Cover

Dedication

For anyone touched by the AIDS crisis.

And for Mom, always.

CHAPTER 1

As much as I’ve tried to convince him otherwise, my father still thinks he needs to accompany me to my first gynecologist appointment. To him, it’s an important rite of passage.

“I’m sure Tía Camila would’ve taken me,” I say, glancing out the car window. It’s bad enough that we’re going to this appointment together, but it’s also uncomfortably close to the hospital where he works, which means we’re going to run into at least three of his patients. “She likes doing this sort of stuff, and we could’ve worked it around her business trips.”

“Well, you’re my daughter,” he says, pulling into a parking spot. “And this is the sort of thing parents live for.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Dad has patches of gray sneaking into his black hair, and there’s an indent in the tan skin of his nose where his glasses rest. When he isn’t wearing a lab coat, he dresses in old-man clothes like sweater vests and khakis. I wish his lack of fashion sense were the most embarrassing thing about him, but it isn’t.

Inside, he actually pulls out a clipboard with questions to ask the doctor. I might just die. The waiting room feels too small and smells like cheap air freshener.

He tucks the clipboard by his side, looking down at a questionnaire from the secretary.

“When was your last menstrual cycle?”

“Dad.”

“These are normal questions.”

“Just…” I take the questionnaire from him. “I’ll figure this stuff out.”

“I ask my patients these sorts of questions all the time, you know. It doesn’t have to be awkward.”

“But I’m your kid. That makes it weirder.”

I fly through the questions, and I’m mostly honest. He’s already filled out the parts that take the most time—my medical background, especially—so I bring the form back up to the lady at the desk. When I return, Dad’s pulled out the clipboard he brought from home, reviewing his questions.

“There’s really no reason for you to be nervous, Simone,” he says, patting my leg. His glasses keep sliding down his nose. If he were my doctor, I wouldn’t be able to take him seriously. “A lot of the women I see are nervous for their first appointments.”

“I’m not a woman.” My legs bounce up and down. “I’m, like, twelve.”

“You’re seventeen. Most girls have their first appointment when they’re fifteen, but it’s more of a formality. You aren’t even—”

“Sexually active. I know. But we both know I’m not having sex.”