Full Disclosure
Page 18
Her eyes are the widest I’ve ever seen them. I watch her mouth twitch open, but nothing comes out.
“Simone,” Lydia says, her voice soft. “Who was it?”
I blink back tears. God, I haven’t told anyone about what really happened with Sarah, and now is the absolute worst way for it to come out. I never told Claudia about it because I assumed she’d be weird. That she would accuse me of lying never crossed my mind.
“Simone.” Claudia’s voice trembles. “I didn’t—”
“Shut up.” My voice is hoarse. “Just shut up.”
“Claudia didn’t mean it. She was just—surprised,” Lydia says. She takes a long moment to swallow. “You can tell us who it was. I promise.”
“Why should I believe you?” I say, turning to her. “You just sat there and let her scream at me.”
“It’s because—”
“I don’t care.” It’s getting harder to talk with the tears stuck in my throat. “It’s like I get a boyfriend and I don’t know how to handle it and instead of talking to me, you guys just turn on me. Friends aren’t supposed to do that. Friends still act like friends. Claudia is shitty all the fucking time and I never tell her to break up with her girlfriend.”
Claudia bites her lip. “It’s not…”
“And yeah, I did have a girlfriend,” I say. “Sarah was the first person I met at boarding school, my first kiss, my first girlfriend….I thought I could tell her I have HIV, but she said I was selfish for keeping it a secret and texted five different girls all about it. By the next day, everyone knew. It was all over those stupid parent Facebook groups. None of my friends would talk to me.”
I take a deep breath, but my chin is trembling. This is not how I wanted them to find out about Sarah. I still don’t understand what it means; does kissing her and liking it make me bisexual or pansexual or still straight? Do I have to wait to be attracted to another girl before I can declare myself anything besides straight? Do I only have to like girls? Can I like people who are feminine and not girls and still be queer? They’re all questions I used to want answers to, but now I just wish I could forget all of it.
Why can’t I have a boyfriend, a girlfriend, a person, like everyone else? The first girl who kissed me was disgusted by me. The first boy I dated was a dick. Then there’s Miles—Miles, who touches me all the time because he isn’t afraid, who kisses me on my mouth and my neck and my legs, who makes all the second-guessing go away—and I don’t even get to have him. Not with someone following us around. Not once everyone at school finds out that I have HIV.
This is how I expected my friends to act after they knew. I thought Claudia and Lydia understood, but maybe things have changed. It was okay when I was alone and pining after celebrities, but now that there’s a chance that I could actually have sex, they have to sabotage it.
A horrible thought enters my mind.
“How do I know,” I start, squeezing my eyes shut, “that you two haven’t been sending those notes?”
There’s a sharp intake of breath. I open my eyes to see Lydia’s lip trembling. Claudia’s face is pale.
“You guys don’t want me to hang out with him,” I say, wrapping my arms around my stomach. The words come out faster and faster, stumbling over each other. “It has to be you. You’re the only ones who could’ve done it, and no one else cares that I’m dating him. You’re the ones screaming at me like I tried to kill one of you and calling me a liar who begs for attention and—”
“I can’t fucking believe this.” Claudia shakes her head, stunned. “We’re your best friends, Simone. Why would we do that?”
“I don’t know,” I say, holding my hands over my eyes. I don’t want to look at them. I don’t even want to be in this car. “You aren’t telling me the truth anymore. You’re keeping things from me. You’ve been talking about me behind my back.”
“We wouldn’t do that,” Lydia says, shaking her head frantically. “Simone, I swear—”
Claudia is crying now, but I can’t look at her. I push myself out of the car and stumble to the closest bench. Only then do I stop fighting the aching in my throat. I pull my legs to my chest and cry into my arms.
CHAPTER 27
The week of Thanksgiving passes by in a blur. I move on autopilot, sitting through classes and turning in homework and staying after for rehearsal. Miles gives me rides in the morning and drops me home after school. If Dad’s home, he invites Miles in, plying him with snacks and asking questions about school or lacrosse. When Pops asks where Claudia and Lydia are, I don’t know what to tell him.
I’m so used to pulling out my phone and texting them. Everything feels different now that I can’t, like frayed electrical cords have cut me off from the rest of the world. I still have my phone and the internet, but without my friends, those things don’t really matter. Thinking about Claudia and Lydia stings almost as badly as my thoughts of Sarah do. Every time I get a text from one of them, it hurts to ignore it.
Thanksgiving isn’t even enough to make me feel better. I usually love having so many people around. We only have one guest room (thanks a lot, crazy San Francisco housing prices), and the house gets so full that I’m sure it’ll burst.
But this year, I’m not thinking about Abuela’s tamales or what stories Tía Camila will bring to share. All I can think about is Claudia and Lydia, and whether they could actually be behind these notes. It makes sense in a way that Eric never did. Abuela doesn’t let me stay in my head for long, though. She never does.
“You don’t have to worry about giving up the bed,” Abuela says, tossing her coat on the coatrack. “I can sleep on the couch this time. You’re a growing girl, and you don’t need me to take over your room.”
“She’s young,” Abuelo says, pulling in the suitcases. “I’m sure that one night on the floor isn’t going to kill her.”
“It’s great to have you all back,” Pops says, sticking his tongue out at me when their heads are turned. “I have the guest room set up. Camila, you can stay in the office—we have an air mattress up there. And Dave can sleep in Simone’s room.”
“I don’t need to sleep. I think I’m still jet-lagged,” Tía Camila says, shuffling in. She’s wearing a trench coat, probably something she bought in Paris. I swear, she’s always on a different business trip. “Mony, I’m going to tell you absolutely everything about England. You’d love West End. I’ll have to take you one day.”
“Maybe this year,” I say, forcing a smile for her. “I’ll have to beg, but the parental units might let me do it. You never know.”
Tía Camila is the coolest person in this family—besides me. Every time she comes over, I feel shy around her, like she’s a celebrity I’m finally getting the chance to meet. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, pulling me to her side.
As if on cue, Dad and Dave stumble in. Looking at the two of them, standing side by side, is like a before-and-after photo. Dave is Dad’s spitting image. Same darkly colored big eyes, same studious air, even without the glasses. The only difference is the hint of a beard growing on my half brother’s face. I don’t remember what his mother looks like—I guess I met her once, maybe a long time ago—but it must be weird for her to look at a replica of Dad all the time.
God, that whole relationship is a mess.
“Hey,” I say, wrapping my arms around him. Abuelo and Abuela always say something if they notice that we aren’t spending time together, so I usually get it over with early. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” Dave murmurs, his touch light. “How’s school?”
“Good,” I say. “How’s college?”
“It’s nice,” he says, glancing over at Dad. “Lots of intellectuals.”
It’s not just my dad, but our dad, which always trips me up. Most of the time, I don’t have to share him, except for a couple of times a year—summer vacations
and the holidays.
“You two should stop yapping and come set the table,” Abuelo calls, already in the dining room. “I didn’t come all the way to California just to miss Thanksgiving with my grandchildren.”
“Don’t forget my show, Abuelo,” I say, pressing a kiss to his cheek as I set out plates. “Even if you miss everything else and the Golden Gate Bridge, you have to stay to see the show. It’ll be worth it.”
“I love how modest you are,” Tía Camila says, sliding into her own seat. “It’s your best feature.”
“Don’t be jeaaaaalouuuuus.”
Dave glances around aimlessly. It takes me a second to remember that he doesn’t know where anything is. I leave the plates on the table, gesturing at him to stay put. I’ll grab the utensils so he doesn’t get lost.
In the kitchen, Abuela speaks rapid-fire Spanish to Dad while jabbing a finger at her tamales. Pops settles everything else on the counters: turkey, sweet potatoes, chorizo stuffing, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, rice and beans. Pecan and apple pies rest on cooling racks. I watch as Pops kicks open the fridge and pulls out an aluminum foil–covered container. Flan’s my favorite, but Dad only makes it on special occasions. My mouth waters.
“I bet your Papi’s flan isn’t as good as mine, eh, mi amor?” Abuela pulls me into her chest. I lean into the warmth, feeling five years old again. “But we love him for trying, don’t we?”
“Thanks a lot,” Dad says, rolling his eyes. “I appreciate the encouragement.”
“We’ll be out soon,” Pops says, tossing off his oven mitts. “Just give us a minute.”
Translation: Please leave. Abuela seems to get the message, pulling me toward the dining room with her.
“Did you get the forks and knives?” Dave asks, hovering near a chair. He’s the only one standing.
I glance down at my empty hands, give a sheepish shrug, and turn back toward the kitchen. As I pad down the hall, I can hear loud voices. My steps start to slow. Of course, my parents argue like normal people, but they’re always quiet when they do it. Today is the exception. They’re fighting and they’re loud and they’re not even joking with each other. What’s up?
“This isn’t exactly new,” Pops says. There’s the sound of clanking. “You knew they weren’t going to be supportive when you married me, Javier. Things aren’t going to change just because our daughter is getting older.”
“I just wished,” Dad says, his voice sharper than I’ve heard in a while. “I thought you would keep trying to contact them. You know how important family is. Simone has my family, but I don’t want her to only see people who don’t look like her.”
“She doesn’t, and you know that,” Pops says. “She has me, her friends, that boy. It isn’t like we’re raising her in the middle of a cornfield. Besides, I don’t want her main exposure to black people to be with my family. They aren’t the type she should be learning from.”
I can guess what they’re talking about. I have an Uncle Omar and a pair of grandparents on Pops’s side, but I haven’t seen them since I was little. The only thing I really remember is sitting in a corner while other kids played and ran through fresh summer grass without any shoes on. The parents steered their kids away when they took pity on me and invited me to play.
I don’t miss any of that, but I do wish that Pops had his family around us like Dad. Dad has a son from a previous marriage, for crying out loud. It’s like he has all of these ties, strong as cement, while Pops has burned all his bridges to the ground.
“Guys?” I say, sticking my head in the doorway. “I think it’s time to eat.”
“Of course.” Dad blanches, turning to Pops. “It’s time for us to bring out the food, Paul.”
Pops turns to the counter in silence.
* * *
My parents are always a little weird when Dave is around, which I get, but that doesn’t make it any less awkward. We pass dishes around the table and start dinner in silence. Abuela, never one to accept quiet, launches into a story.
“These kids these days, they stand outside our house and they just make the loudest noise,” she says, shaking her head. “I saw these boys with a flip-and-go the other day, riding around on scooters.”
“Abuela, what?”
I can’t speak to her in Spanish, but understanding her English is almost as hard.
“You know what I mean. The camera that’s always flipping.” She waves a hand in my direction. “None of them had helmets. I was so sure that one of them would end up dead, and I’d have to clean up their brains on our driveway.”
“That’s not disgusting at all,” Dave mutters under his breath.
Abuelo makes a face, like he can hear him, but I’m not sure. He tries to fool us all into thinking he’s losing his hearing, but I think that’s his sharpest skill. He catches my eye, winking.
The silence successfully broken, conversation flows naturally for a while. Pops laughs at something Abuelo says. Dad stares at him, something tender in his expression. The knot in my stomach untangles a bit.
“If you have a boyfriend, you should buy him flowers,” Dave whispers into my ear. There’s a turkey leg hanging out of my mouth. I glance up, but no one else is paying attention to him.
“I’m telling you, London is worse than here,” Tía Camila is saying. Abuelo shakes his head. “There’s so much smog, way different than fog, and it’s always dark. You should’ve seen the apartment that the company put me up in. It was actually ridiculous.”
“Don’t be such a snob, Cami,” Dad says, a teasing note to his voice. “We all can’t go jet setting around the world at the drop of a dime.”
I glance at Dave out of the corner of my eye. “Who says I have a boyfriend?”
“Dad was talking on the way back from the airport,” he says, rolling his eyes like I’m stupid. “I hear things. But anyway, boys like flowers sometimes. If he doesn’t, you should do it just to get rid of him.”
I snort, and Abuela glances over at me.
“What happened to the braids, mi amor?” she asks, running her nails through my curls. I can feel them getting stuck, even though she pretends they aren’t. “I thought they were stylish.”
“Abuela—” Dave starts. That’s the cool thing about Dave: I don’t always have to say things for him to understand.
“Leave Simone alone,” Abuelo says, clucking his tongue. “She doesn’t want your hands in her hair while we’re eating.”
Don’t get me wrong; I love both of my grandparents. But there are some things they don’t understand. Abuela is weird about my hair, while Abuelo is weird about me having HIV. He still hesitates before he kisses me. It’s probably something he thinks I won’t notice, but it’s hard not to. He holds my head in his hands and stares at me, almost like he’s not sure he should be doing it.
The doorbell rings. Dad turns to me expectantly.
“What?” I say, glancing around the table. “Everyone is already here.”
“Miles is supposed to come over for dessert,” Pops says, speaking slowly. “Don’t you remember?”
Shit. In all my wallowing, I forgot our plan. It was Dad’s idea in the first place, but Miles was all for it. I don’t mind seeing him. It’s just that doing it today feels like bad luck. With a sigh, I push myself away from the table.
“Simone has a boyfriend?” I hear Abuela say behind me. “But she’s just a baby.”
I grin, swinging the door open.
“Hey.” Miles stands on the porch. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt and holds a bouquet of lilies. “I’m not too early, am I?”
His eyes are wide as he glances into the house. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him nervous.
“You’re fine.” I glance back inside. There’s no doubt that the rest of my family is staring, waiting for me to move aside so they can get a good look
at him. I step outside, pulling the door behind me so it’s open just a crack. Miles freezes, even as I lean forward. “You’re perfect. Don’t worry about it.”
No one should be able to see us on the porch, not if we make this quick. I kiss him softly, the flowers crinkling between us. He tastes like gravy. His hand is on my neck, stroking up and down. After that afternoon in his kitchen, I figured I’d calm down, but now I just want more. More of him on his knees and more time in his room and more time touching, long strokes and hazy eyes, figuring out what works and what doesn’t.
“I still can’t believe I get to do that,” I whisper, pulling away. He has a hickey from the last time we hung out. I pull up his collar, my hand lingering near his neck. “I really like kissing you.”
“Yeah, I guess kissing you isn’t so bad,” he says, making me shove him. His mouth twitches, eyes scanning my face. “Simone—”
“Get in here, you two!” Tía Camila calls. “We need you here for dessert!”
I sigh, gesturing for him to follow me. “Okay, you know my parents. My abuela talks all the time, so don’t bother trying to get a word in. Tía Camila is really posh, like Victoria Beckham, but less mean. My abuelo is who you have to watch out for, and maybe Dave.”
“That’s your brother?”
“Right.” I pat his shoulder. “You catch on fast.”
Inside, everyone has migrated into the living room, where all the photo albums are pulled out. The smell of coffee mixes with pecan, caramel, and apples. Tía Camila holds a plate of flan, smirking in my direction.
“You’re the boyfriend,” Dave deadpans.
Abuelo narrows his eyes.
“Uh, yeah.” Miles clears his throat. “I’m Miles Austin. It’s nice to meet you.”