Another week passes and I’m sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the waiting room of an attorney’s office in the middle of town. I finally found someone willing to make time for me on his lunch hour. As far as my parents know, I’m at the art supply store.
The window over my shoulder looks out to the park across the street. It’s the same park where my mom packed a picnic dinner and made my whole family go watch a band sing cover songs from the eighties for the town’s Summer Sundays concert series this past July. The band wore long-haired wigs and black lipstick and pastel polo shirts with popped-up collars in a nod to every fashion trend from the decade. A guy and a girl took turns singing into a microphone while my mom and dad sat on top of the patchwork quilt they’d spread out to eat dinner and bounce along to the music. My mom fell all over herself when they played a Duran Duran song, and my dad got super into anything remotely punk because I think it made him feel cool.
Poppy sat under a shady tree and read a book.
Sequoia managed to make friends with a group of kids his age, and they chased each other around the park playing some Star Wars game I’m sure he didn’t completely understand because he’s never seen the movies. Maybe he’ll eventually get a chance to visit Mimi and Bumpa alone like I finally did—without our parents—and get a Star Wars introduction from Bumpa, who owns the entire collection on DVD.
At the summer concert, I scanned the crowd for sympathetic eyes from other sullen teens whose parents had dragged them there. I couldn’t find any.
Still, the thought of that night makes me a little wistful. Because it was before the measles. When my family could blend into a crowd like everyone else’s.
“Ms. Jade?” The receptionist stands up from her desk, interrupting me from my pity party. “Mr. Graff will see you now. I’ll take you back.”
I stand up and smooth out my clothes. I tried to look professional today, with a white button-down shirt tucked into a navy-blue pencil skirt, but when I went to put on my nice shoes, I’d outgrown them. My most decent option was a pair of strappy sandals more suitable for Coachella than meeting an attorney, but maybe I’m pulling it off, like the woman at the farmers market with her business suit and flip-flops.
We pass a coffee station as we head down the narrow hallway with carpet so thick I nearly trip over it. The receptionist stops in her tracks and I almost bump into her.
“Oh! Coffee?” she asks, like she’s suddenly remembering it exists.
The coffee machine is set up on a small white folding table covered in sugar granules and ringed stains. A box of wood stirrers has toppled over, and they’re now scattered like a game of pick-up-sticks. The carnage makes it seem like everyone here is too busy doing important things to clean up after themselves.
Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe someone here will work hard for me.
As much as I want to drink coffee just to make a statement about the fact that my dad won’t let me do it at home, I turn it down. That coffee I had with Nico the other day didn’t taste very good, even with the milk and sugar I added. Plus, I don’t need the caffeine. I’m jittery enough as it is.
The receptionist reaches her hand out to knock on the door at the end of the hallway, and a bellowing voice directs us to “come on in.”
The door swings open with a swoosh across the thick carpet. “Mr. Graff, I have Juniper Jade for you.”
“Thank you, Evelyn,” Mr. Graff says.
I walk into his office, and the receptionist pulls the door shut behind me.
Mr. Graff pushes his half-eaten sandwich aside and stands up from his desk as marble rye bread crumbs fall off the front of his shirt and onto his desk. He’s tall and slender, with a receding hairline of fine blond hair. I’d guess he’s somewhere around my dad’s age. He sticks his hand out to mine, and the necktie he’d swung over his shoulder falls back into place along the buttons of his shirt. After we shake, I restrain myself from wiping the residue of his damp palm on my skirt.
“Sit, sit,” he says to me. I take a seat in one of the two chairs opposite him and fold my hands in my lap. “What brings you in today?”
“I want to sue my parents.”
He shakes his head and chuckles lightly, but stops when I don’t join in. “Oh, you really mean it.” He pulls a to-go cup of soda closer and sucks the drink up through a paper straw until it’s drained and there’s nothing but the echoing sound of air and ice. “Why?”
I twist my fingers together. “I want to be vaccinated, and my parents are anti-vaxxers.”
He taps his chin. “Interesting.”
“Really?”
“Interesting, but not possible.”
I sit up straighter. “Why not?”
“Remind me of your age.”
“Sixteen. Seventeen in April.”
“Well, sixteen, seventeen in April, I say you should wait until you’re eighteen.”
“But I can’t wait. I’m legitimately worried about my health.”
“How so?”
I tell him all about the measles and the hospital and my brother and sister. About Katherine St. Pierre and the rest of the Playa Bonita community.
“You knew the baby who died?” he says.
How do I explain that I didn’t know her at all, really? That I met her once? But I carry her around with me like I always knew her. I know her as a part of me now. And it’s a part of me that will always hurt. “She got the measles from me.”
He looks confused. “Was she a family member?”
“No. She’s someone I met at the farmers market before I knew I had the measles. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“No, of course not,” he says, shaking his head. “But it’s very sad, isn’t it?”
“Sad is an understatement.” I look at him sharply. “So you can see why I don’t want to wait until I turn eighteen to get my shots. If I can help it, I don’t want what happened to that baby to happen to someone else.”
“I understand.”
“I want to make a difference.”
“That’s virtuous.” He grunts. “Teenagers seem to be a little too virtuous these days.”
I press my back into the chair. “It sounds like you don’t like teenagers very much.”
“I love them. I have two at home. But they don’t always know what they want, even when they think they do.”
“I know what I want.”
“But do you really? You’re talking about wreaking havoc on your family. Creating dissension between you and your parents. For what? To prove a point?”
“I’m trying to save my life.”
“Hmm.” He looks at me seriously. “Is there more to this? Is it not safe for you at home? Are your parents hurting you, Juniper? Anything you tell me is confidential.”
“What? No!”
“Okay. Good. That’s good.”
“I love my parents. I just think they’re wrong about vaccinations.”
“There’s always emancipation.”
“What’s that?”
He leans back in his chair. “Emancipation would give you legal independence from your parents.”
“Meaning?”
“Your mom and dad would no longer be responsible for you in any way, thus allowing you to make your own medical choices. As such, you’d have to prove you’re capable of taking care of yourself. Are you?”
“I can cook and clean and do my own laundry.” I wonder if this is what a job interview feels like. I sit up straighter. “Actually, I can do a lot of things.”
“Do you work? You’d have to prove you could support yourself financially. And you’d have to find your own place to live, separate from your parents. Those things are necessary for emancipation.”
“I don’t have a job. I want one. But I don’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t want to move out. I like living with my family. Poppy and Sequoia need me.”
“So like I said, wait till you’re eighteen.” He eyes his sandwich like he wants me to leave so he can finish his lunch now. Like there’s really nothing more to say.
I clear my throat, and he manages to look at me instead of his sandwich. “I got really sick from the measles, Mr. Graff. I don’t want something like that to happen to me again.”
He sighs. “Juniper, I appreciate what you’re doing, but this is California law. Other states may handle it differently, but here, your only option is emancipation.”
“So I’m basically defined by my zip code.”
“Pretty much.” He leans forward, and his tie creases against his desk. “There’s no federal precedent for this.”
“Lots of things don’t have a federal precedent. And then someone fights hard enough to make them happen.”
“Unfortunately, those someones aren’t usually sixteen-year-old girls.” His words make my blood boil. I’m so sick of being dismissed. He leans back in his chair. Cradles his hands behind his head. “Look, you came to me for a professional opinion, and I’m giving you one. I know it sounds impossible right now, but you should just wait until you turn eighteen.”
“I don’t believe in impossible.” I smile. “I can’t.”
“Well, then, I wish you the best.”
I leave his office and jump on the city bus, knowing it will take me to the courthouse. Maybe I can find an attorney there who will help me. One coming out of a courtroom or milling around the front steps on a break. I can walk up to them and tell them my story.