My Life After Now

16

Maybe I Like it This Way




The next day, in Andre’s homeroom, the room was more alive than I was. Conversations. Line-running. Monologue-practicing. Affectionate couples. Ty and Elyse, sharing a chair, legs wrapped around each other.

Everything was normal.

It was me that was out of place.

I sat in my usual seat next to Max and Court.

“What’s up?” I said. My voice sounded off, like an inflectionless robot.

“Not much,” Courtney said, shrugging. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

And that was it. We fell into the first awkward silence of our twelve-year friendship.

Evan came in just after the bell and, rather than sit by us like he always did, took a seat near the door. I kept my eyes on him throughout the period, waiting for him to look my way, but he kept his attention directed at the front of the room. He was out of there as soon as homeroom ended.

I searched for him between classes, but he wasn’t in any of his usual places. He wasn’t at lunch, either. But Courtney and Max were, and they may as well have been wearing t-shirts that said “AWK-” and “-WARD.” Everything felt forced. Suddenly we didn’t have anything to talk about, and the entire period skulked by in a series of discomfited silences and small-talk attempts.

I never thought I’d be eager to get away from my best friends.

I finally saw Evan at rehearsal. I’d already gotten our swords off the prop table, and I handed him his. “Hi,” I said, resisting the unbelievably powerful urge to run away.

His kept his gaze focused on the floor. “Thanks. For the, uh, sword.”

“No problem. You’ve been like Houdini all day.”

“I…I’ve been busy.”

Yeah, busy avoiding me. I tried to keep my voice light. “Ready for combat, sir Tybalt?”

“Oh, um. Sure,” he said.

But combat rehearsal didn’t go well. How were Evan and I supposed to be in sync when he wouldn’t even look me in the eye or come within two feet of me? We stumbled through the choreography like our feet were bricks. Andre was so unhappy with our performance, he sent everyone home early. Evan couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

• • •

The days turned into a week, then two. Halloween came and went. I barely noticed. I became withdrawn from everyone, everything.

I kept forgetting my lines and missing my cues. The show was set to open in less than a month, and thanks to my distance and Evan’s revulsion of me, it was shaping up to be the worst Eleanor Drama production in history. After a few days of absolutely atrocious rehearsals, Andre asked me to stay late.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, Lucy, but you need to pull it together. Now,” he said.

“I know,” I muttered.

“No, I don’t think you do. I’m this close to recasting your role. If that happens, you’re out. For good. I know you don’t want that.”

“No,” I agreed. I wasn’t supposed to want that. Right? But it was hard to muster up the appropriate reaction. The old me, the me that cared about things like the drama club, was locked away deep inside my head, but she wasn’t the one in charge anymore. It was that unnamed thing that entered my body way back at the very first utterance of the word positive. It was growing and festering and whispering what’s the point? over and over again with every heartbeat. And it was right—there was no point to any of it.

Andre wasn’t the only one who confronted me.

Elyse sauntered up to me in the women’s dressing room, her sparkly skirt swishing over her Stairmaster-perfected thighs. “You know, it’s a good thing I transferred to this school,” she announced, right in front of all the other cast members.

“Why is that, Elyse?” I said, humoring her.

“Well, it’s one thing for you to ruin your four scenes, but just imagine if you’d been cast as Juliet. They’d have to cancel the show!”

I stared at her, humiliated, trying to conjure up an appropriate comeback. But I came up with nothing.

“Don’t feel bad, though,” she continued mock-sweetly, clearly enjoying herself. “Lots of people are considered ‘good actors’”—yes, she did the air quotes—“when they’re kids and then just can’t hack it when it’s time to be taken seriously. But don’t worry, it’s not like you won’t be able to have a career in the theater—I’m sure there’s a box office or usher job with your name on it.” Her phone rang. “It’s Ty. I have to take this.” She turned and swished back the way she came.

God, what did Ty see in her? And how could Max call me a bitch when that bitch was walking around like the sun shone out the back of her thong?

I glanced intuitively over at Courtney. She just kept putting on makeup, like she was completely ignorant of what had just happened. But there was no way she hadn’t heard. I took her silence the only way it could be interpreted—she agreed with Elyse.

I started spending lunches by myself in the empty auditorium, and I sat in the back of the room, alone, in homeroom. Courtney and Max stopped talking to me altogether. Our threesome had become a twosome. Who knew our friendship could turn out to be so precarious. It was surreal, seeing them in the halls and in homeroom and at rehearsals, but not being able to cross the invisible barrier that had formed between us. There was a part of me that was always aware of them, that perked up when they were in close proximity, but that part was completely detached from the part of me that was supposed to care. So we went on pretending like we had never been more than classmates.

At home, things weren’t much better.

Lisa’s belly was getting bigger, but she stopped asking me for baby names after a while, because all I’d been able to come up with was Lisa Jr. And why should I have to name her baby, anyway? Couldn’t she do anything herself?

But unlike my friends and pseudo-mother, my dads couldn’t just ignore my behavior. At first, it was a series of “Are you okay’s” and “What’s on your mind’s” and shared, worried glances. But as it became more apparent to them that whatever I was going through was more than a phase, they upped their game.

I came home after a dreadful Sunday afternoon rehearsal to find Dad and Papa in the living room, the TV and stereo off, the room quiet. They had been waiting for me.

I glanced at the stack of library books on the coffee table, and back to my parents.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Lucy, sit down,” Dad said, gesturing to the chair positioned across from them.

“Actually, I’m gonna go to my room—I have homework.”

“No,” Dad said firmly. “Sit.”

I cursed under my breath and dragged myself over to the chair. “Fine. What?”

“Lu,” Papa began. “Your father and I are concerned about your behavior as of late.”

“We understand that it’s difficult being a teenager, and we can only imagine what it’s like being a teenage girl, but we want you to know that you can always talk to us. About anything,” Dad said.

There was a silence. I stared at the abstract pattern on Dad’s designer rug.

“Well? Is there anything you’d like to share with us?” Papa said.

“No, thanks,” I mumbled. The more I stared, the more the lines on the rug blurred together.

They looked at each other.

“Lucy,” Dad said, with more of an edge to his voice now, “we received a phone call from your director. He told us you haven’t been focused in rehearsals, and that you’ve had some sort of falling out with Max and Courtney. What is going on with you? This isn’t normal.”

The carpet design disappeared entirely and became just another distorted mess in my head.

“We’re worried about you, Lu. So now we’re going to have to take some measures,” Papa continued.

That word caught my attention. “Measures?”

“We’d like you to talk to a psychiatrist. Medication in conjunction with regular therapy has been proven to help with depression. It’s also probably a good idea to have some tests run to check for any medical abnormalities that might be altering your mood.”

I shook my head. “No way.”

“We have no choice, Lucy,” Dad said. “Things have to change.”

I couldn’t do what they wanted me to do. If I had those medical tests done, it would be no time at all before they learned the truth. I glanced, panicked, at the pile of books. “What are those?” I asked.

“I got them out of the library for you,” said Papa. “I thought maybe it would help to know that whatever you’re going through, you’re not alone.”

I read through the titles. The subjects spanned every possible teenage problem except the one I was actually dealing with. Body image issues, sexual confusion, drug and alcohol abuse, unwanted pregnancy…

Nothing about contracting HIV at sixteen from a drunken one-night stand. That’s because Papa was wrong—I was alone in this.

But I had to do something. I stood up and lifted the hefty stack of books. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m going to go look through these. I’m sure you’re right—they probably will help.” I went up to my room before they could stop me again.

• • •

I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, haunting memories filled the darkness. And not just any memories—blood-themed ones. I’d never realized it before, but blood narrated my life.

The thin trickle, so dark it was almost black, that ran down my shin after I fell off my bike when I was five.

The first time I cut myself shaving my legs.

The blood-stained tissue that I pulled away from my face after being accidentally kicked in the nose by Regina Arnold during dance class at theater camp three summers ago.

The tiny bead of red that sat on my fingertip after I pricked myself with the needle I was using to sew together a stuffed elephant for Courtney’s sixteenth birthday gift.

The three vials of thick crimson that Marie filled for my STI tests.

I jolted upright in my bed.

One for your syphilis test and one for hepatitis C. And one for your HIV confirmatory test if necessary, Marie had said.

Oh my god. I may have still had an out.

I leapt out of bed and dug around in my purse until I found what I was looking for. The sheet of paper that Marie had given me that held my anonymous patient code and the phone number to call for my results. The paper I’d forgotten all about the moment Diane had said the word positive.

I dialed the number. As it rang, my heart swelled with hope. Maybe everything I’d been through in the last few weeks was for nothing. Maybe it was all a big mistake. That would be okay, I wouldn’t hold Marie or Diane or the clinic responsible. A few weeks of misery seemed a small price to pay to be given my life back.

The clinic’s voicemail clicked on. Of course there wouldn’t be someone there at three a.m. I carefully smoothed out the paper and crawled back into bed. But I still didn’t sleep. I couldn’t think about anything but the possibility that I wasn’t actually positive. Mistakes must happen all the time—otherwise they wouldn’t need to do the confirmatory test, right?

There was still a chance. Why hadn’t I seen that before?

• • •

I called the clinic again at nine, but they were closed for Veterans Day. I’d have to wait until tomorrow to get my good news.

School was closed too, but we still had rehearsal. My face felt peculiar as I got ready to go. And then I realized—I was smiling for the first time in ages. I gave my dads each a peck on the cheek before I left the house. They were stunned by my sudden transformation. They must have thought their library books really did the trick.

As I drove to the school, a little fire ignited in my belly. Today was going to be a good day.

Right away, I apologized to Andre. “I know it’s no excuse, but I’ve been going through a lot lately. I’m really sorry that it’s affected our rehearsals, but it’s all better now. You don’t have to worry anymore, okay?”

I don’t know if it was my words themselves or the positive energy surrounding them, but Andre threw his arms around me. “Thank Jesus!” he said. “This show wouldn’t have been the same without you—you’re our little star, missy!”

I laughed. “Thanks, Andre.”

Rehearsal went brilliantly. I actually had fun. Andre had nothing but positive feedback for me, the groans of exasperation from my castmates vanished, and Elyse’s face looked like she’d bit into a lemon—that’s how I really knew I was back.

The only thing that didn’t go smoothly was the swordfight. Evan was still skittish around me. He didn’t realize that everything had changed, that tomorrow I would get my official results and I’d be able to tell him that I didn’t have HIV after all and that everything would finally go back to normal.

• • •

Tuesday morning, at nine a.m. exactly, I told my pre-calc teacher I had to go to the bathroom, and I slipped out of the school and into my car. I called the clinic number again, and this time a real live person answered.

“I’m calling for my test results,” I said, every word filled with optimism.

“Patient number?” she asked, sounding bored out of her skull.

I gave her the number and waited.

“Chlamydia, negative. Gonorrhea, negative. Syphilis, negative. Hepatitis C, negative.”

I waited for her to give me the HIV results, but she didn’t say anything else.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the lady asked after a moment.

“Um, yes, I need my HIV test results.”

“Didn’t they give those results to you while you were here in the clinic?”

“Yeah, but they needed to do a confirmatory test.”

There was a slight pause. “If your rapid test was reactive, the social worker should have told you what to do to get your confirmatory results.”

Oh. I obviously didn’t stick around long enough to get that information from Diane. “I…don’t…uh…remember what she said.”

The lady sighed loudly. “Take down this number. You’ll need to speak with a social worker directly. Do you have a pen?”

I scrambled around in my backpack for a pen and notebook, and then took down the number. “But wait,” I said. “Do you have my results in front of you right now?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

“Well then, can’t you just tell me them? Why do I have to call someone else?”

“I’m not authorized to do that.”

I was beginning to get upset. “What do you mean? You’re authorized to give me my other test results. Why not this one?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t answer that. Have a nice day.” She hung up.

What the hell?

I dialed the social worker’s number, my pulse racing.

“Diane Sullivan,” she answered on the first ring.

I cleared my throat. “Um, hi, this is Lucy Moore.” I realized too late that I wasn’t supposed to use my last name. “I was in there back in October—”

“Lucy! Yes, I remember,” Diane said. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “I’m just calling for my confirmatory results.”

“Well, we usually ask our clients to come in person to receive their results. Would you like to schedule an appointment now? I have several openings this week.”

“No, I want to know now.”

“Lucy, it really is better if we speak in person.”

I hesitated. “Why?”

“It’s standard procedure—”

My grip tightened around the phone. “It’s because I’m positive, isn’t it?”

There was a tension-filled pause. “We ask everyone to come in, regardless of their results.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not legally allowed to withhold my results from me.” Having a lawyer for a father came in handy sometimes.

Diane gave a tiny, yielding sigh. “Do you have your client number available? For confidentiality reasons, I can’t give you any results without it.”

I read it to her, the paper and my voice shaking. I heard Diane’s fingers typing the number into a computer.

“Lucy, your HIV result is positive.”

I dropped the phone in my lap and brought my forehead to the steering wheel.

The hope I’d been clinging to since three o’clock yesterday morning evaporated.

I waited for the nausea, for the panic, for the demons’ resurgence. I waited for the streak of denial, for the compulsion to lash out in violence. I waited for any perceptible reaction at all, but nothing happened.

And then I realized. Nothing was happening because inside, I was already dead.

“Lucy?” Diane’s tinny distant voice was calling to me. “Are you there?”

I took the length of five deep, long breaths.

“Hello? Lucy?”

Slowly, I picked up the phone and brought it back to my ear. “I’m here.”

“What are you feeling right now?”

“Nothing,” I said truthfully.

“It’s important for you to understand that with proper medical care and support, people with HIV can lead very productive lives,” she said.

“You have to say that.”

“I don’t. I say it because it’s true. I’ve been doing this a long time, Lucy. I know many people with HIV who live quite normally.”

“Well, I’m not one of them.”

“You can be,” she said.

“No. I can’t.” My voice was rising. “You don’t understand. How am I supposed to care about normal things like high school when I’m slowly being killed from the inside out? How am I supposed to be normal when the first person I told ran for the hills the second the words came out of my mouth?”

“I’m very sorry to hear that happened to you. But I’m sure you have many people in your life who will support you. A trusted friend or family member, maybe?”

“No. I’m not telling anyone else.”

“Having a reliable support system in place is a key factor in living a full, happy life, Lucy. I’d encourage you to reconsider. In the meantime, we have many group meetings here at the clinic, and I’d also really like to schedule a one-on-one in-person appointment with you.”

The dim ring of the bell sounded from within the school’s walls.

“I have to go,” I said quickly, grateful for an excuse to end the conversation. “Bye.”

“Wait, Lucy—”

I hung up the phone. The normal world was calling for me.