James shakes his head, sobering up, and says, Let’s get out of here.

Are you okay? I ask.

James shrugs and says, I don’t know.

I wait, knowing James will eventually fill the silence with something of substance.

He sighs and says, Raul had to pull out of the show. His parents wouldn’t let him stay in the city any longer. And maybe that makes sense. Maybe none of us should be here.

You’d leave New York? I ask. Where would you go?

James stops and looks up at the spire of the Chrysler Building.

You have a point, he says. Then, under his breath he says, There really isn’t anywhere else for me, is there?

I watch the news while I help my mom cut potatoes. Pictures of Pride are being used in some story about research funding, marchers carry a sign that reads WE NEED RESEARCH NOT HYSTERIA. Who could possibly argue with that?

My mother coughs. Don’t cut yourself, she warns me. I don’t want blood on the counter.

I open my eyes and stare at the knife I’m holding. At my hand. Picture my blood running red. Clean.

But what if my blood weren’t clean? I guess I could expect the same treatment Steven got.

And even though that’s not a surprise, it’s damn depressing to think about.

The play that James has been working on all year is finally in dress rehearsals, and he wants us to see it.

I page Gabriel and ask him to come with, but he doesn’t call back. I risk calling his home number, but the phone just rings and rings. And even though he said that he and his mom never answer it, even though he warned me not to get too hopeful of ever reaching him by phone, the silence once I hang up sits like a rock in my stomach.

Becky comes over, wearing a dress made of layers of gauze and gloves that go up to her elbows, so I lead her to my room and make an effort, managing real pants and a shirt my mom ironed for me. Becky picks out a skinny tie, rolls up my sleeves, and pulls a stack of stretchy black and white crystal bracelets off her wrist and deposits them onto mine. Then she declares we’re ready to leave.

The Space is a couple of blocks from James’s apartment, and a couple more from the Hudson River. It’s on a block with no streetlamps, and as we walk—past the hookers, past the tough boys in their leather and their sneers, past a group of preppy girls who must have gotten lost on their way in from New Jersey, past a bunch of jocks who follow us for two blocks, talking loudly about how all fags are going to die from this disease and that Becky should leave me for a “real man”—Becky, who is never frightened of anything, grabs my hand and whispers, Andy keeps telling me to carry mace or pepper spray when I’m out on my own. I think this is why.