I force myself to sit up. It’s a Saturday, which means I’ll have to be at rehearsal in an hour, where I’ll see Miles. I thought the lonely feeling would go away after our first kiss, but it’s just morphed into something else: longing. Knowing that there’s a chance we could have sex almost makes it worse because I can’t help but hope. Even if it means I’ll have to tell him.
Most people are worried about contracting the virus. If I told Claudia and Lydia, they wouldn’t have to worry about that, since we’re not exactly going to be exchanging “fluids” any time soon. But it’s different with Miles.
It doesn’t help that now I have to figure out who wrote that stupid note. I don’t even know the first place to start looking. At the freshmen in Drama Club? Eh, I doubt any of them have the patience to leave a note in my locker and wait for me to read it. Ms. Klein? Doubtful. She’s a pain, but not evil. Who else could it be?
“Why does this have to be so complicated?” I ask out loud. The Aida poster on my wall just stares back at me.
Whatever I’m feeling—frustrated, horny—gets worse at rehearsal. It’s like an itching inside that I can’t scratch and it just makes me uncomfortable. Rent is a great musical, but watching it every day makes me think about the friends my parents only mention occasionally, the ones who died before I could meet them. Ignored because they were gay guys with AIDS.
The epidemic is scary in a way I can’t fully wrap my head around, like a horror movie that sticks with me for hours after the ending credits, making my stomach flop and my knees shake. It doesn’t seem real. The fact that it is real, that it happened, makes me want to grab the kids onstage, shake them, and ask, “Do you know how serious this is? This isn’t just stuff someone made up for a musical, this is about actual lives.”
It doesn’t help that Ms. Klein is obsessed with perfecting “Seasons of Love” today, stopping and starting over and over again. Mr. Palumbo watches with his mouth set in a flat line. I decide to wander around backstage. I could pretend I’m checking on the crew, but it would be a waste of time. My eyes look onto Miles as soon as I’m past the curtain.
He’s clad in a short-sleeve black shirt and dark jeans. As he folds his arms, the veins in his wrists ripple out. I swallow. If there were no one else around, I’d kiss him until he couldn’t see straight.
He’s pushing a towering set piece, one even taller than him, onto the stage. Once that’s in place, he picks up two benches, one in each arm. Pieces of bright blue tape signal where he should put them down. Kids scurry in different directions so they don’t get trampled. Set pieces aren’t usually that heavy, since the crew builds them on their own out of cheap plywood and other lightweight materials, but they weigh enough that teams of two are usually needed to move each piece. Miles is the only one who does it by himself. It’s totally hot, but I should probably talk to him about it. Everyone knows about his injury. I don’t want him making it worse.
I clear my throat. “Can’t believe Jesse has you moving everything all by yourself.”
He drops the benches into position, glancing up at me with a smile. I want to kiss it off his face, right here, right now, in front of everybody.
“It’s not that hard,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Not as hard as remembering lines.”
“Maybe because it takes brains to remember important details.”
“Are you saying I don’t have any brains?”
I give him a pointed look. It only lasts for a few seconds, since I can’t help but smile.
“I’m hurt,” he says, holding a hand over his chest. “I might not have brains, but I have tons of skill. You know what my job was on the lacrosse team?”
“Pushing people.” I shrug. “You might’ve mentioned it once or twice.”
“Yeah, well, that’s because it’s important.”
He steps away from the set so that he’s beside me. Whatever he’s saying about lacrosse fades out of focus as I glance down at his hand. It’s barely inches away from mine. He did that on purpose, right? We’ve kissed before. Holding hands is, like, on a lower tier than kissing. I can hold his hand.
“Simone?” His voice is close to my ear. “You still there?”
I grab his hand fast. I’m sure mine is sweaty and unpleasant, but he doesn’t pull away. His fingers wrap around mine. I bite my lip to keep my smile from splitting my face.
This isn’t anything close to staying away from Miles. I don’t know if I can do that, honestly. I glance up, but not at Miles. I turn toward the backstage area. Kids are sweeping up wood shavings or painting the back wall. No one is paying attention to us. If the note-leaver were here, I’m sure their eyes would be glued to us. I guess this means they aren’t.
“You know,” Miles starts, his voice a stage whisper. “We missed the musical of the day yesterday and the day before.”
That’s because we’d kissed the day before.
“I didn’t think it would last this long,” I admit, watching as he swings our intertwined hands back and forth. If I saw anyone else standing like this, I would laugh at them. I feel a little bit like laughing right now, but the fact that we look ridiculous is only part of it. “It’s not like you’re actually into theater.”
“I mean…” Miles pauses. “I don’t not like it.”
“Come on, Miles,” I say, squeezing his hand. “You don’t even know the difference between Hairspray and Hair.”
“That’s true,” Miles says, glancing down at our hands. “But—I don’t know. I’ve never met someone so serious about it until now.”
It’s not like I expect him to be an expert. Just because I’m wild about musicals and plays and everything that happens onstage doesn’t mean he has to be. This is my thing. It’s like musicals are a different language, one that’s easier to speak than English. The only downside is that it can make communicating with the nonmusical crowd harder.
When I was little and always in the hospital, Dad and Pops watched The Wiz with me until I had all the songs memorized. The week leading up to my first day here, I listened to the Dear Evan Hansen album on repeat. Musicals are what keep me going when everything else feels pointless. Everyone needs something like that. “Well, yeah.” I glance around as if to prove my point. “Joining Drama Club will do that to you.”
“No, I mean, I like the way you talk about musicals.” The intensity in his eyes presses me into my spot on the stage. “Jesse likes musicals a lot, too, but he doesn’t talk about them the way you do. You get so excited. Your eyes light up and everything. I don’t even know what you’re talking about most of the time, but I want to listen because you’re the one saying it.”
My mouth twitches open, but nothing comes out. I’ve always figured he just listened because he’s nice. And he is—this just seems like more than that.
“Was that weird?” He licks his lips. “Do you—”
He doesn’t get to finish because Jesse’s heavy footsteps cut him off.
“Miles,” Jesse starts, out of breath, “I need you to move the— Oh, hey, Simone. I thought you were in the choir room with Palumbo.”
The thing about Jesse is that it’s impossible to be mad at him. I’ve never heard him talk shit about anyone, which seems unrealistic, because everyone talks shit at some point. If he were anyone else, I could snap at him so he would go away. Instead, I pull my hand from Miles’s, ignoring the look he gives me.
“Yeah, we were just…” My voice trails off as I stick my hands in my pockets. What were we doing? Talking?
Miles turns to Jesse. “Do you need the apartment set moved again?”
“Yeah.” Jesse nods. “You’re the only one who can do it.”
The two of them walk toward the curtain, and I lean against the wall. I can’t even touch Miles’s little speech. What can I say to him in response to that? I like your ass? He can’t be all sweet and mushy while I j
ust think about kissing him the whole time.
I take a deep breath, gathering courage, and run after them.
Miles turns at the last second. “Simone? What—”
I grab at his shirt. I’m hoping for a special kiss, one where he leans down and music swells in the background. Since this isn’t a movie, he doesn’t lower his head, and I end up with my face buried in his shirt.
“I was trying to”—I gesture vaguely with my other hand— “you know. Uh, have a moment.”
Miles ducks his head. For a second, it looks like he’s pissed, but then I see his shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
“Don’t laugh.” I let go of his shirt, taking a step back. “I’m not sure how to do this.”
“Don’t feel bad about it.” His face softens. “We could hang out later, if you want. And have a real moment.”
That could mean a million things—my brain keeps jumping to sex, and that thought triggers the note, and my stomach plunges—but I force the thoughts away.
“I wish I could, but I can’t,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “I have to do something with my friends. We’re gonna—well, we have to go do something. I swear that I’m not making it up.”
No matter how cool Miles seems, I’m definitely not telling him that I’m spending my Saturday afternoon in a sex-toy store with my friends. It might freak him out. But honestly, I could use the space to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about this stupid note situation.
“Miles?” Jesse calls.
“I guess I believe you.” Miles turns toward the sound of Jesse’s voice. “Next time?”
I smile. I can’t help it. “Definitely.”
CHAPTER 8
Even when I’m on a train speeding away from everything, it’s still hard to leave the note behind. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m sandwiched between Claudia and Lydia, but I’m not paying attention to what they’re saying. I’m looking out the window. Who could’ve written it? Who would even know that I have HIV? They’d have to have seen me at the hospital, and I can’t imagine another kid taking time out of their day to follow me there. Maybe they were already at St. Mary’s visiting a sick relative or something.
“Hey, Simone. Earth to Simooooone.”
The train is slowing to a stop, and Lydia squeezes my hand.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “You seem pretty out of it.”
“She’s probably thinking about the Pleasure Chest,” Claudia says, nudging my shoulder. “Are you excited?”
“Totally.” I jump on the distraction. “Hey, since this was your idea, shouldn’t you buy me whatever I want?”
“Absolutely not,” she laughs as we get off the cable car. “We’re here to get one vibrator for you and one for my girlfriend, so both of you horny broads can simmer down.”
Since Our Lady of Lourdes was two hours away from San Francisco, I never had much of a chance to explore the city with my old friends. I was never here long enough to see all the cool places and on holidays, I usually went to New York with my parents. Now I’m going to a place called the Pleasure Chest with my friends in the heart of a city that feels like a new world. I’ve never been so excited.
“What if I don’t want to simmer down?” I say. “What if I want to get laid?”
“Oh man,” Claudia says, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”
“Oh my God,” Lydia says. “I can’t believe the two of you.”
“What are you talking about?” I give her some serious side-eye. “We talk about sex all the time.”
“It’s different this time.” She’s actually wearing a trench coat, even though it’s nowhere close to raining. “We’re going to a store that sells dildos. Why can’t we just buy a vibrator online, like normal people? They might not even let us in!”
“That’s why we have fake IDs, Lydia,” I say, banging my shoulder against hers. “Not to vote or drink, but to buy vibrators for our girlfriends.”
Claudia nods. “It’s the best way to use a fake.”
Lydia huffs. “I can’t take either of you anywhere.”
Claudia raises a finger to her lips as we get closer to the store, passing a group of white people with dreads, big colorful row houses, and a Chinese food place. The Pleasure Chest doesn’t have a lingerie display in the window, which is mildly disappointing, but I can see workers lingering around the front door. I always figured that there would only be women at sex stores, but it looks like there are guys, too. I guess they also need toys.
The thought makes me snicker. Lydia glares at me like she can read my mind. Claudia opens the door.
“Hi!” A perky blonde materializes in front of us. “Would you mind showing me some ID?”
Okay, that’s kind of sudden. I thought Claudia was just being dramatic when she insisted on bringing the fake driver’s licenses. I don’t know how she got them and I didn’t ask. Claudia always gets shit done. I don’t need to know how she does it.
Lydia glances at me, panic in her eyes. I pat her pocket, reminding her of the ID there, before whipping out my own.
There’s an awkward silence as the blond woman looks at our IDs, handing them back one by one. If she can tell they’re fake, she doesn’t say anything. Maybe she understands that girls under eighteen have needs, too.
“You’re all set!” She smiles. “If you need any help, you can come find me—I’m Ashley—or anyone with a name tag.”
Lydia promptly grabs our arms and steers us toward the back of the store.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” I ask, a laugh in my throat. I don’t know why she’s so freaked out. It’s not like this is the sex dungeon from Fifty Shades or anything. It actually looks like a regular store, like it could pass for a CVS, until you notice the gigantic dildos lining the walls. They come in all different colors—yellow, green, purple, blue—and they’re lined up like a rainbow.
“I’m never doing this again,” Lydia hisses. “So don’t ever ask me to come back.”
“Fine.” Claudia shrugs, glancing down at a metal shelf full of sexy soaps. “Simone and I will just have all the fun. How big do you think a vibrator should be, Simone? And should it be chargeable or run on batteries?”
“I think being able to charge it would be very convenient,” I say, glancing at the posters above my head. They list times for different sex education classes held here. “Hey, maybe we should come back for one of their upcoming workshops and learn the ‘beginner booty basics.’ I’ve always had questions about booties.”
“Guys,” Lydia whines. “Why can’t we just google this stuff in my room?”
“That’s not as fun,” I say. “You just have to change your attitude.” I turn down the next aisle, which is filled with colorful posters. “Look! This one says Give and you will receive—I’m pretty sure that’s from the Bible. You’re not embarrassed of God’s word, are you, Lyd?”
Claudia cackles, hooking arms with me. We walk closer to a pink display table in the corner. A black mannequin is dressed in a red leather outfit. Different pieces of lingerie are fanned out around it. When I step closer, I can see the mannequin’s bedazzled nipples. I can’t imagine anyone seriously buying this stuff. I’d never wear it in front of anyone, except maybe Claudia and Lydia as a joke.
“Why are we in the BDSM section?” Lydia asks. “We’re supposed to be looking for a vibrator. It shouldn’t take this long to find a vibrator in a sex store.”
“Maybe we should check the queer section for that.” Claudia grabs my hand. I blink in surprise as she drags me to another aisle. “Oh shit, look. An aphrodisiac cookbook! Maybe that would help you out with your lover boy, Simone.”
“Hey,” I protest. “It’s feminist to be bad at cooking. Fighting against gender roles and stuff.”
“No.” Claudia gives me a blank stare. “Thos
e things have nothing to do with each other.”
“Guys, look at this.” Lydia holds up a book called The Virtuous Slut. It takes all my effort not to snort out loud, especially since Ashley is eyeing us like we need help. “This looks like something Miranda Crossland would gift to me.”
“Don’t even mention her name in my presence,” Claudia says, turning away. “I don’t want to think about that bitch.”
“She’s the reason we met Simone, though.” Lydia tosses an arm around my shoulder. “I’d let her call me a slut again if it meant you’d come to my rescue.”
“Aw, Lydia.” I rest my head on her shoulder. “I’m touched.”
“Don’t forget who was about to punch her for you!” Claudia calls. “I was totally going to do it.”
I bet she would’ve, too. I barely knew them the day that Miranda Crossland called Lydia a slut in the cafeteria. There were tons of people around, and Miranda just screamed it out. It’s bad enough to call someone a slut, but at least do it in private. Even I understood that.
I don’t even know why she thought Lydia was a slut—maybe because she dates a lot of boys? I don’t care—but I could tell she wasn’t saying it in a friendly, joking way. She said it in a totally evil way.
Even now, I don’t know what made me step in. It was still my first week at Sacred Heart, and I’d been trying to keep a low profile. But really, some things just aren’t cool, and I knew how it felt to be taunted like that. Telling Miranda off didn’t really stop her—it just made her call me a bitch—but whatever. It led me to my two best friends.
“Why are there so many different types of condoms?” Claudia asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. They’re all piled into different clear bins the way taffy would be organized at a candy store. “I thought it was just different brands.”
I frown. “Why the hell are they flavored?”
“I don’t know.” Lydia shrugs. “I guess for oral sex.”
“Wait, what?” My head snaps in her direction. “They’re supposed to wear condoms during blow jobs?”
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