I’ve been talking about writing this book for a long time.

Probably too long.

At some point you have to stop outlining, stop researching, stop rearranging chapters, and just start telling the story. So that’s what I’m doing.

Before the Streetlights Came On is a memoir set during the summer of 1978, when kids disappeared on their bikes after breakfast and came home when the streetlights flickered on. It’s a story about friendship, family, neighborhood life, freedom, and the secrets adults think they’re keeping.

The first chapter is available here on the blog for everyone to read.

After that, I’ll be serializing the book chapter by chapter for subscribers.

Future chapters will be available to subscribers on my X account and on Substack. If you’ve been following my writing for a while, this is probably the easiest way to read the book as it’s being written.

As a thank-you to those who choose to support my work, paid subscribers can receive digital copies of all of my books at no additional charge.

And because I still believe books belong on bookshelves, not just screens, I’m also happy to send signed paperback copies. If you’re a paid subscriber, simply send me a mailing address and I’ll get one in the mail to you.

Writing a book is a strange process. Most days it’s just me sitting alone with memories, trying to figure out what belongs on the page and what doesn’t.

Sharing it chapter by chapter feels a little terrifying, but it also feels like the best way to finally finish the story.

I hope you’ll come along for the ride.

The first chapter is available below.
— Jennifer

Before the Streetlights Came On

Chapter 1

“If we leave now, we can catch the end of General Hospital and still have time to play Barbies. Or we could stop at the drugstore and see if the new Tiger Beat is out,” I said to Hazel as we sat wrapped in towels on the deck at the pool.

The water was still freezing, but it was the first official day of summer vacation so nobody cared. Besides, you got used to it pretty quickly if you jumped right in instead of inching in slowly.

The University Club pool was packed with kids and only one or two moms in sight. None of our parents came to the pool with us. What fun would that be? There was a lifeguard, and they were strict about enforcing the rules: no running, no diving in the shallow end, and no wet swimsuits in the dining room.

Hazel squinted toward the deep end where a group of boys tossed a wet hacky sack at whoever was jumping off the diving board.

“Drugstore,” she said immediately. “Definitely drugstore.”

Hazel was my best friend. She moved into the house across from mine on the curve three years earlier, and we’d been inseparable ever since.

Before Hazel moved in, I mostly played with Lisa and Cynthia, the only girls my age on the block. Lisa once chased my brother with a baseball bat and nearly cracked his skull open. Cynthia was from Boston and pronounced things strangely. She said “cain’t” instead of “can’t,” which bothered me for some reason. I wasn’t allowed to say “ain’t,” and “cain’t” sounded a lot like “ain’t.”

Her whole family talked like that.

One time when I spent the night at her house, for breakfast her dad made bacon in the oven!

Whenever the three of us played together, somebody usually went home crying.

When Hazel moved in, that all changed.

Hazel was just as dorky as me, but in every other way we were opposites. She was tall and thin with straight black hair cut in a bowl shape by her mother. I was short, chunky, and had curly red hair that exploded the second there was humidity in the air.

I wanted hair like Cher. Long, black, perfectly straight hair that swung when she walked. Sometimes I wrapped a towel around my head and strutted through the hallway pretending I was her. I’d flick my hair with my hand and run my tongue across my lip just like Cher.

I never did it in front of Hazel, but if I had, she wouldn’t have made fun of me. She would’ve pretended to be Sonny and started singing “I Got You Babe.”

That was her gift. She was always ready to be silly with me.

We left the pool and walked down Summit Avenue toward Dale Street, our damp swimsuits making our shorts stick to our legs.

“Do you have any money?” Hazel asked.

“No, but we can charge it.”

My dad had an account at the drugstore because I was always picking things up for my mom. Cigarettes, prescriptions, magazines, whatever she needed. I could pretty much charge anything as long as I didn’t go crazy.

The drugstore had everything: Tiger Beat, Teen Beat, Seventeen, candy cigarettes, Bonne Bell Lip Smackers, and every kind of junk food imaginable.

My mom liked Cosmo, which she let me read after she was done with it, though most of the articles seemed to involve affairs, divorce, or how to keep a man interested.

Phil Donahue and Cosmo magazine seemed to put my mother in equally bad moods.

I grabbed the newest Tiger Beat and Teen Beat while Hazel headed for the snacks.

“Can we get Doritos?” she asked.

“Of course. Get the taco ones.”

We added Doritos, Snickers, Chuckles, and two pops to the basket.

“Do they have TAB?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take one of those.”

I’d been drinking TAB since I was six because my grandmother thought it would help me lose weight. My brother got regular Coke. I got TAB.

I picked up a bottle of Revlon nail polish called Bold Bordeaux and held it toward Hazel.

“What do you think?”

Hazel looked horrified.

“My mom would kill me if I wore that color.”

“It’s just nail polish.”

“It’s sexy,” she whispered.

“I’m gonna get it. We can paint our nails tonight if your mom says you can sleep over.”

We brought our selections to the cashier, and I told her to charge it to my account. She bagged everything up and asked how my mom was doing.

“She’s doing good,” I said.

“Tell her I said hello.”

“I will.”

Outside, Hazel grabbed the candy bag while I carried the magazines.

It was hot out, but the giant old trees lining the streets kept things cooler. Lately, red circles had started showing up painted on some of the trees.

At first we made a game out of it, kind of like Pig at the bus stop. Whoever got their foot on the sidewalk stamp first yelled “Pig!” and touched somebody else, making them “it.” We started doing the same thing with the red circles because there was only one every few blocks.

There wasn’t much point to the game, but I noticed there were more and more red circles every week.

“Ew, stop!” I said to Hazel.

“What?”

“There’s something in your hair.”

I had to stand on my tiptoes to reach the top of her head. Hazel was tall for her age, and I was probably short for mine. I pulled a little green inchworm out of her hair.

“Oh look, he’s cute.”

“It’s an inchworm. We had them in California,” she said, peering at it.

“Should we keep him?”

“Nah. Put him back in the grass.”

I loved where I lived. My house sat on the corner across from a small park, a giant green three-story Victorian with huge elm trees lining the boulevard. I could see Hazel’s bedroom window from mine.

Lisa liked telling people we were rich because ours was the biggest house on the block.

I’m pretty sure she meant it as an insult.

I’m also pretty sure her house was bigger.

All the houses in my neighborhood were big, but they were filled with kids. At one point we counted all of them: babies, toddlers, teenagers who no longer played with us unless they felt like tormenting little kids. I think we counted nearly fifty.

There was always someone to play with, even if it wasn’t your best friend. All you had to do was knock on a door and ask.

We turned onto my block and slowed near the park.

“You want to come over?” Hazel asked.

“Yeah. Should I grab my Barbies?”

“Sure.”

We played Barbies all the time. I had Malibu Barbie and Ken. Hazel had her older sister’s Barbies, but she also had a really cool dollhouse we used as their house.

I had the Barbie Townhouse at my house, but the elevator never worked and the back panels were always falling off. Plus my brother bugged us constantly if he was home. Once he superglued my Barbie to his GI Joe to make it look like they were doing it. He thought it was hilarious, but I was mostly mad because it ruined a perfectly good Barbie, even if Daisy had already chewed off her feet.

“Just wait here,” I said. “I’m gonna run in and grab them. Mom’s already taking a nap and I don’t want to wake her up.”

“Okay.”

Hazel sat on the wicker swing and gently rocked back and forth while I ran inside.

At Hazel’s house we sat on the floor in front of the rattling box fan in her bedroom dressing the Barbies in different outfits, but we didn’t really play with them as much as we used to.

“Grease opens next week,” Hazel said.

“I know. We HAVE to go.”

“Do you think John Travolta is cuter than Shaun Cassidy?”

“No. But he dances better.”

This was probably the best week of the whole summer. Swim practice didn’t start for another week, and my school wouldn’t mail my grades home for at least two more weeks.

I wouldn’t get grounded, but my dad would be disappointed in me.

I hated that feeling.

“Hazel!” her mother shouted from the kitchen. “Is Jenny Brown staying for dinner?”

“Oh shit, what time is it?” I asked.

Hazel looked at the clock.

“It’s six.”

“I have to go. I need to get my mom up from her nap, get her downstairs, and make her a drink before my dad gets home.”

“Hazel!” her mother yelled again. “Is Jenny Brown staying for dinner?”

“No, Ma,” Hazel shouted back. “She has to go home.”

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