“Are those flowers for us?” Dad asks, rising to his feet. He takes the bouquet, clapping Miles on the back. “That’s so thoughtful of you.”
“I hope you treat Simone well,” Abuelo says, stirring his cup of coffee. “I have many stories of what we used to do to Camila’s boyfriends when she was young.”
“Strung them up by their toes.” Tía Camila nods, tapping her fork against her plate. “Right up with the Mexican flag, so everyone in the neighborhood knew we meant business.”
Miles swallows. If he were any other boy, I wouldn’t mind watching him squirm. But it’s Miles, so I swing my arm around his waist and stick out my tongue at Tía Camila.
“If Simone likes him, I’m sure he’s a fine young man,” Abuela says, tutting. “Come, come sit down. We’re looking at pictures of Javier.”
“That’s my dad,” I say to Miles, sitting next to Abuela. He sits on the arm of the couch, peering over my shoulder. “Pops is Paul.”
“Mr. Hampton,” Pops says, narrowing his eyes. “That’s still my name.”
Abuela is too caught up in her photo albums to comment. She points at a picture of Dad when he was a baby, drowning in a white baptism gown.
“He was such a cute little thing,” she says, shaking her head. “To think that he could’ve been Valeria.”
I raise a brow. “What?”
“We all thought your dad was going to be a girl,” Tía Camila says, glancing over at Dad. He doesn’t say anything, but takes a sip of his brandy. “I was so excited about having a little sister. Mama had a name picked out and everything.”
“I loved the name Valeria, but your abuelo named Camila,” Abuela says, glaring at him. “And I got the second baby. I thought it would be another girl, but we got Javier.”
“You sound so disappointed,” Dave says, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Well, we love him anyway,” Abuelo says, picking up his own drink. “And not just because we’re obligated to.”
Pops chuckles, flipping to the next page. It’s a picture of my dads, but they look young enough to be around my age. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but they were definitely young. Dad is wearing a blazer, and Pops has a big old Afro. Nicer than mine.
“Look at the Wonder Years,” Tía Camila says, a soft smile on her lips. “I can’t believe you two were that young.”
“Is this when you first met?” I ask. I’ve seen the pictures before, but they sometimes get blurred in my memory. It’s crazy to see how much they’ve grown, how long they’ve known each other. They’re leaning against a wall, just like bros. Not sure how long that period lasted.
“Well, I came up to New York back when Javier was there,” Pops says, stroking his chin. “It was my first time out of North Carolina, and I didn’t know anyone. These folks were my second family during school, and the rest is history.”
“You were already like our son back then,” Abuela says. “I knew that you fit in as soon as you got here.”
“Well, nothing happened at first,” Dad says, seeming almost uncomfortable. “We were friends for a while, and then I met Miriam.”
I glance at Dave. When his mom comes up in conversation, it’s usually because he mentions her, not someone else. It’s hard to guess what he’s thinking now. His face is made of stone. Pops flips to the next page. It’s Dad and Pops on the day of their wedding. I’m so little—maybe three or four years old, but I don’t remember exactly.
“Wow,” Miles says, glancing at me like he’s read my mind. “You were so small. Look at your hair.”
It’s the hairstyle every black girl has at one point: cornrows with multicolored beads attached at the end. I can still hear the click-clack that accompanied each of my footsteps.
“She was,” Pops says, smiling at me. “I don’t know what happened.”
I give him a teasing shove.
“Dios mío, the wedding,” Abuela says. “What a day. I saw it coming from the moment you two met. Even when you weren’t together, it was always clear that you were meant to be.”
Dave slams his glass down so hard that it cracks. I freeze in place. Silence echoes around the living room. His jaw moves up and down as he balls his hands into fists. I’ve seen him pissed and irritated, but not this angry.
“I don’t need to hear about this,” he says, his voice low. “And I don’t need to hear you talk about me and my mother like we were just mistakes on your road to happily ever after.”
He gets up, turning out of the room. I blink as he walks out, but all my words are gone.
“I’ll be back,” Dad grumbles. “Give me a minute.”
He rolls up his sleeves, footsteps heavy as he leaves the room. Miles nudges my shoulder, but I don’t look at him. I find my eyes drawn to the broken glass on the table. We only use these glasses when guests come over. Dave was drinking out of one of them.
“No me mientas,” Dave says from the other room. His voice is loud enough to vibrate the walls; I guess he was barely able to hold it in. “Am I supposed to think you aren’t happier with this new life of yours?”
I can’t hear what Dad is saying, but there’s a murmuring that must be him. I don’t know what he could say to make this situation any better. This will be hanging over us all weekend.
“I did not cheat on your mother,” Dad snaps. “And I will not have you speak to me without any respect—”
“Why should I have respect for someone who disrespects me?”
“Who wants seconds on dessert,” Abuela says, rubbing her hands together. “So that we don’t have to listen to this.”
Abuelo grinds his teeth, the same way Dave and Dad do. It’s weird to see the same mouth on three different people.
“It’s all right for him to be upset,” Pops says, his voice so quiet that I almost can’t hear it. “It can be hard.”
All I can think about is how he would never take any of this shit from me. Then again, I’m his kid. Dave isn’t. To Dave, Pops is the guy who strolled in and messed up his family. I don’t want to think about how our house, the house where fights don’t feel so loud and I don’t get in trouble, exists because Dave had to grow up without Dad.
Part of me wants to punch Dave for making everyone feel bad. But at the same time, it’s not fair. I know it isn’t. I just wish they wouldn’t fight, especially with Miles here.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, eager for the distraction. Jesse’s calling me. I frown. We’ve been texting more lately, but it still feels weird for him to call on Thanksgiving. I excuse myself to the hall. By then, the phone has stopped ringing, but there’s a text from him on the home screen: Is Miles at your house? Below the text are notifications for four missed calls. All from Jesse.
Did something happen? I call Jesse’s number back, leaning against the wall.
“Hey.” His voice is short, blunt. “Is Miles there?”
“Uh, why?” I glance back at the dining room. Tía Camila gestures with her fork while Miles listens intently to something she’s saying. Abuelo shakes his head. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, it’s just that I went over to his house to hang out,” Jesse says. “And he just left a little while ago, and that doesn’t make any sense, since it’s Thanksgiving. So I figured he must be there.”
My spine tingles. Creepy.
“Look,” I say, resting an arm on my stomach. “It’s none of your business if he is here, Jesse.”
“But it actually is.” Another heavy breath. “Someone has to look out for Miles.”
“What?” He isn’t making any sense. “Jesse, what are you talking about?”
“You walk around pretending all the time,” he says, words rushed. “You can’t just lie to him, Simone. It’s not fair. He could get sick.”
Fuck. Out of all the people I considered, I never focused on Jesse. We were supposed to be friends. New fr
iends, but still, I never would’ve expected this from him. Bile rises in my throat.
“It’s none of your business,” I repeat. My ears are ringing. “Jesse, we’re in the show together. If you wanted to know more about me, I don’t know why you didn’t—”
“It’s not all about you,” he snaps. “If you really cared about him, you wouldn’t even—”
“Oh.” My hand clenches as it dawns on me. “I’m not the only one who likes him, am I?”
The other end of the line is silent, but I know I’m right. Jesse was there when Miles and I kissed outside the auditorium and in the hallway. He lives next door to Miles, so he always sees when I’m there. That’s why he left the notes. He cares about Miles. All the times I talked to him during rehearsal, he wasn’t interested in what I had to say. He just wanted to know more. He wants to protect Miles from me.
“It doesn’t matter.” He sighs like this is a huge weight on him. “It’s Thanksgiving, and you’re out of time.”
“What does that mean?”
The line goes dead.
Fuck.
CHAPTER 28
After Jesse hangs up, I fumble with my phone, checking my texts for any sign of trouble. My notifications are suspiciously blank. I guess it makes sense, since I’m not talking to Claudia and Lydia and Miles is in the living room, but it’s eerie, like a digital ghost town.
Come on, Simone, think. If you were Jesse, how would you spread something like this to as many people as possible? Sarah texted everyone she knew when she found out about my status, but that doesn’t seem like Jesse’s style.
I scroll through the apps on my phone. Instagram? No, everything is out of order. Not enough people would see it at the same time. He could’ve used Snapchat, but when I open the app, it’s just videos of people singing at parties or sitting with their families for dinner.
Where else could he reach a bunch of people at once?
Oh shit. I hit the Twitter icon, but the blue opening screen takes longer to go away than usual. It never takes this long to load. I jab at the screen with my thumb. Come on, come on, come—
The tweet at the top of my timeline is from the Sacred Heart Drama Department account.
New student director, Simone Garcia-Hampton, has HIV. I’ve seen her getting treatment from St. Mary’s Hospital, so I know it’s true. Consider yourself warned.
There are a hundred mentions underneath the original tweet, stretching on and on.
@MattlegQuagga: [GIF of Steve Carell grimacing]
@Purebob7777: Oh my god, do I need to get tested?????
@TinyAngel: It could just be a rumor but I don’t know
@Heydayfix_97: Oh boo hoo!! Are we supposed to care that she made bad decisions?
@Bellswas: this is what happens when you sleep around i mean we dont even know where she came from
My phone shakes in my hands, tears blurring my vision. I kept pretending this wouldn’t happen until it did. I thought I could stop it by being—what, proud of myself for kissing a boy? God, I’m such an idiot.
Somehow, my feet lead me toward the living room. I can’t look at anyone’s face. I can’t give myself away. I don’t need to cry in front of Abuela, who will hold me until every last tear is squeezed out.
“Simone?” Miles reaches for me, but I jerk away. I don’t know how to explain something like this to him. He wouldn’t get it. No one here would. I don’t even get it.
Dave and Dad are still yelling in the next room. I can hear someone talking to me, though I’m not sure what they’re trying to say. It’s like everything is inside out. My feet lead me out the door, into the brisk night. I wrap my arms around my torso, trying not to bawl the way I want to. My eyes already burn; tears already roll down my cheeks.
I’m so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This is going to be just like Our Lady of Lourdes, and there’s nothing I can even do about it. Where do I go now? I’m gonna have to finish out junior year, probably, because it’s too late to start anywhere else. And next year— Where else is there?
“Simone,” Pops says, voice exasperated. He must’ve followed me outside. “We’re already dealing with Dave here. I can’t handle you running around throwing tantrums, too.”
Throwing a tantrum? Part of me wants to snap back at him, but the rest of me—the bigger part—is just tired.
I turn to see him rubbing his forehead, a hand on his hip. I don’t say anything, just run a sleeve over my eyes. I can’t deal with him, either, not if he’s mad at me. Not right now. I don’t even know what I’m going to do. How could Jesse do something so horrible, all because I dared to like Miles?
“Pops,” I say, sniffling. “They know.”
“They? Who is they?” His eyes go hard. “And what is it they know?”
“I…There’s this boy, from Drama Club.” My throat feels like it’s burning. “He—he tweeted about it. About me. Now everyone knows that I’m positive and they all think I’m disgusting.”
I can barely make it through the story between my tears, and I feel even smaller standing outside with a short-sleeve shirt on. HIV could’ve killed me, but it didn’t get the chance. I’m stronger than HIV, but I can’t even handle a few tweets from kids I don’t know.
Pops’s face goes slack, emotionless, for half a moment. Then, “I’m calling that fucking school.”
He stomps into the house, not waiting for me to follow behind.
Maybe if I were younger, I could believe that he would fix this. When I was little, I thought Pops could do anything. Out of all the things I hold on to from my childhood—my memories, my hopes, my fears—I wish I held on to that belief. Maybe then it wouldn’t feel like the world is ending.
CHAPTER 29
Needless to say, this year’s Thanksgiving strays from tradition. Abuelo tells me that it took forever to get Miles to leave after Pops and I disappeared upstairs. Pops spent most of the weekend talking on the phone and speaking with Dad in hushed tones downstairs. It seemed like everyone wanted to talk to me—Tía Camila, Abuelo, Abuela—but they weren’t sure what to say. Even though Tía Camila reported the tweet, she couldn’t get Twitter to take it down. It wouldn’t even help. I’m sure screenshots are being passed around like gum in the middle of a boring class.
I toy with the idea of turning off my phone. It’s exploding with texts from kids from Drama and kids I’ve borrowed homework from, saying stupid things like is it time for me to get tested??? and some oddly nice things, like My prayers are with you <3. Even Mr. Palumbo texts, Here if you need to talk, champ.
Whenever I see Miles’s name, I turn away. All I can think about is how I cried in the bathroom on Thanksgiving while Abuelo asked him to leave because I wasn’t feeling well. How fucking embarrassing.
I don’t want to know what he thinks about this. I don’t want more of him being endlessly kind, especially when people will treat him differently after we go back to school. I don’t want him to be isolated like I’ll be.
I sneak a look at one of his texts, almost hoping that he’s said something ugly that would make this easier, but the first thing I see has a heart emoji. I toss my phone in my drawer.
I’m not sure which is worse: the texts from him or the ones from Claudia and Lydia, who offer to come over like I didn’t scream at them before break. Either way, I refuse to read any more of them. Thinking of my friends is like touching an open wound. It hasn’t even scabbed over, and messing around with it will only make things worse.
To my surprise, Dave makes things feel at least a tiny bit normal. Dad lets us take leftovers to his and Pops’s room and we sit together on the great big bed, watching both versions of Hairspray and Mamma Mia! and Billy Elliot. I doubt it’s all that entertaining for Dave, but he doesn’t say anything. Sometimes I randomly feel the urge to cry, like I do on my period. Dave just finds more movies—West Side Story and Singin’ in the Rain
and even The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He stands in front of the bed, dancing horribly to the Time Warp with his arms and legs flailing in all directions, until I’m laughing so hard that my face overheats.
“If you tell anyone,” he says, tossing himself back onto the bed, “I’ll deny it and no one will believe you.”
When I throw my arms around his neck, he stiffens, but still returns the hug. It must suck for him to be here, especially now, but he doesn’t fight with Dad after Thursday. For once, we’re more than Holiday Siblings.
On Sunday, I’m ambushed.
“What are you guys doing here?” I ask, turning to see Ralph, Brie, and Jack entering my parents’ room. They must feel really bad if they’re letting random kids in here. “How did you even get my address?”
“Twitter,” Brie says simply, bouncing on the bed. “And Julie gave us your address. It was probably against policy or something.”
The thought of Julie giving out my address should make me upset, but the feelings are just added to the “to-be-processed” pile at the bottom of my stomach. There’s so much shit going on that I’m running out of emotional bandwidth.
“We thought you could use some company.” Jack drops a plastic bag on the bed, pulling out a bag of Doritos and Double Stuf Oreos. “And we brought some snacks for you.”
It doesn’t make sense for a teenage boy to be so thoughtful. Jack must be a mutant or something. Miles, too. I sit up, pulling the snacks toward me. Brie pats the spot next to her, but Jack tosses himself on her lap. They collapse into a fit of giggles.
My mouth twitches into a smile, but my brain jumps to Miles. Laughing with him over Eddie Redmayne’s funny faces in Les Mis and making fun of each other for our complete inability to eat ice cream and the sunny feeling I get in my chest when I’m around him.
I feel a sharp stab of pain, too much for me to handle.
I turn my attention to the Doritos.
“I brought my laptop,” Brie says, giggles lingering. “So we can watch whatever you want, as long as it’s not horrible.”
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