized I’m not alone. I would like to come to Greenwich Village the way Elaine did, but my children are so young and my husband is no help with them at all. How did you first learn there were other girls who felt the way you did? Was it from a book, too? If so, would you be able to mail it to me? I will of course pay the postage. My address is [blacked out square]

       Dear Mrs. Love,

       I read Women of the Twilight Realm. I want to say that you are a very good writer. I didn’t know there were books like this. I live in Iowa and it is very different here. There are no other girls who are like me. My father says if I stay this way I can’t live here anymore but I don’t know where else to live because I don’t have much money. I want to ask you to please write another book about girls who live in Iowa.

       Dear Miss Love,

       I came across your book, Women of the Twilight Realm, in a shop, and to say I was surprised would be a tremendous understatement. I admire your bravery in writing about such an unusual subject.

       I wondered if it would be too much of an imposition if I were to visit you in New York to discuss these topics further. It would be no trouble for me to travel there, as my husband allows me full use of the car most weekends. I would be very happy to take you for dinner one evening. Or drinks, perhaps. I stay at the Waldorf Astoria when I’m in the city, and you would be welcome to join me for a cocktail in my usual suite.