Cover

Dedication

For anyone touched by the AIDS crisis.

And for Mom, always.

CHAPTER 1

As much as I’ve tried to convince him otherwise, my father still thinks he needs to accompany me to my first gynecologist appointment. To him, it’s an important rite of passage.

“I’m sure Tía Camila would’ve taken me,” I say, glancing out the car window. It’s bad enough that we’re going to this appointment together, but it’s also uncomfortably close to the hospital where he works, which means we’re going to run into at least three of his patients. “She likes doing this sort of stuff, and we could’ve worked it around her business trips.”

“Well, you’re my daughter,” he says, pulling into a parking spot. “And this is the sort of thing parents live for.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Dad has patches of gray sneaking into his black hair, and there’s an indent in the tan skin of his nose where his glasses rest. When he isn’t wearing a lab coat, he dresses in old-man clothes like sweater vests and khakis. I wish his lack of fashion sense were the most embarrassing thing about him, but it isn’t.

Inside, he actually pulls out a clipboard with questions to ask the doctor. I might just die. The waiting room feels too small and smells like cheap air freshener.

He tucks the clipboard by his side, looking down at a questionnaire from the secretary.

“When was your last menstrual cycle?”

“Dad.”

“These are normal questions.”

“Just…” I take the questionnaire from him. “I’ll figure this stuff out.”

“I ask my patients these sorts of questions all the time, you know. It doesn’t have to be awkward.”

“But I’m your kid. That makes it weirder.”

I fly through the questions, and I’m mostly honest. He’s already filled out the parts that take the most time—my medical background, especially—so I bring the form back up to the lady at the desk. When I return, Dad’s pulled out the clipboard he brought from home, reviewing his questions.

“There’s really no reason for you to be nervous, Simone,” he says, patting my leg. His glasses keep sliding down his nose. If he were my doctor, I wouldn’t be able to take him seriously. “A lot of the women I see are nervous for their first appointments.”

“I’m not a woman.” My legs bounce up and down. “I’m, like, twelve.”

“You’re seventeen. Most girls have their first appointment when they’re fifteen, but it’s more of a formality. You aren’t even—”

“Sexually active. I know. But we both know I’m not having sex.”

A woman with a gigantic pregnant belly glares at me. I don’t know why she seems irritated. She’ll be lucky if her kid ends up anything like me. I’ve made it to seventeen without dying, first of all, which I’m not sure my parents even expected.

“So,” he says. “Why were you so adamant about making this appointment now?”

I bite my lip. Technically, I don’t need to see a gynecologist. I’m not dating anyone. My chances of losing my virginity haven’t magically increased recently. But Dr. Khan, my HIV doctor, recommended that I see a gynecologist if I have questions, and, well, I do.

I can’t exactly tell my dad the other part of the truth—that I want to know more about sex because of a hot guy at school. There’s nothing going on between us, but still. I can hope, can’t I?

“It’s not bad that you wanted to come,” he says, tugging me out of my thoughts. “I just want to know what struck your interest.”

“Um. I’m just—you know,” I say. “Curious and a little nervous. I want to ask questions, like I told you. I feel like I don’t know anything, and Dr. Khan said this would be a good idea.”

“You’ll have the chance to ask questions,” he says. “I promise. I’ve spoken to Dr. Walker tons of times. She’s very good at what she does, and I figured seeing a woman would make you more comfortable.”

“Simone Garcia-Hampton?”

The nurse seems nice enough, and I’m grateful that she doesn’t make any chitchat with my dad right away. I get up, walking stiffly through the door. Dad presses a hand against my back, guiding me behind the nurse.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, Dr. Garcia,” she says, flashing my father a smile as we enter the examination room. Since she doesn’t say anything to me, I just hop up on the table without a word. “How have things been over at St. Mary’s?”

“Excellent,” Dad says, smiling back. “And how is little Jason?”

I guess I wasn’t spared the chitchat after all. It seems like everyone working in the medical field has seen Dad at the hospital or at a doctor’s appointment—or he has delivered one of their children.

“Getting bigger every day,” she says, flipping through my file. “Okay, Simone. Dr. Walker is going to come in and do a breast exam and check a bunch of other things. We aren’t going to do a vaginal exam today, though.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank Go—”

“Goodness,” Dad says, giving me a pointed look. “You’re thanking goodness, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I say, tucking a short strand of hair behind my ear. Dad is supposed to be a lapsed Catholic, but he’s more religious than he wants to admit. “I was going to say goodness. Gosh, don’t you know me at all?”

The nurse smiles as she does all the normal things, like taking my blood pressure and checking my heartbeat. She asks me about my period and sexual activity, and I try to ignore Dad, standing at my side.

“It’s nice to see such a close relationship between father and daughter,” she says, holding her clipboard to her chest. “My daughter is attached to my hip. I wish I could leave her alone with her father.”

“Well, I don’t have a mom,” I say, shrugging. “So I don’t have much of a choice.”

Dad gives me another one of his glances, but seeing this lady’s face is worth it. It gets all red and blotchy, like she’s just kicked a puppy by mistake, and she backs toward the door with big, slow steps.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “Here—change into this gown and make sure to take off your bra. Dr. Walker will be in to see you soon.”

“Simone, that was rude,” Dad says as soon as the door shuts. “It’s not her fault she doesn’t know our family history.”

He makes it sound so formal. People get confused about our family situation, and I guess I can see why. For one, I don’t look like his kid. Even though his skin is the color of darkened sand, it’s clear that I’m black, several shades darker than him. I’m sure people assume I take after my mother, especially when they see the ring on Dad’s left hand. Dad isn’t really out. I don’t think he tells anyone about Pops, not unless he has to. On the other hand, Pops flaunts his ring to everyone within a ten-mile radius. They’re different that way. I just wish the world didn’t spend so much time making Dad feel like he has to hide.

“But she shouldn’t just make assumptions,” I say, stepping behind a curtain and stripping off my clothes. “You know what Pops says: when you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.”

“I know. It gets worse each time I hear it.” He sighs. “Do you have some questions in mind for the doctor?”

“I’m gonna ask her if I can have sex.” I pull the gown over my head, shielding myself from the awkwardness that’s probably all over his face right now. “And about tearing my hymen. Also about pregnancy.”

“Oddly enough, I don’t find this funny.”

“That’s because it isn’t.” I pull at the edges of the gown before drawing back the curtain and wagging a finger at him. “Sex is never funny, especially when you’re me.”

His face softens. “Simone—”

“Ah, the famous Simone!” A tall white lady with bright red hair and a lab coat swings into the room. “I’ve heard so much about you from your father. The last time I saw you, you were barely big enough to stand!”

Dr. Walker knows me, but I don’t remember her at all. I give a tight smile. Somehow, I doubt she’s the great family friend she presents herself to be. I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m looking to be her best friend. I just need her to answer my questions.

“So, Simone,” she says, folding her hands. “The reason why Dr. Khan referred you is because I’ve had other patients with your condition, and I have experience in this field. I want you to know that you can ask me any questions you might have, and I’ll try my hardest to answer.”

Damn. She gets straight to the point.

“Let’s say I want to have sex.” I try to mirror her stance on the exam table, placing one leg over the other. My paper gown crinkles as it moves. “Are condoms enough? Do I have to use them if I’m having sex with a girl?”

“Well, there are internal condoms and dental dams if you have sex with someone with a vagina,” she says, leaning back on the stool. I have to give her credit; she doesn’t seem fazed at all. “But you have to keep in mind that the virus is acquired through an exchange of certain bodily fluids, like blood or semen.”

“Wait a minute,” Dad says. “Simone, you know that the best way to stay safe is by remaining abstinent. We’ve spoken about this, honey.”

My cheeks heat up. It’s another reason why I didn’t want him here—I should be able to ask my questions and get answers without a filter. The worst part is that I know he’s right: abstinence is the only way to be absolutely sure of preventing HIV acquisition. I’ve had that pounded into my brain ever since I turned thirteen. By now, it’s like a reflex.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t want sex. Lately, it keeps creeping into the back of my mind. I’m not sitting around, looking for people to have sex with, but I want it. I want to look at someone and love them the way other people are able to.

I’d like to know more.

“I know,” I say, playing with the wrinkled edges of my gown. “But I won’t be a virgin forever. And I’d like to have some idea of how protection works for me, since my partner probably won’t.”

Dad shakes his head, groaning. I turn back to Dr. Walker.

“I’ve tried to google this stuff,” I say. “But I get different answers each time.”

I know a lot about HIV—including the U=U rule. If someone’s viral load, the level of HIV in the blood, is undetectable, the virus is untransmittable. In other words, they can’t transmit HIV to someone else. Undetectable = Untransmittable. It doesn’t do much to help me now, though.

“That makes a lot of sense, Simone,” Dr. Walker says, placing her hands on her knees. “And I want you to know that sex is a real possibility for you when you’re ready, all right? You can speak to your other doctors if you want a second opinion.”

I nod. I can’t really see myself asking Dr. Khan about sex, though—she’s been seeing me since I was a baby, so she’s practically family at this point.

“The best time to have sex would be when your viral load has been undetectable for at least six months,” she says, glancing down at my file. “I’m not sure if that’s the case for you. Either way, it’s important that you continue to take your medication every day, at the right times.”

I press my lips together. Dr. Khan had to switch me to a new medication because I’d developed resistance to the old one. The last time I saw her, the virus was still detectable in my blood.

“It’s also important to take note of the types of sex and the risks that come along with them. Anal sex has the highest rate of transmitting HIV, while oral sex has the lowest rate.”

A glance to the side reveals Dad’s face, redder than I’ve ever seen it. He coughs into his elbow, like there’s something caught in his throat. I would tease him, but I don’t want him to think I’m being immature. I want him to know that I’ve already researched this. I never skip my pills and always cover open wounds with Band-Aids. I’m responsible about my illness.

“Like you said, you’d use condoms, but it’s important to make sure they’re made of latex or polyurethane,” she says, tapping against her folder. “I suppose it could be easier if you’re having relations with an HIV-positive partner, but you should take precautions regardless.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.” I scratch the back of my head. There’s one person I keep thinking about, someone with dark skin and a nice smile. “But what if my partner doesn’t have HIV? And my viral load is detectable?”

“Simone—” Dad starts.

“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.

“You’re up early.” Pops stirs his coffee. He always takes it black. “Are the girls up to something?”

I swallow, sliding past him and the kitchen island. I can tell Pops anything, but the line blurs when it comes to things that are happening to my friends. If Lydia doesn’t want her parents to know where we’re going, I doubt she’d want my parents to know.

“We have to run an errand,” I say instead, reaching for a mug in the cupboard. “And we can’t go after school, because I have play rehearsal.”

“You all need to go together to run this errand?”

I shrug, stealing the coffeepot and pouring a liberal amount into my cup. There’s sleep in my eyes, but I can still see his De La Soul shirt clearly—which he wears all the time even though the only students who understand the reference are black, like us. Sometimes I wish I went to the public school where he works, but it’s thirty minutes away. Sacred Heart is closer, not as conservative as my old school, and doesn’t require uniforms. Even better, no one knows me at Sacred Heart, not the way they did at my old school.

Our Lady of Lourdes had only a hundred girls, and we all lived in the same dorm. It meant we were closer than normal classmates. I never minded—until they found out I was positive.

“Simone,” Pops says, placing his coffee on the counter. “If something were going on, you’d tell me. Right?”

I sigh. “It’s something Lydia doesn’t want to tell her parents about. Not now, anyway. We just have to make a stop.”

He stares at me for an extra beat.

“I swear,” I say, resting my hand on his. “If she were in trouble, I’d tell you.”

He grunts into his cup. I turn toward our medicine cabinet, satisfied. In order to keep my viral load down, I have to take a gigantic pill every morning. The alarm on my phone is probably going off, but I don’t need it most days. Taking my meds is like clockwork at this point.

I feel Pops’s eyes on me as I toss back the pill. He and Dad used to give me stickers for every day I remembered to take it all by myself. If I went a month without missing, they’d get me a prize. I guess my prize is my health now. Definitely not as fun as going to Chuck E. Cheese’s.

The doorbell rings, and I jump, almost spilling my coffee. Lydia’s on the porch, dark hair tucked behind her ears and face clear of makeup.

“Hey,” she says as I open the door. “You ready to go? Claudia’s waiting in the car.”

“Right.” I pause, looking her up and down. She looks paler than usual. “She made you come get me?”

“No, no. I wanted to.”

I squint at her.

“You’re my friend, Simone,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m allowed to want to see you.”

“But you’re nervous,” I say, guessing. “Otherwise, you would’ve just waited outside.”

“A little,” she says. “But it’s better because of you guys.”

As if to prove it, she wraps her arms around me in a hug.

“Aw, Lydia,” I say, face in her shoulder. “You’re too much.”

Really, though, I love her.

“I just have to get my bag,” I say, pulling back after a minute. “You should come in.”

She nods, following me. Her bag is decorated with different pins—our school logo, characters from The Lego Movie, and I Love Taiwan pins from her trip to visit family last summer.

“Hi, Lydia,” Pops says as I grab my bag off the counter. “How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks.” She flashes a smile. “Ready to get to school.”

I snort into my arm. Lydia actually likes school, something I’ll never understand.

“And your parents?”

“They’re fine.” She rocks back on her heels. “Busy, as usual.”

Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Wu, want her to get good grades, but they aren’t annoying about it the way Claudia’s parents are. They never painted multiplication tables on her bedroom wall or forced her to go to math camp, but they do check her progress reports as soon as they’re sent home. The most my parents have ever done is ask if I need help from a tutor, and that’s when I still went to boarding school. I can’t picture them monitoring my computer time or peering over my shoulder every few minutes, but hey, different strokes.

Pops gives me a quick peck on the cheek, waving at Lydia as she drags me toward the door.

“Good luck today, girls,” he calls. “Text me once you get to school.”

The door slams behind us.

Claudia drives an old blue Ford Bronco, but I never sit in the front. I’m still not sure how Lydia is brave enough to do it, especially today. Whenever I get in the car with her, Claudia alternates between driving like she’s in The Fast and the Furious and driving like she has a flat tire.

“I’m surprised you still have your license,” I say, sliding into the center of the back seat. “Don’t you have a ton of tickets?”

“Oh, shut up,” she says, hands resting on the wheel. “If you think I’m so horrible, you can drive. Believe me, it’s not as easy as I make it look. Go take your driver’s test and find out.”

I could think of a witty comment to throw back at her, but I won’t. She’s being nicer than usual to Lydia today, which means all her snark needs to end up somewhere. I’m sure it’ll even out once we get this over with.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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