“What?” I ask, raising a brow. “You don’t want me to know? I’ll be eighteen next year, Dad. Like you said, I’m not twelve anymore.”

HIV medication is weird. Sometimes there are side effects. If you skip it too often, the virus can develop a resistance over time. Maybe this won’t be the last time I have to switch medications and start over. Maybe I’ll have a partner who doesn’t have HIV. Am I banned from having sex with them until my viral load is undetectable again? Or is there another way?

Dr. Walker clears her throat, and I turn back to her. She has this gentle look on her face, like she’s speaking to little petting-zoo animals. I’m sure that other patients show up with overprotective dads all the time. She’s probably had a version of this conversation before, just less intense.

“That would be a sero-diverse relationship,” she says. “There are medications that an HIV-negative person could take in order to prevent transmission; that’s something you should discuss more with an HIV specialist. While I’m glad we’re talking about this, I really want to stress how important it is to disclose your status before anything sexual happens.”

“I know.” I stare down at my hands. “I’ve heard about that, too.”

In the state of California, there used to be a law saying I could get thrown in jail for having condomless sex without disclosing. It’s different now; if I’m undetectable and get the other person to wear a condom, I have a defense. It’s just that the law makes things more real. It reminds me that I’m different from everyone else.

Pops and I make fun of all the weird ways people think the virus can be acquired—kissing cheeks, touching hands, sharing sodas. But having sex with someone is real. Everyone knows that sex puts you at risk for STDs, but I doubt anyone I go to school with is expecting to deal with HIV. Whenever I imagine what it would be like to tell someone I like, the scene ends with them walking out the door.

“Simone?”

I blink up at Dr. Walker. She’s giving me a sad smile, like she can tell what I’m thinking. Part of me wants to hug her.

“Do you have any more questions?”

I shake my head, and she pats my hand.

“Lean back for me, sweetie. We’re going to start your breast exam.”

CHAPTER 2

My parents gave up on driving me to school ages ago, most likely because I wait until the last possible moment to wake up and get ready. Today’s different. Waking up late would mean letting Lydia down.

It’s weird to hear Dad pulling out of the driveway as he heads for the hospital. Pops is in the kitchen, making coffee. I guess there’s a lot I miss while I’m asleep.