Dear Simone,

I don’t know what I can say to make this better, but they told me that writing a letter was one of the things I had to do. So look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Actually, I kind of wanted you to hurt a little bit. My dad died last year, but I used to go to all his doctor’s appointments with him. I used to see you around the hospital all the time. When Palumbo introduced you the first day of rehearsal, I knew I recognized you from somewhere. I used to walk around when I was waiting for my dad, and I would see you a lot. I don’t know why it made me so pissed that you were laughing with other kids, but it just did.

I don’t know. When my dad told me he had HIV, I didn’t think he was going to die, but he never took any of his pills. It happened so fast. Ever since he died, things have been a mess. My mom has a second job and the house feels empty without my dad. Nothing is the same, no matter how hard I pretend.

I guess it just felt like you were pretending. I would see you in the hallway with your friends or whatever and it didn’t feel fair that you were just acting so normal. It’s like, people with HIV are sick. You’re supposed to act sick. And everyone is miserable when they’re positive—at least my dad was—so I figured you would be.

It didn’t seem fair. I don’t know how else to describe it.

I’ve known Miles for a long time. He’s always lived next door, but I really got the chance to know him better this year. It doesn’t help that, you know, I like guys and he obviously doesn’t feel the same way. They’re telling me I should write that it isn’t your fault, and it isn’t. I guess none of this stuff is your fault. I don’t know why I’m telling you so much, either, but I guess you deserve answers.

I don’t really know what I can say to make any of this better, like I said before. I’m sorry that things got so messed up for you. I can’t say that I didn’t know this stuff would happen, because I didn’t really think about what would happen. I just—I couldn’t believe that you were positive and everything was working out so well for you—so different from my dad. It didn’t feel fair.

So anyway. I’m getting kicked out of school, and you’ll probably leave. It’s like the balancing at the end of Hamlet that we talked about in English.

I’m sorry again,

Jesse

CHAPTER 33