I don’t want to tiptoe around it anymore. I want to tell them about the stupid letter I got and ask for their advice. I want to complain about my parents being weird about sex without blaming it on religion. I want to talk to them without worries, the way we talk about everything else.

I glance around the café. It’s not like anyone from school is here. I force myself to take a breath.

“I need to tell you guys something.” I run a hand through a portion of my hair. My hands get stuck on the short, kinky curls. “But you have to promise that you won’t tell anyone else. Like ever.”

“Um,” Claudia says.

“I’m worried,” Lydia says. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” I say. Even though I’m worried. “It’s just—something important.”

“As long as you’re not pregnant,” Claudia says, waving a hand. “I promise not to tell.”

“I’m the best secret keeper,” Lydia adds. “You know that.”

“Right.” I rub my hands on my jeans. “Well, um. I have HIV.”

I swipe my hand over my eyes so I don’t have to look at them. My voice is a whisper, and part of me wonders if they can hear me.

“And,” I say, “I just wanted you guys to know because you’re my best friends and you’re really important to me.”

Silence. I slowly move my hand away. Claudia’s eyebrows are raised. Lydia looks like she’s going to cry.

“So you’re sick?” Lydia asks, dropping her fork onto her plate. “Are you—do you—are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” I say, voice thick. She grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’m on medication and I go to the doctor all the time. It’s pretty normal. Like, I’m not dying anytime soon, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s good,” Claudia says, eyes roaming over me. “You don’t look like you have it.”

My brain almost short-circuits. “What does that mean?”

“No, it wasn’t, like, an insult,” she says, eyes wide. “I just mean—you don’t look sick. You look normal. I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You obviously don’t.”

I don’t know what I expected—not outright hatred, but not for her to say something so ridiculous, either. Claudia’s smart. Part of me feels like she said it to bother me, but that isn’t fair. I’ve lived with this forever, and she’s probably never dealt with it until today. She’s allowed not to know. Still, I twist in my seat. The air has shifted.

“Well,” Claudia says after a moment. “I’m really glad you told us, Simone.”

“Definitely,” Lydia says, squeezing my hand again. “How—how’d you get it?”