Judy Blume Goes All the Way

A new generation discovers the poet laureate of puberty.

- Amy Weiss-Meyer

Like tens of thousands of young women before me, I wrote to Judy Blume because something strange was happening to my body.

I had just returned from visiting the author in Key West when I noticed a line of small, bright-red bites running up my right leg. I was certain it was bedbugs—and terrified that I’d given them to Blume, whose couch I had been sitting on a few days earlier.

I figured that if the creatures had hitched a ride from my hotel room, as I suspected, the courteous—if mortifying— thing to do would be to warn Blume that some might have

stowed away in her upholstery, too. In Key West and in Brooklyn, beds were stripped, expensive

inspections performed: nothing. After a few days, I had no new bites. I was relieved, if further embarrassed. I apologized to Blume for the false alarm, and she responded with a “Whew!” I hoped we had put the matter behind us.

The next morning, another email appeared in my inbox:

Amy-When I am bitten by No-See-Ums (so small you can't even see them and you were eating on your balcony in the evening) I get a reaction, very itchy and the bites get very red and big. They often bite in a line.

It was "just a thought," she wrote. "xx J."