I take the cable car home alone, letting myself into our empty house. Pops has to stay after school to supervise detention, which means I’ll be alone for another hour, at least. Before I realize it, I’m gravitating toward my parents’ room. There are prints of paintings on the wall: a Frida Kahlo on one wall and a Basquiat painting on another. It looks like a bunch of scribbles to me, but Pops gets pissed whenever I tell him that.

I toss myself back on the bed. I haven’t slept with them since I was really little, around six or seven. But just being in here makes me feel connected to them. There’s even a tiny bit of me that feels connected to my bio mom. This is where my parents keep the adoption records: legal papers, letters, and even some photo albums. They’re all I have of her. It’s never bothered me before. I don’t know if it’s bothering me now, exactly. I just wish I could talk to her about this.

How did she feel when she found out she was positive? When she found out she was pregnant with me? I’ve never wondered until now. Did her boyfriend ignore her? Did her family leave her? Her friends? I’d like to imagine that she was surrounded by people who loved her; people who helped pull her out of a bad place. But I really don’t know.

Most of the time, I hate thinking about her. I hate the idea that I’m not just the daughter of my two fathers. Maybe that makes me horrible. I just hate the fact that I don’t feel anything for this person who created me, who probably wanted to get rid of me.

I bite my lip. People are supposed to be connected to their biological mothers, to feel something. There are stories about people tracking these women across countries, of them hugging and loving each other even if they don’t speak the same language.

There are two things that connect me to this woman: she had me, and she passed HIV down to me. I’ve never wanted to talk to her before, but for the first time, I wish she were here. This is the one thing she’d understand better than my parents do. Maybe she’d know what to do. Maybe, if she were here, I wouldn’t feel so alone.

I pull my legs close to my chest and start to cry.

CHAPTER 19

It takes me all of Thursday, but I finally manage to text Miles after rehearsal. That’s how we end up in Dolores Park again, sitting on a bench and staring at each other. It’s almost like the first time we came here together, but this time neither one of us is talking.