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It’s seven-thirty,” Mom says, shaking me gently.
“Seven-thirty?” I bolt out of bed, suddenly awake. “What happened to my alarm clock?”
Mom picks up the clock from my desk. “You must have slept through it.”
“Oh, man,” I say, thinking about all the biology I didn’t study.
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During English, first period, I try to review my biology notes, but Ms. Lee keeps calling on me to answer questions about Macbeth. The part I most relate to at this moment is the witch’s—“Double, double, toil and trouble/Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”
Double trouble is what I find in biology. I make all kinds of guesses, about something called reverse transcriptase, and somatic mutations, but as far as the biology test goes, I could be the poster child for “Clueless Syndrome.”
At lunch April and I go over to Barb and Edie’s. April orders one of their famous garbageburgers. I get a grilled cheese sandwich. Ever since I started working at the Humane Society, I lost my taste for dead animals.
“I’m starving,” April says as we wait for our order to come up. “I couldn’t even eat last night I got so nervous about driving.”
“How’d it go?” I ask.
“Fine. I only nearly killed us three times. I think my dad’s seeing his doctor today for tranquilizers.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad. Weren’t you driving at the race track parking lot? There’re never any cars there at night.”
“Who said anything about cars? There’re posts, and fences, and a couple of trees, plus eight admission gates. All kinds of stuff just jumps out at you over there.”
April cracks me up. She’s been trying to learn to drive since she got her learner’s permit at fifteen. She still doesn’t have her license and she’ll be eighteen soon. In April, of course. I’m glad my parents didn’t name me after my birth month. I can hear it now. February Arredondo. What a mouthful that would be. Erica Joan Arredondo’s bad enough. The Joan is after my mom’s mom. I don’t love the name, but I love my gramma, so that makes the name sound better to me.
Sometimes I fantasize that Erica Lara would be better, but that’s a long way away. I’ve got other things to worry about right now. Like I’m pretty sure I failed my biology test.
“Hey, aren’t you going to finish your lunch?” April says.
I hear hunger in her voice, even though she’s just practically inhaled a whole garbageburger and a large, meaning huge, order of fries.
“You can have it. I’m not so hungry.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, reaching for my sandwich and taking a bite in one quick move. April eats a lot for a skinny girl.
“I’m just not very hungry,” I say.
“Are things okay with Dan the man?”
“Great.” I say, remembering last night, how he held me tight and told me he would always love me, nothing could ever change that.
“Well? There’s a reason a healthy, red-blooded girl like yourself loses her appetite. Pregnant?”
“April!” I say, tossing my wadded-up napkin at her. “Get a grip on your imagination, will you?”
“Oh, yeah. Like it never happens.”
“It’s not happening to me,” I say. “That’s just stupid.”
“You ought to become a born-again virgin,” April says. “I’m glad I did—celibate for a year now and worry free—no pregnancy worries, no STD worries—like that poor Sandra with AIDS.”
“I don’t have to worry about that, either,” I say. “We’re really careful.”
“Not only pregnancy and disease stuff. I used to worry all the time about my mom and dad freaking out if they found out I was doing the big IT.”
“April, if we’re old enough to choose the President of the United States, don’t you think we’re old enough to make our own decisions about sex?” I say.
“I suppose your parents are totally aware and supportive of the sexual activities in which you and Danny are engaged?” April asks, holding a spoon in front of my face, as if it’s a microphone.
I push it away. “I’m not your talk show guest,” I remind her, laughing.
“Be honest, though. Wouldn’t your parents orbit the solar system if they knew for sure their little girl was involved in an affair of passion?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I say, remembering how scared I felt last night when Rocky got up to go to the bathroom. We were lucky the little spy went back to her own room. But what if we’d been discovered? We’re not doing anything wrong, are we—just loving each other?
“Something’s taking your mind off eating,” April says, grabbing the other half of my sandwich.
“The biology test last period—I messed up big time,” I say, as we dump our trash and walk back toward Hamilton High.
“You always think you mess up on tests, and you always end up with a big fat A, so I don’t want to hear it.”
“This time is different,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’re breaking my heart. If I miss one more government assignment I won’t even graduate.”
“Don’t miss another government assignment,” I tell her.
“But it’s boring,” April says.
“Sometimes we’ve got to do boring stuff,” I say, and then I feel like washing my mouth out with soap. I hate when I sound like my mom. If I’m not careful, pretty soon I’ll be like “you only get out of it what you put into it.” Or, “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
“Do you want to go to the mall with me and Morgan?” April says.
“I can’t. I’ve got to study for the biology make-up. And calculus, too.”
April makes a face at me. “You worry too much. Lighten up.”
“I really want to be accepted to UC Davis in animal husbandry,” I remind her.
“I’m glad I have low aspirations,” April says, putting the last bite of my grilled cheese sandwich in her mouth.
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On the way back to school April starts quoting talk show hosts.
“Seventy-six percent of the girls in this survey said teenagers have sex because the boy wants it, not the girl. And most girls regret it later.”
“Well, that leaves 24 percent with a different opinion,” I say.
“Don’t go getting mathematical on me.”
“You’re the one who started it with your talk show statistics.”
“No, but don’t you think that’s true? Most girls just do it to please the guys?” April says.
We pause at the hallway, where we have to go in separate directions to our lockers.
“I don’t know about most girls,” I say.
“I think I just wanted to make Wade happy. It wasn’t for me.”
The first bell rings and we rush toward our lockers.
“See you in Peer Counseling,” April says.
I make my way past crowds of kids to try to get to my locker, which is in the middle of where the Asian kids hang out—Chinese, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Korean, Japanese, Thai—I can’t exactly tell the difference, I just know there is one. Like with me, everyone assumes because of my name and the way I look that I’m Mexican, but really, my dad’s family is from Colombia and my mom is a mix of a lot of things. Her mother is from Mexico, but my grampa’s only half Mexican and the other half German.
One of the good things about Hamilton High is that most of the people here, students and teachers, judge you for who you are and not for your name or the color of your skin.
When I was younger and still going to school overseas where my dad was stationed, a lot of the officers’ kids were white and sometimes they’d tease me—call me names like Erica Hairy Donut instead of Erica Arredondo, or once, when someone I thought was my friend got mad at me, she called me a dirty Mexican. I hate that stuff.
My mom told me just to forget it. The little girl was ignorant and I should feel sorry for her. I couldn’t forget it though, and we were never really friends again. But Hamilton High has practically every kind of person you can imagine here, so no one really stands out as weird.
I dump my books in my locker, except for my notebook, and go to class. I sit in the back, next to April. Brett sits down on the other side of April and whispers something to her, “Don’t tell anyone about my cousin. Okay?’’
“Don’t worry.” April says, flashing me a look that says “Keep your mouth shut.”
We have outside speakers two or three times a month in this class, and they’re usually really interesting. There was a group from the Gay and Lesbian Rights League last week, and a woman running for Congress the week before. We’ve had people from Alcoholics Anonymous, and a Jewish woman who survived Auschwitz.
God. It’s one thing to know about Anne Frank, and to learn the historical facts of millions of concentration camp deaths, and it’s another to hear stories, face to face, from someone who’s been through it all.
“AIDS again?” Colin says, reading the agenda on the chalkboard.
He dumps his books on the desk in front of me and sits down.
“Don’t you think enough is enough?” he asks. “AIDS prevention assemblies. AIDS awareness week in biology, AIDS talks in P.E. We get it, we get it.”
“We want to be sure,” Woodsy says, walking past us to greet the speakers.
Colin blushes and puts his head down on the desk. He’s got red hair and light, light skin, so it’s really obvious when he gets embarrassed, which is a lot of the time.
Ms. Woods, Woodsy, introduces the four speakers from the AIDS Center, two men and two women. They each take turns telling their stories. It is unbelievably sad. One of the women, Alma, didn’t even know she was HIV positive until she was seven months pregnant. Her little girl, who is now five, has full-blown AIDS. The mother still doesn’t even have any symptoms.
When I read in the newspaper about babies with AIDS, I always think the moms must be sluts and addicts who don’t care about anyone or anything. The moms deserve everything they get, but their innocent little babies shouldn’t have to pay.
It makes me think. Alma’s one of the moms I would hate if I read about her in the paper, but to meet her and to hear her story, I see that she’s doing everything she possibly can for her daughter. And the way she got the virus was from her husband, who she never even suspected was running around with prostitutes, women and men, until she got the surprise results of a blood test.
“You have to take care of yourselves,” she tells us. “Assume whoever you might be involved with carries the disease, and act accordingly.”
“But my boyfriend and I have been together for two years,” Darlene says. “We’ve never even been with anyone else.”
“My husband and I had been together for ten years,” Alma says. “I didn’t think he was with anyone else, either. Do you think your boyfriend would tell you if he got drunk at a party and had sex with someone he hardly even knew? Do you think that never happens?”
“Not with my boyfriend,” Darlene says.
“I hope not,” Alma says. “Of course there are people who are committed to one another and never stray. I thought I was in a marriage like that. You think you’re in a relationship like that. I was wrong, but I hope you’re right.”
One of the men, Sam, is very tough looking—all buffed out, with tattoos on both arms. He talks about his former drug use, how it completely robbed him of his family and ten years of his life, and now that he’s clean, it’s still robbing him of life, because he’s HIV positive and beginning to see symptoms of AIDS. He demonstrates how to sterilize needles, pleading with us not to use drugs, but saying that if we are involved with drugs, we should at least take precautions against disease.
“How can anyone do that to themselves?” April asks when Sam brings out the long hypodermic needle.
I think of how my gramma has to give herself an injection of insulin every day. “I guess people get used to it if they do it often enough.” I say.
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After school I’m waiting at the bus stop, reading my English assignment. It’s this really weird story about a guy who wakes up in the morning to find he’s turned into a giant beetle overnight. Unbelievable. I don’t know where Ms. Lee comes up with this stuff. It’s by a famous writer, someone named Kafka, but it’s weird anyway.
“Hey, Pups!”
I look up from the story to see Danny leaning out the window of Alex’s old beat-up Honda Civic.
“Want a ride?”
“Sure.”
I jump in the back seat, then lean forward and give Danny a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Hi, Erica,” Alex says. His skinny arm is resting lightly on the edge of the open window, his scraggly blond hair hanging over the back of the seat. He still doesn’t look like much, but I like Alex better than I did the first time I met him at the Humane Society. I thought he was a total jerk that day. Now that I’ve gotten to know him, he only seems like a jerk about half the time.
“Thanks for giving me a ride,” I say. “The bus takes forever.”
“No problem,” Alex says, turning and flashing a quick smile at me.
“We have to make one fast stop on the way, then we’ll drop you at your house,” Danny says.
“I’m kind of in a hurry,” I tell Danny. “I didn’t get much studying done last night,” I say with a sly smile.
“You had better things to do,” he smiles back.
“We heard this really sad story in Peer Counseling today,” I tell Danny and Alex. “This woman who didn’t even know she was HIV positive . . .”
“I’ve got enough on my mind. Don’t tell me any sad stories,” Danny says, before I even get to the part about the baby.
Alex pulls up in front of Danny’s house.
“This’ll only take a minute,” Danny says. “C’mon, you can help carry stuff.”
I follow them to the front door. Danny takes out his key and turns it in the lock, but he can’t get the door open.
“He’s got that special inside lock on,” Danny says. “Let’s go to
the back.”
“Look at your mom’s garden,” Alex says, indicating a weed-filled section of the yard that used to be a flower bed.
I didn’t know Danny’s mom long, Irene her name was, but she loved flowers.
“She’s turning over in her grave, man,” Alex says. “We should come clear this out and plant stuff.”
Danny stands looking at the space where tulips and hollyhocks grew last spring. I stand next to him, holding his hand.
“Shit,” he says, then turns and walks away.
When we get to the back door, there’s a shiny new padlock securing it.
“Bastard,” Danny says. “He’s locked me out of my own place!”
“Why?” I ask.
Alex goes back to his car for a screwdriver.
“I don’t know. He got all pissed when he called Adult School yesterday and found out that I haven’t been attending.”
“You haven’t?” I ask, surprised.
“Oh, God, Pups. It’s just so boring.”
“That’s why he locked you out?”
“He tried to ground me because I’m not working and I’m not going to school. That’s not even legal! He can’t ground an adult.”
“Hey,” Alex calls, waving a very long screwdriver.
Together, Danny and Alex try to get the window open that leads to Danny’s bedroom. When that doesn’t work, they try all of the other windows. Finally they go back to Danny’s window. Danny takes the handle of the screwdriver and breaks the window, near the lock. He taps glass away, making an opening big enough for his hand, then reaches through, unlocks the window, and opens it. With a rag from the car they wipe the broken glass shards off the sill.
“I’ll climb through,” Danny says. “I’ve had practice.” He gives me a big smile, then climbs through the window.
“Here,” he says, starting to hand stuff out.
Alex opens the Honda’s hatchback and we carry books and tapes, shirts, pants, underwear, shoes, a tennis racquet, a soccer ball, all kinds of stuff. It seems like there’s not room for one more thing when Danny hands out first one stereo speaker and then another. Alex laughs.
“You think he’s pissed now, wait ’til he finds this missing.”
“Shit. He never listens to music anyway. Besides, the speakers at your house are shot.”
Danny has one foot over the window sill, climbing out, when two police cars pull into the driveway. Three policemen jump from the second car and crouch behind it, guns drawn.
“Put your hands over your heads,” a voice from a bullhorn demands.
“Fuck!” Alex says, raising his hands.
I’m shaking so bad I can barely put my hands up, but somehow I manage. Danny starts to get out of the window.
“FREEZE! Hands up,” the voice yells.
Danny sits on the sill, his hands up.
“I live here,” Danny yells.
“Sure you do,” the voice says, all sarcastic.