Somehow, my feet lead me toward the living room. I can’t look at anyone’s face. I can’t give myself away. I don’t need to cry in front of Abuela, who will hold me until every last tear is squeezed out.

“Simone?” Miles reaches for me, but I jerk away. I don’t know how to explain something like this to him. He wouldn’t get it. No one here would. I don’t even get it.

Dave and Dad are still yelling in the next room. I can hear someone talking to me, though I’m not sure what they’re trying to say. It’s like everything is inside out. My feet lead me out the door, into the brisk night. I wrap my arms around my torso, trying not to bawl the way I want to. My eyes already burn; tears already roll down my cheeks.

I’m so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This is going to be just like Our Lady of Lourdes, and there’s nothing I can even do about it. Where do I go now? I’m gonna have to finish out junior year, probably, because it’s too late to start anywhere else. And next year— Where else is there?

“Simone,” Pops says, voice exasperated. He must’ve followed me outside. “We’re already dealing with Dave here. I can’t handle you running around throwing tantrums, too.”

Throwing a tantrum? Part of me wants to snap back at him, but the rest of me—the bigger part—is just tired.

I turn to see him rubbing his forehead, a hand on his hip. I don’t say anything, just run a sleeve over my eyes. I can’t deal with him, either, not if he’s mad at me. Not right now. I don’t even know what I’m going to do. How could Jesse do something so horrible, all because I dared to like Miles?

“Pops,” I say, sniffling. “They know.”

“They? Who is they?” His eyes go hard. “And what is it they know?”

“I…There’s this boy, from Drama Club.” My throat feels like it’s burning. “He—he tweeted about it. About me. Now everyone knows that I’m positive and they all think I’m disgusting.”

I can barely make it through the story between my tears, and I feel even smaller standing outside with a short-sleeve shirt on. HIV could’ve killed me, but it didn’t get the chance. I’m stronger than HIV, but I can’t even handle a few tweets from kids I don’t know.

Pops’s face goes slack, emotionless, for half a moment. Then, “I’m calling that fucking school.”

He stomps into the house, not waiting for me to follow behind.