Claudia texts me back right away: The question is, are YOU?
I tap my fingers on the screen. If I lie, she’ll be able to tell. It’s the reason I’ve been avoiding their Google Hangouts. I turned off notifications on all my apps, mostly because Miles keeps texting me stupid apologies. I don’t want to think about him. And yet here I am, doing exactly that.
I don’t know how this works. I’m not sure if we’re broken up, if I can just keep ignoring him, or if we actually have to talk about this. Maybe I’ll just switch schools and won’t have to deal with it at all.
I sigh into my pillow. Breaking up sounds so final. There will be other people, of course, but there will never be another Miles. Dave has told me about the girls he’s dated, but he talks about them the way adults talk about high school girlfriends: with the knowledge that they were just a way to bide time.
I don’t want Miles to be someone I forget about. I don’t want to lose his smile or the way he live-texts musicals or his stupid lacrosse obsession. I’d miss the way he looks so serious when we watch movies together and the tenor of his voice when he speaks. But every time I think of him, there’s this pang in my chest. He was so cool when I told him about having HIV. He acted like it wasn’t a big deal at all. But then his parents got involved, and some kind of switch flipped. It was like he couldn’t even talk. Maybe he just didn’t want to. Maybe he didn’t feel like I was worth it in the end.
“Everything all right in here?”
I freeze, glancing at the door. Dad is standing with Pops, which is weird. He must’ve gotten someone to cover for him at work, and that takes a lot of string-pulling.
“Yeah,” I say, gesturing to my phone. “I was just watching something funny.”
“So,” Pops says, walking in. “Jesse Harris.”
“Yeah.” I pick at my fingernails. “Him.”
“He wrote you an apology.” Pops holds up an envelope. “Principal Decker suggested it.”
“Wait, so she spoke to him?” I ask. “How did he even find out? Was he lying about the hospital?”
“Well,” Dad says. “I think he wrote about that.”
“Oh.” I stare down at my bedspread, blinking. “That’s—wow.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
“It doesn’t make any sense, trying to piece it together,” Pops says, sitting down on my bed. “That kid must be really troubled.”
Jesse likes Miles. Maybe, if he weren’t so horrible, I could feel bad for him. I guess I could tell Miles, but it would just make me feel worse. It would be super weird, for one thing. And it’s—I don’t know. It seems private. I respect that sort of thing.
“Yeah.” I run a finger along my bedspread. “I guess so.”
“It’s true,” Dad says, settling beside him. “Emotionally healthy people don’t do things like this.”
They’re taking their science-based, levelheaded approach to this, like they usually do. I can’t remember what they said to me about Sarah—I think Dad tried to say that she was jealous of me, which just made things worse. All I could think about was that I could’ve stopped it if I just kept my mouth shut.
I’m not sure what I could’ve done to make this situation better. Going to the principal at the first sign of trouble would’ve been best, for sure. I’d also skip over the part where I accused my best friends of being manipulative traitors.
“You don’t have to worry about him, even though I know it doesn’t help,” Pops says, sliding the letter toward me. “He’s suspended for the rest of the school year, and even then, the principal says they’re thinking of not inviting him back.”
“That’s good.” I stare down at the letter. By January of next year, I’ll know where I’m going to college. “Would—would it be weird if I wanted to study theater in college?”
I can’t believe I just asked that. Right now, of all times.
“Of course not,” Pops says, surprise clear in his voice. I glance up to see the same emotion in his eyes. “Why would it be?”
“I just…” I don’t know how to explain myself. Why would it be weird? “Because I’d be trying to follow this path that doesn’t have a clear start and the two of you have such good jobs and San Francisco is so expensive and so is New York—”
“Cariño,” Dad says. He doesn’t say anything else, so I look up at him. It looks like his eyes are watering. Damn, I hate when they cry around me. “Do you know that I wasn’t always going to be a doctor?”
“No.” I bite my lip. “I thought you knew you wanted to be a doctor after Tía Camila almost got pregnant? That’s what she told me.”
“What?” His brows furrow. “No. I—well, I was going to be a contractor. Your abuelo wanted me to work with him. I knew that it was expected of me ever since I was young. But as I started working, I noticed something. Business wasn’t always great. We borrowed a lot of money to stay afloat.”
“Well, yeah, that makes sense,” I say. “Nothing’s always great.”
“That’s the point,” he says, taking my hand. “That was the moment I realized that I could fail at something I didn’t even like. It would be so much better to fail at something I love than something that already makes me miserable.”
It makes so much sense that it makes my throat ache. I glance down at my lap. Could it really be that simple? It seems like most adults have jobs that make them miserable. Spending my life wishing for something else almost seems like a rite of passage. But I guess it doesn’t have to be. Dr. Khan doesn’t seem miserable. Neither does Mr. Palumbo, or Auntie Jackie.
“Simone,” Pops says. “You’re the strongest person I know. And that’s saying something, since I was in the army.”
I snort. “And…,” Dad says. He hesitates, glancing at Pops. “Your birth mother would be proud of you, too. I wish we could tell you more about her, but we just don’t know.”
“We do know that she loved you,” Pops says. “Anyone could tell. We tried to stay in contact for as long as we could.”
“I remember you talking about her,” I say. They’re dim memories, but still there. “She really liked the name Simone, right? When you told her, she said it reminded her of—”
“—of Nina Simone,” they finish together. It’s a little spooky. They share another glance before Dad clears his throat.
“We’re so proud of you,” Dad says, squeezing my hand. “You know that, don’t you? We don’t say it all the time, but you have to know.”
I stare at the two of them, the people I don’t look like, but who love me and raised me and taught me how to feel.
“I know,” I say, giving them a small smile. “I love you guys.”
I wait until they leave to read it.
Dear Simone,
I don’t know what I can say to make this better, but they told me that writing a letter was one of the things I had to do. So look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Actually, I kind of wanted you to hurt a little bit. My dad died last year, but I used to go to all his doctor’s appointments with him. I used to see you around the hospital all the time. When Palumbo introduced you the first day of rehearsal, I knew I recognized you from somewhere. I used to walk around when I was waiting for my dad, and I would see you a lot. I don’t know why it made me so pissed that you were laughing with other kids, but it just did.
I don’t know. When my dad told me he had HIV, I didn’t think he was going to die, but he never took any of his pills. It happened so fast. Ever since he died, things have been a mess. My mom has a second job and the house feels empty without my dad. Nothing is the same, no matter how hard I pretend.
I guess it just felt like you were pretending. I would see you in the hallway with your friends or whatever and it didn’t feel fair that you were just acting so normal. It’s like, people with HIV are sick. You’re supposed to a
ct sick. And everyone is miserable when they’re positive—at least my dad was—so I figured you would be.
It didn’t seem fair. I don’t know how else to describe it.
I’ve known Miles for a long time. He’s always lived next door, but I really got the chance to know him better this year. It doesn’t help that, you know, I like guys and he obviously doesn’t feel the same way. They’re telling me I should write that it isn’t your fault, and it isn’t. I guess none of this stuff is your fault. I don’t know why I’m telling you so much, either, but I guess you deserve answers.
I don’t really know what I can say to make any of this better, like I said before. I’m sorry that things got so messed up for you. I can’t say that I didn’t know this stuff would happen, because I didn’t really think about what would happen. I just—I couldn’t believe that you were positive and everything was working out so well for you—so different from my dad. It didn’t feel fair.
So anyway. I’m getting kicked out of school, and you’ll probably leave. It’s like the balancing at the end of Hamlet that we talked about in English.
I’m sorry again,
Jesse
CHAPTER 33
Friday comes before I’m ready. I’ve spent three months imagining how I would react on opening night. I know this isn’t Broadway, but it’s the first time I’ve been trusted to direct an entire show. I owe it to everyone to show up. That’s what I told myself on the ride over, anyway.
I take a deep breath, pulling my bag over my shoulder. All students involved with the play are supposed to enter through the side door to the auditorium. But as I walk over, my pace slows. There’s a gigantic crowd clustered near the main door. I’m far enough that I can’t see every face, but there are too many people there to just be parents.
“I can’t believe they’re continuing with the play,” a woman says. She’s practically yelling, so loud the strained pitch of her voice can be heard above the crowd’s murmuring. “It was an inappropriate choice in the first place, but now, with that student director? Are they trying to make some sort of statement?”
My stomach flips. Forget it. I can’t do this. Nothing like this should be happening. Not today, not at this school.
I dart in through the side door, keeping my head down as I walk to the end of the hallway. My best option for a hiding spot is the prop closet. Everything we need is already backstage, so no one will bother me there. I make a beeline for it, cracking the door open and slipping inside.
As legs shuffle past, I pull myself deeper into the closet. The door doesn’t lock, but there’s enough room for me to curl up out of sight.
“Some of them are complaining about Simone,” a nearby voice says. It might be the new crew chief, a girl named Katie. “I’m not sure if anyone should sit outside and take tickets. They’re being so rude.”
“They’re not being violent, are they?” That’s Mr. Palumbo. His deep, gentle voice always reminds me of Mr. Feeny from Boy Meets World, but I can hear stress underneath it. I can’t imagine how he’s dealing right now, especially since he and Ms. Klein aren’t on speaking terms.
“No, I don’t think so,” Katie says. “That would be a little extreme.”
“I’ve never seen something like this happen,” Mr. Palumbo admits. Then he catches himself. “Listen, go get Ms. Klein and tell her to ask some of the teacher volunteers to stand outside to hand out the pamphlets. I’ll try to handle some of their concerns.”
“All right,” Katie says. “Are we still starting on time?”
“We should be,” he says. “Have you seen Simone?”
I grip the door handle. I can’t bear to talk to Mr. Palumbo right now. Last time was painful enough, and it was barely a conversation.
I sigh, glancing around my hiding place. There are different hats all over the closet. A sparkly pink cowboy hat and a wedding veil are the closest two things I can see. Piles of half-opened boxes take up the rest of the space.
“I’m going to look for her,” I hear Mr. Palumbo say. “Worst-case scenario, we can start the show without her. But I just don’t think that would be fair. Are you sure you saw her come in?”
“Definitely,” Katie says. “She walked right past me and didn’t say anything.”
Shit. I guess I wasn’t as sneaky as I thought.
“All right,” Mr. Palumbo says. “I’ll look for her.”
I know I’m letting him down. Palumbo picked me because he believed in me. Kids have spent hours memorizing lines and learning songs, painting sets, and learning where props get placed during the few seconds of darkness onstage. This show is the result of a bunch of hard work from all sorts of different people—including Palumbo. I can’t just leave him hanging.
And I can’t let myself down, the girl who wanted to direct The Lion King or Phantom of the Opera one day, whose ultimate dream was to direct a production of Hamilton. But I’ll never do any of that if I hide. I can’t even hide the thought I’ve been trying to control for the longest time—that my biological mother would be disappointed in me. She never got to know me, but I think she would be disappointed if I sat this one out.
I would be disappointed in me.
Someone knocks on the door of the prop closet. I freeze. No one would knock if they didn’t think someone was in here. It’s a fucking closet.
“Simone?” Miles says, voice a question. “Are you there?”
I bite my lip. There’s silence on the other side of the door. He might leave if I just stay quiet long enough.
“I can see your shoes,” he says after a few moments. “So I know you’re there.”
“Maybe I don’t want to talk.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he nudges the door open. He’s wearing all black underneath a lacrosse jersey. It’s weird to see him looking so awkward. I’ve seen him nervous before, but never like this.
“Are you crying?” His voice drops several octaves.
“No,” I say, scrubbing at my face just to prove it. Maybe my eyes were watering before, but I swear there weren’t any tears. “I’m just trying to avoid everyone. That’s all.”
He gives a slow nod, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Right now, liking him isn’t as simple as it was when we were watching Netflix together or hanging out on park benches. It wasn’t simple when we were hanging out in his kitchen, either, but it felt that way. Now everyone else has become part of this thing that was just supposed to be between us.
“So,” he says, walking into the closet. I don’t move to make room for him, but he scrunches himself between two of the shelves anyway. “I totally get if you don’t want to see me again. But I wanted to see you.”
“Even though I’m a pariah?” I snort. “Everyone hates me, and most of them don’t even know me—including your parents. You didn’t even stand up for me.”
“That’s not fair.” He bites his lip. “I tried to.”
“Not fair?” I shake my head. “You know what’s not fair? What I have to deal with right now. You’ve never had to deal with this. It’s like…there’s this abyss, and I’m on one side with my family and the few other people who actually get it, and then everyone else is on the other side. I thought you were on my side. I need people on my side. It’s hard right now, but it’s so much harder when it’s just me, and I felt totally alone when you sat there and didn’t say anything.”
“Simone. God, I…” He opens his mouth, floundering, before it closes. “I never wanted to make you feel like that. It wasn’t…It probably doesn’t help, but I didn’t…I just froze. I’m not used to fighting with my parents.”
I stare at my knees. I don’t know what to say.
“But I did,” he says. “As soon as we were in the parking lot. I told them everything they said was bullshit and you acted a million times better than they did, even though you’re s
till just a kid.”
My eyes snap up. “You said that?”
“Yeah,” he says. “And some other things. They weren’t happy—I’m totally grounded now—but it was the truth. I should’ve said it during the actual meeting. I’m so sorry.”
I can’t picture him cursing at his parents. Because of me.
“Thanks,” I say softly. “That was pretty decent of you.”
He stares at me for a second, like he’s waiting for something else, but I just stare back at him. I’m impressed at what he did, but it’s not like we’re going to make out now.
“Are you just gonna stay here?” he asks, changing the subject. “You’re not going to go out and see the awesome play you’ve spent all of this time directing? Why’d you even come?”
He’s right. I came because I wanted to see it. I know it’s going to be amazing. I wanted to be proud of everyone in front of my family, in front of my friends, but also in front of people I don’t know. I wanted to watch their faces when they saw these kids singing about things that a lot of us can’t even understand, even though we all connect to love and fear and death. But that’s a really long answer.
“I don’t know…,” I say, staring at the door. “I thought I wanted to see the show, but…They’re all angry because of me, not because of what anyone else did. They’re angry because of something I can’t even control.”
“But it’s not your fault,” he presses. “You can’t—I know it has to be hard, but you worked so hard on this. You can’t let them take it away from you.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” I ask, looking over at him. “Am I supposed to ignore them? What if they see me? What if they disrupt the show? That means I’ve ruined the show for everyone.”
“You don’t have to be alone, though,” he says, voice earnest. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m here, and your teachers and your friends and your family. You’re not going to be alone. If they want to scream at you, they have to come through me.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“No, I do,” he says, sliding closer to me. “I definitely mean it. I’m not letting you down again. Especially because I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”
Full Disclosure Page 22