I decided, as I dragged my sorry, tired, pukey self across the clinic office hallway, that I’d tell the doctor about my hookup just in case it’d given me the dreaded fungawookie. I’d had a pelvic exam once before. I’d hated that someone was all up in my guts and poking around with metal equipment cold enough to frost my ovaries, but if there was something wrong with me, I couldn’t get better without honestly communicating what might have led to my being sick in the first place.

That doctor’s office pee saw me wrestling the deepest thoughts I’d ever had in my seventeen years of life. And it all revolved around vaginal swabs and made-up names for STDs.

I washed my hands and headed back to the exam room, still feeling nauseated, more so when I got a waft of a cleaning chemical someone was using in the room next door to mine. I closed the door, breathing in and out through my mouth so I wouldn’t paint the walls with the single piece of toast I’d managed to keep down. About ten minutes later, there was a soft rap on the door and a short heavyset woman with brown skin came in, her silky black hair tied back in a bun. White coat, blue-and-white-polka-dotted dress, sensible pumps. Dr. Bhatia smiled at me, her hand with pretty gold rings clasping onto a clipboard.

“Serendipity? What a pretty name.”

“Sara,” I said. “And thanks.”

She nodded and put her clipboard aside, pulling a wheely stool out from under the counter. She folded her hands in her lap and adopted what was probably supposed to be a comforting smile, but the faint lines around her eyes made me think something was up. “Sara, before we start talking, you should know about some confidentiality clauses regarding your healthcare privacy as a minor. I am required, by law, to report any medical findings to your parent or guardian that I deem a threat to you or your personal safety. That said, my personal philosophy is to have a dialogue, to see what you think, and to make a plan with you that will ensure you are safe and as healthy as can be. We’ll bring parents in only after we make that plan. You’re seventeen, yes?”

“What? Yeah. Yes,” I said, my stomach sinking to my knees. Why was she talking about threats to my safety? Had the pee test proven I had radioactive vag? Were my guts going to fall out?

“Okay, well, you’re a young woman and I’m sure we can make a plan that’ll work for you. Do you feel safe at home? With your mother?” The doctor reached for her clipboard, lifting it up so it hid the bottom half of her face. I concentrated on the dark vee of her manicured brows.