I’ve gotten stuff like this from white people. They don’t understand why I hate when people touch my hair, or they think I’m being dramatic when I say I get followed in a store. But Miles is black, just like me. I don’t know how he doesn’t get it.
“Forget it,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. Maybe I’ll track down Claudia and Lydia and we can go get food together. “I’ll see you later.”
“No, nah, come on.” He grabs my arm, and I snatch it away. “Talk to me about this. I don’t get it.”
“You don’t get it?” My voice rises. “Miles, if one of them saw you outside their house at night, they’d call the cops. You know why?”
“It’s not about that,” he says. “It doesn’t always have to be about that all the time. It’s about the game.”
“I just…” My voice trails off as I sigh. “It would bother me is all I’m saying. Hanging out with them and knowing what I know.”
“I don’t think about it all the time.” His voice is soft. For a second, I feel like a jerk. “You don’t believe me, but it’s easy to forget about on the field. It’s like being at rehearsal. We’re all part of the same team. This stuff doesn’t matter when we’re out there together.”
“Miles,” I say, lowering my voice. “I wish…”
I take a deep breath. How do I say this?
“I don’t know,” I finally say. “Being black isn’t something you should have to forget about.”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” he says, shaking his head. “What I want to forget about—it’s not being black. It’s the way people look at me. I’m supposed to be scary on the field. It’s different than people seeing a big black kid walking down the block. You know what I mean?”
I do know what he means. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have HIV, that I didn’t have to worry about disclosing before sex, but I mostly wish I could get rid of other people’s reactions. It’s not fair for me to be mad because he loves something. Miles isn’t the one who walks around saying stupid shit.
I pull at his hand, running my thumb over his knuckles. His fingers slip through mine.
“You’re completely different from my parents,” he says, almost like an afterthought. “They’re—God, they’re so intense. Dad didn’t want me on the basketball team. I guess that’s another reason why I picked lacrosse.”
“What?” I raise a brow. “Why?”
“They didn’t want me to fulfill the stereotype,” he says, rolling his eyes. “They’re big on that. Not becoming a stereotype. I have to be better than that.”
“Wow,” I say, voice soft. Pops might’ve been irritated if I joined basketball, but that’s because he can’t stand sports. I don’t think he cares what I do, as long as I’m happy. “That’s rough.”
He laughs. A hand hovers near a spiral of my hair. I lean forward, letting him play with it. It’s starting to grow out again.
“I understand,” he says. “Sometimes it’s a lot. I don’t think racist people care if I play lacrosse or basketball, but Mom and Dad disagree.”
“I get it. They want you to be the best. You know? More than a stereotype,” I say, staring at our hands. “You already are, though. They don’t have to worry.”
“Careful,” he says. His voice is soft, like he’s afraid to speak. “It sounds like you like me again.”
“I didn’t exactly stop.”
He stares at me for an extra beat. I should say something funny, but my mind is suspiciously blank.
“Hold on,” Miles says. He startles me by plopping down on the locker room floor, rolling up his jeans. “I wanna show you something.”
“What are you doing?” My eyes dart from his hands to his face, but he doesn’t meet my eye. If he wanted to strip down in front of me, I’m sure there would be easier ways to do it. “Miles…”
Now I see it: a huge scar, so lightly colored that it looks out of place. The scar isn’t in a cool shape, or even fully healed, like the one Harry Potter has on his forehead. It looks like it might collapse into itself if I touch the skin. It looks like it should still hurt. I wince.
“The doctors had to slice through to fix the bone,” he says, patting a little above the scar. “I thought it would look better once the cast came off.”
“Yeah, well…at least you still have your face.”
Fuck. Why don’t I think about the shit that comes out of my mouth? I glance up in horror.
“Wow.” Miles just smiles at me, shaking his head. “What a heartfelt reaction.”
“It’s not such a big deal.” I shrug, moving closer to him. “If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me. Everyone has a scar. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah.” He bites his lip. “I just wanted to show you. I don’t have HIV or anything, but you should see something I’ve never shown anyone else. The guys on the team all saw me get hurt—this douche from another team checked me, and his teammates basically trampled me—but they haven’t actually seen the scar.”
“Oh.” That’s strangely sweet, even if it sounds painful. “Well, I’m glad you showed it to me. I’m honored.”
It’s a joke, but he doesn’t smile. I realize he needed to hear that.
He’s closer to me now, his shoulder bumping against mine. Sometimes, when Miles sits next to me, it feels like his body can block everything out. Like he can stop anything bad from existing just by being here.
We’re quiet, leaning against one another, and the gravity of the moment strikes me. This is more than sweet. It’s like…the way my parents look at each other sometimes, or something out of a love story full of symbolism and heartfelt declarations.
Or maybe I’m just taking this too seriously. I clear my throat.
“But you know that you aren’t the only person who knows I’m positive, right?” I say, breaking the silence. “So mine isn’t a total secret like yours. You have to stop showing me up!”
“Hey,” he says, turning to look at me. “Don’t worry about that. I wanted to show you anyway.”
It just seems like he’s better at this stuff than me—always knowing how to say the right thing. I pull his hand up to my mouth, kissing the knuckles. He watches me with dark eyes. Just because he’s better at this doesn’t mean I can’t try.
“Come on,” I say, tugging at his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
Fisherman’s Wharf is a tourist area, and if there’s one thing I hate more than racist white boys, it’s tourist areas. It’s always filled to the brim with confused travelers and their cameras, smelling of dead ocean creatures and fried food. Combine that with the fact that it’s Saturday and it makes for an hour of irritation. I never would’ve come here on my own. This is what I get for telling Miles to pick the place.
“Come on.” He notices my expression and tosses an arm around me. “Don’t be like that. I wanted to do something fun. I figured we could go to Ghirardelli Square and get ice cream or something.”
It’s not the first time he’s put an arm around me, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. But I like Miles touching me. I like that he’s taller than me, and that I can lean into him. I like this more than I realized I could.
“Simone?” He nudges me. “You wanna stay?”
“Have you ever thought about how weird San Francisco is?” I say, touching the arm that’s wrapped around me. “Like, I love it here. But it’s expensive for no reason and mostly everyone is poor. Except, like, all the tech bros.”
“Both of my parents are in business.” Miles shakes his head. “Even then, I don’t know how they do it. I won’t be able to be like them.”
“Why not?” I glance up at him. “You’re smart.”
If Miles is worried about surviving in business, of all things, how would I ever survive as a director? How would I even make it to Broadway, in between trying to e
at and finding a place to sleep without going completely broke?
“Smart people don’t always have money,” he says. “Black people are smart and we’re, like, all poor because—you know why. Even rich black people have less money than rich white people.”
I wish there were an option for us to turn off racism. I would never want to stop being black, but if I could control the way that society shapes us, I totally would.
“I know,” I say, sighing. “I just—”
“Simone? What are you doing here?”
I glance up and frown. Ralph from Group stands in front of me, surprise in his eyes. Fuck. If I had seen him earlier, I would’ve found a place to hide. The last thing I want is one of his condescending comments while I’m hanging out with Miles.
“Hi, Ralph,” I say between clenched teeth. “This is Miles. We—”
“Miles? Wow,” he says, sticking out a hand. “I’ve never seen you around before.”
There he goes again, interrupting me just like old times.
“Did you two meet at Group?” Ralph asks, pumping Miles’s arm. His eyes lock on me. “I think I would’ve noticed someone new.”
I glare at him. We both know that Miles isn’t from Group.
“No.” Miles glances at me with furrowed brows. I let out a loud sigh. “Uh, Simone and I go to school together.”
“Oh.” He glances over at me, mouth open. I can practically see his gears turning. “You must be who Simone was talking about last time.”
I hate this kid. “Look, Ralph—”
“Well, I hope everything works out.” His smile is as fake as the Christmas tree we’re using in the show. “Nice to see you, Simone. And great to meet you, Miles.”
He walks away before I can get another word in, the stupid jerk.
“Wait,” Miles says, blinking at Ralph’s retreating form. “Who is he? What just happened?”
“He’s only the worst person in the history of the world.” I groan, tossing my head back. “We’re in the same support group together. It’s a long story.”
“You talked about me at a support group?”
“Well, yeah.” I take a step forward. “It’s an HIV support group. I was really nervous about—you know—telling you.”
“Oh.” It’s hard to read his expression. His hands are in his pockets, and he stares up at the seagulls flying around in the air.
My cheeks are hot. Group never seemed embarrassing before, but then again, I’ve never talked about Group to a boy before. Hell, I barely even talk in Group. I almost wish I hadn’t said anything—but then I never would’ve had the nerve to tell Miles. He needed to know everything even though it was nerve-wracking as hell; I’m glad he knows. But that doesn’t make me less embarrassed. Ugh, screw Ralph.
“Wait.” His hand reaches out, grazing mine. “Simone.”
I allow myself to glance up at him. His smile isn’t as happy as it usually is. It looks like his mouth wants to frown and he’s fighting it.
“You don’t have to feel sorry for me,” I say. “And I promise I didn’t say anything weird. I just wanted advice.”
“I don’t…No, that’s not it.” He swallows. “It sounds like it took a lot for you to tell me.”
“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my head. “It did.”
“But I’m glad.” His index finger traces patterns on the back of my hand. “That you did it, I mean. I’m really, really glad.”
Suddenly, it’s hard to swallow. I spent so much time worrying about what he would think and how he would react. Never did I let myself even consider the possibility of this. I lick my lips, glancing down at our hands. It’s only been a little while, but I’ve gotten used to how they look when they’re intertwined. They complement each other.
“Me too,” I say, voice thick. “I’m glad you listened.”
CHAPTER 22
“You still use your locker?”
“Well, yeah,” I say, spinning the combination. “When did I say I’d stop?”
It’s only mid-November, but it feels like the rainy season has already started. Kids drip through the hallways, toting raincoats and umbrellas. Lydia manages to wear her raincoat the entire day like it’s a fashion statement. Claudia just doesn’t care. Currently, she’s trying not to make eye contact with me, like she’s been doing ever since I ditched them at GSA.
I expected her to ambush me, rant about what a horrible friend I am or something, but she never did. She’s just stopped talking. Lydia glances at her every once in a while, like she’s trying to encourage Claudia to speak to me, but it doesn’t work.
She can’t ignore me forever. Right?
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea since you started getting those notes,” Lydia says. “It doesn’t feel right. Like you’re falling into a trap.”
“It’s fine,” I say, pulling out my jacket. As far as I can see, there isn’t any note. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Really. There’s nothing there.”
My locker isn’t what Lydia needs to be worried about, not since that note showed up at my house. But she doesn’t know about that. No one does. If I told her, she’d tell the principal on my behalf, and then all the secretaries would know my business. Who knows how fast news spreads in the teacher’s lounge?
“Seriously. I can handle it.”
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
“What about Miles?”
My eyes snap to Claudia. She’s staring straight at me, for the first time in ages.
“Uh.” I tug at my backpack straps. “What about him?”
“Does he know about the notes?”
“No.”
“Maybe he should.”
“Why?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“You’re getting them because of him,” she snaps. Then, lower: “And blowing us off because of him, too.”
“What?”
She raises a brow, as if daring me to disagree. I hold back a groan.
It’s not Miles’s fault I skipped GSA—it was mine. I don’t want her to blame him. I want to talk to her about what it’s like to officially date Miles, how we stare across the classroom during AP US History, making a game out of trying not to get caught. I want to tell her about trading the lucky sweatshirt back and forth, how I pretend I don’t sit around my house with it on, the scent of Miles around me while I watch TV. But I know Claudia doesn’t want to hear it.
“I swear to God, you are so far gone,” she says. We walk down the hallway, with Lydia on the left and me on the right, like always, but the tension between us is far from normal. “Do you ever stop to think about anything else?”
“You brought him up,” I say, balancing my books in one hand while holding my jacket in the other. “And anyway, you know I think about other things.”
“Like what?”
“Like…musicals,” I say. “And food. I’m always thinking about food.”
“Is that why you hang out with him?” Lydia raises a teasing brow. “Because he buys you food?”
I’m startled at her voice. Almost irritated. She and Claudia were friends before I came along. If anyone can get Claudia off my back, it’s her. But she doesn’t say anything about our weird confrontation, just like she hasn’t said anything about GSA. She just grabs a book off the stack I’m carrying.
“I pay for stuff,” I protest. “I’m gonna pay for my own stuff today.”
“Yeah, sure.” Claudia scoffs. “I’m sure you’ll have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m surprised Miles isn’t broke yet,” Claudia says, not looking at me. “You go out for lunch so much. I’m sure he’s spent a fortune.”
“Okay, what’s up?” I stop walking. “Are you still pissed about Friday? Just yell at me so we can get over this.”
Claudia frowns. “It
’s not—”
“Um, guys?”
Lydia holds my copy of Hamlet open in one hand and a square piece of white paper in the other. Shit. My legs stutter, textbooks toppling out of my hands.
Claudia snatches the paper and reads aloud:
Thanksgiving is less than two weeks away. End it.
“Who the fuck is this kid again?”
My stomach rolls. I swallow to keep from throwing up.
“I’m so sorry, Simone,” Lydia says, bending down to help. “I thought the notes stopped coming.”
That’s what I had hoped. I can’t bring myself to touch any of the other books. How the hell did the note get in there? It couldn’t have been slipped through the vents like the others.
I figured that telling Miles would give the note-leaver less power, but they could still tell everyone else about my secret. In some ways, it could be worse than what happened at my old school. People wouldn’t just give me a hard time; they’d bother my friends, and Miles, too.
A shiver runs through me. I didn’t even notice Eric go anywhere near my locker.
“Why don’t you tell the principal?” Lydia asks. “This isn’t getting any better. I know you don’t want to, but I don’t think it would be so bad for one person to know, especially if they’ll help make this go away.”
“No,” I sigh, grabbing my books and rising to my feet. “Not unless I absolutely have to.”
“Well,” Claudia says. “What else can you do?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just don’t know.”
The two of them share a glance. Lydia and Claudia are the smartest people I know, and even they don’t know what to do. Telling the principal isn’t a bad idea, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
“Is something going on?”
At the sound of Miles’s voice, I crumple the note in my hand. There’s no way in hell he’s seeing this.
“Nothing. I just dropped my books,” I say, gesturing to the pile with my chin. “You know Claudia and Lydia, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, frowning. I’m sure it’s obvious something is wrong, but that doesn’t mean I have to admit it. “It’s cool to see you guys. Do you wanna come out to lunch with us?”
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