The article is bylined “Larry Kramer” and it’s filled with numbers and fear. Just the kind of things James collects.

1,112. The current number of AIDS cases.

418. The number of dead already this year. And it’s only March.

47.6. The percentage of infected cases who live in New York.

3 years. Life expectancy.

I read the article. The facts. The anger. The call to action. The cataloging of the things that haven’t been done.

My shoulders tense thinking of what it could mean.

But James, I haven’t, I say, and then stop because for all that we’ve talked about—despite the fact that James knows me better than anyone—we’ve never directly discussed our sex lives. Or in my case, my lack of one.

He grabs the paper from me and points to this:

No matter what you’ve heard, there is no single profile for all AIDS victims. There are drug users and non-drug users. There are the truly promiscuous and the almost monogamous. There are reported cases of single-contact infection.

All it seems to take is the one wrong fuck. That’s not promiscuity—that’s bad luck.

Oh.

So no one is ever supposed to have sex again?

Where the hell does that leave me?

Where does that leave any of us?

Third period and I’m back in the fear room, even though I forgot to bring an album or something to make it look like I have a reason to be here.

The same paper is up as last time. I kissed my best friend’s brother, one new note reads in purple ink. The “gay plague” note is still there, as is my response. Under that are two comments. I disregard the scrawled, Get a room, but the other, in the same ink as the first, says, It’s like, what’s the point, you know? Why deal with assholes like this ^ and the chance of getting the shit kicked out of you just for walking down the street and maybe getting thrown out of your house, and still be too afraid to get laid because no one knows what’s causing this damned thing?

Have to admit, the author has a point. I wonder if he’s read the article in the Native and what he’d think about it.

James is finishing a show.

There is always a show being written, cast, rehearsed. Opening, closing.

Becky and I try to keep track, but I sometimes think that James doesn’t tell us about all of his work. And I sometimes think that’s a good thing.

The questions don’t quit:

Are you going to college?

Getting a job?

Volunteering for the Peace Corps?

What are you going to do with your life?

What are you going to do?

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO???

I should help Mom steam the wallpaper off Connor’s old room so that she can use the space for exercise or sewing or something more than storage, given that it’s been almost four years.

I should be writing a paper on Chaucer.