I have this version of court in my head. Of a judge and twelve jurors in a box and rows and rows of onlookers. But my case isn’t like that at all. There’s only Judge Elizabeth Coffman on the bench and a table where Laurel and I are supposed to sit.
Nico and his mom are here, too. I drove with them. Nico left school after third period and picked me up midmorning. I felt bad about him leaving early, since it was only the first Monday back after winter break, but he insisted. And in the end, I liked having the moral support. I’d spent up until Nico’s arrival avoiding my parents, which wasn’t hard to do, since we hadn’t done much talking since New Year’s Eve a week ago. During one of our phone chats, Mimi offered to come down for court today. I told her I thought it would be better if she didn’t come. That it would be easier to figure out next steps after I have a judge’s official decision.
If it’s a yes, maybe I really will have to move in with my grandparents.
I hope not. I don’t want to leave Nico and the life I’ve made here in Playa Bonita just when I feel like I finally have a shot at normal.
“There’s still time to change your mind,” Poppy said to me when I woke up yesterday morning. She’d tiptoed into my room, letting my door snick shut behind her. “Everything could go back to the way it was before you started all of this.”
“I don’t want to go back. I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t seem like you’re sorry.” She gripped the edge of her pajama top in frustration. “It’s pretty obvious you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
“That’s not true.”
“You should just wait until you’re eighteen.”
“Do you really think that would make a difference? Mom and Dad are going to be mad no matter when I do it. It’s not about age. It’s about the thing itself.”
“Why do you want to make them mad in the first place?”
“I don’t.” I looked outside my window at the school across the street. I could smell the hallway. I could see the football field. I could feel the vibration of drums from the school band. “And I don’t only care about myself. I’m doing this for you and Sequoia, too.” I looked at her hopefully. “You might want something different someday.”
“I’m not like you,” she said.
After I met with Laurel last night to go over things one last time, Nico suggested we watch A Few Good Men and Legally Blonde to prepare for today. That might be why I expected more drama in this courtroom where we huddle together, talking, before it’s time to get started.
But just when I’m feeling good about everything, like I’ve really got this, Laurel pulls me aside.
“We have a last-minute change,” she says. “Your parents have asked to make a statement.”
“What? Can they even do that?”
“They can.”
“Crap.”
“We’re just going to do this the same way we planned. Your parents can say whatever they want, but it won’t make your argument any less compelling. Okay?”
I nod. “Okay.”
Just then, the doors to the courtroom open and my mom and dad walk in with some guy I’ve never seen before. He’s wearing a navy-blue suit and carrying a messenger bag. My mom has flat-ironed her hair and my dad is wearing a tie. They almost don’t look like my parents.
They walk through the galley, past Nico and his mom, and sit down at a table on the other side of me. My mom looks at me with sad eyes, like she’s holding back tears, but my dad is all business, looking straight ahead, leaning toward his attorney as he speaks into his ear.
Judge Coffman indicates it’s time to begin by asking Laurel, “Do we have any preliminary matters?”
Laurel answers, “No, Your Honor.”
She asks the same of my parents’ attorney, and my heart thumps in my chest, faster than it should. My palms sweat. I knot my hands together in my lap to keep from shaking.
“No, Your Honor,” the other attorney says.
After some general introductions, where Laurel explains who I am and why I’m here, she says, “Ms. Jade has prepared a statement she would like to read aloud.”
Judge Coffman nods to me. “Very well. Ms. Jade, you may approach the stand.”
Laurel leans closer so only I can hear. “You’re going to get up and read, just like we practiced last night.” She smiles at me. “You’ve got this.”
I look at Nico. He gives me a thumbs-up.
I take a sip of water. Swallow. I can hear the gulp echo in my ears as I approach the stand.
The bailiff swears me in, asking, “Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“Yes.”
Laurel approaches me. “Ms. Jade, you may read your statement now.”
I wrote what I wanted to say on paper from a spiral notebook, and the torn pages crinkle in my shaky hands as I sit. I glance quickly at my parents sitting in front of me.
They look ready.
I gaze back at my pages. The words blur. But I concentrate and focus.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” I try not to fidget. “I’m Juniper Jade, and I’m sixteen years old. I am seeking the right to consent to be vaccinated in order to protect myself and others from devastating, life-threatening viruses and diseases. A lot of people might say I’m too young to have a say about something like this, but I don’t think that’s true.”
My voice wobbles. It feels like my whole body is shaking with nerves.
“There are a few things I could do confidentially. I could seek out mental health treatment. I could be tested for STDs or get a prescription for birth control. I could have an abortion. But for some reason, I have not been able to find a doctor willing to give me a meningitis shot or a tetanus shot or a whooping cough shot. I blame my parents for that. It’s because of their deliberate choice to not get me vaccinated that I contracted the measles last fall and ended up in the hospital. It was a very scary and trying experience.”
I can feel my mom and dad watching. Their eyes burning into me. I can’t look.
“There was a quarantine sign on the door of my hospital room, and back at home, my younger sister and brother got the measles, too. Since then my family has been continuously harassed by our community. We’ve been threatened in public and our house has been vandalized. And because of me, or really because of my parents, a baby in town contracted the measles and died tragically.”
I clear my throat.
“I respect my parents and everything they’ve taught me. Because of them, I know how to spot a rip current in the ocean and how to swim out of one if I get caught. I know how to identify poisonous mushrooms in the wild, and I know how to forage for the ones that are edible. I know how to eat and live healthily. I know how to create less waste by composting and recycling and growing my own food. I know how to respect the world and the people in it. The truth is, my parents have taught me a lot of important things.” I look right at my mom and dad so they’ll hear the words. “We just disagree on this one thing.”
And then I turn back to Judge Coffman and look at her.
“The irony is that it’s because of my parents, and what they’ve taught me, that I disagree with them. When my dad teaches me in school, he tells me to weigh all the arguments. I’ve done that. I’ve thoroughly considered all the angles and heard the reasons why my parents don’t want me to be vaccinated. And after doing all that, I can say with full certainty that on this particular thing, I think they’re wrong. Yes, I’m sixteen years old, but I also think I’m clear-minded enough and thoughtful enough to make this choice for myself.”
I grip my papers tighter.
“One attorney in town told me the only way to proceed would be by emancipation, which would mean leaving my parents and my family. I’d have to move out and get a job and make a life for myself without my mom and dad and brother and sister.” I turn to my parents. “But I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to live my life without my family. I love them. They love me.”
Judge Coffman listens intently.
“I simply want to have the right to take control of my own health. I’m the only one who has to live in this body, and I want to do everything I can to protect it and the people around me. So I’m here today, with my counsel, petition in hand, asking for the right to be vaccinated. Thank you.”
I leave the stand and sit down next to Laurel, setting my crinkled papers on the table. My heart races and my hands shake. I look at Nico. His smile is huge.
“So good,” he mouths.
I look at Judge Coffman, anxiously awaiting her response. I hope she heard what I meant for her to hear: a young woman fighting for autonomy over her own body.
The same thing happens all over again with my dad. He approaches the stand, gets sworn in, and sits down with his prepared statement in his hands. He straightens his tie.
“Mr. Jade, you may read your statement,” his attorney directs.
“Thank you. I do have something I’d like to say.” He looks at my mom, who gives him an encouraging nod.
“I guess it starts with the literal beginning. I want to tell you about the day my daughter Juniper was born.” My dad looks at me, his expression soft and full of love. “It was raining. Not just a sprinkle but a torrential storm that flooded the Pacific Coast Highway and blocked off roads due to mudslides. Because my wife was a week past her due date, she and I had mapped out three different routes to the hospital just in case of road closures. We were as prepared as we could be. But wouldn’t you know it? My wife’s water broke at rush-hour traffic time in the middle of a downpour. The drive was so harrowing that it’s one of the reasons we opted for home births for our second two children.”
My dad looks at my mom and they smile at each other, a shared memory passed between them of a time Poppy, Sequoia, and I don’t know in the same way they do.
“Juniper was our first baby. The whole time my wife was pregnant, we worried over everything. She’d had two miscarriages before Juniper, so perhaps we were hypersensitive.”
My jaw drops. I had no idea my mom had ever had a miscarriage before I was born, let alone two.
“I thought I couldn’t possibly worry more than I did in those nine months my wife was pregnant, but when I held Juniper for the first time, looking down at her pink, round face, after waiting for her for so long, worry was all I felt. Looking at her and knowing her life was literally in my hands, my fear only grew. My love for her was so profound, I don’t think I can adequately put it into words.” His chin quivers with emotion, and it looks like he’s holding back tears. “But I’ll try.
“We brought Juniper home from the hospital, where we fretted over everything as new parents do. We worried about whether she was getting enough to eat. Whether she was sleeping too long or not long enough. Whether the sounds she made were typical or a sign of distress. Each day, we got better at deciphering her cries and knowing which ones meant she was hungry and which ones meant she needed to be changed. Most of all, I knew which cries meant she needed to be held and comforted. I sat countless hours with her in a rocking chair in the middle of the night, fully committed to my job of protecting her.
“And maybe I took my job too seriously at times. Maybe I became obsessed or extreme. Maybe my love for Juniper, and putting her life above anyone else’s, made me selfish. And maybe it still does. Because I cannot sit here in front of you today and say I’ve changed my mind. I cannot say it doesn’t cause me literal physical pain to think of my child putting something into her body to which I am so vehemently opposed. So I would like it to go on record that I do not want Juniper to be vaccinated. Perhaps it’s emotion that brought me here. And I feel terrible”—his voice cracks—“terrible about what happened to the baby in town, to Katherine St. Pierre, because I know her parents loved her and wanted to protect her just like I love and want to protect my own daughter. But I still wouldn’t change my decision. Because I believe in what I know, and I believe I, as the parent, should have the right to make this decision for my daughter. It’s my job to protect my own child above all else and I feel, very strongly, that’s exactly what I’m doing.” He turns to me. “I love you, Junebug. I’m doing this because I love you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jade,” Judge Coffman says. She turns to Laurel and asks, “Do you have an argument?”
“We waive,” Laurel says.
My dad leaves the stand and sits down next to his attorney.
I feel a tear fall down my cheek. I look at my parents and see my mom dabbing her own eyes. My dad looks ahead, his chin still quivering. All this time, he’s been ruling with an iron fist, adamant about his supposed scientific reports and statistics, but it isn’t until today, this very moment, that I finally understand his convictions are about so much more than numbers and articles on the internet.
Still. What he said doesn’t change my mind. I want my vaccinations.
“Ms. Jade,” Judge Coffman says, looking at me, “I commend you. I can tell you’ve given this a lot of thought and you’re taking the circumstances very seriously.”
“I am, Your Honor.”
She nods. Looks to my parents.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jade, while I appreciate that you’ve made decisions on your daughter’s behalf, decisions you’ve ostensibly made in good faith and out of love for your child, I do see the important and valid point Ms. Jade is making.” She leans forward, addresses all of us. “We have laws in California that are in place to protect the best interests of our citizens.” She looks at me. “But in this case, as evidenced by your contraction of the measles and your subsequent harassment, I can see clearly that not being vaccinated has not been in your best interest, even if it was a decision made by your parents, who only felt they were doing what was best. It is for this reason that I am ruling in your favor and granting you the right to be vaccinated.”
My dad gasps.
My mom sputters.
Their attorney shakes his head.
I try to steady my hands.
I turn to Laurel. She’s smiling so big.
“She just … Oh my god … We did it,” I say.
“Juniper,” Laurel says, beaming at me. “You did it.”
I sit for a moment. Quiet. Taking it in. My parents get up. Shuffle closer.
“Well,” my dad says quietly. “You got what you wanted.”
“It didn’t have to be like this,” I say. “It didn’t have to get this ugly.”
“It did have to get this ugly. You never would’ve gotten it any other way. But I respect this courtroom, and we’ll speak outside instead of in here.”
My mom can’t get any words out through her tears. She just holds tight to my dad’s hand as they go.
Nico rushes over and pulls me into a hug when the doors to the courtroom shut behind them.
“You were so good,” he says.
I reach for my notebook pages. My words. I want to hold them to my chest. Remember them forever. At the same time, I want to chase after my parents and hug them, too. I want to know they’ll still hug me if I try.
“She was brilliant,” Laurel says as all four of us walk out. My eyes are focused on what’s in front of me.
My shoes clack against the shiny marble floor of the courthouse as we pass security guards and the doors of adjacent courtrooms. We walk down the stairs and into the lobby. I feel numb. Like it isn’t real.
“Did she really say it was okay?” I ask. “I can get my shots?”
“She really did,” Nico says. “You really can.”
We walk through the courthouse doors into the fresh, clean air outside. Nico holds my hand. Laurel and Nico’s mom chat excitedly. I can hardly feel my feet. It doesn’t seem true.
I scan the steps out front, looking for my parents, but I don’t see them.
The next thing I know, a microphone is shoved in my face. A news camera. A reporter.
“Ms. Jade. What do you have to say to your parents?”
“What?” I turn to Nico. I turn to Laurel. “How does she know?”
“Sometimes local news teams check to see what’s on the dockets,” Laurel says. “They must’ve found your case intriguing.”
“Ms. Jade,” the reporter says, “what message would you like other teens your age to hear?”
I look at her, clutching the microphone with the logo of the station she works for on it. I look at the cameraman standing beside her, lens still focused on my face.
And then my parents approach fast and furious. My dad tries to shoo the reporter away. But she’s persistent, shoving the microphone in his face instead. “Mr. Jade, how do you feel knowing your daughter will be able to get her vaccinations?”
“I feel sick,” he says. “I respect the law, and I have no choice but to accept the decision made here today, but this is a monumentally sad day for our family.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I say to him.
He turns to me. “You know, Juniper, you keep saying we just disagree on this one thing. Like one thing is simple. But it’s not. This one thing is about everything we are.” He shakes his head in defeat. “It’s as if you took who we are and completely rejected it.”
The camera keeps rolling. This will be everywhere by five o’clock tonight.
“Ms. Jade?” the reporter says. “Do you have a response?”
I can’t move. Can’t speak.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Today didn’t push everything behind us and make it all better. My parents have to accept the judge’s ruling, but that’s it. They still don’t have to accept me.
“What about you, Mrs. Jade?” the reporter says.
My mom juts her chin forward, and I know she’s trying to appear confident. But her voice wavers when she says, “Juniper is my daughter. That will never change. And that’s all I have to say.” She holds her arms tight at her sides and pushes past the reporter.
My dad follows, and all I can do is watch them go.
“Ms. Jade, where do you go from here? Home? Capitol Hill?”
I try to step away. Dip my head. Ask Laurel, “What does she mean?”
The news reporter presses forward. Wind in her hair. Makeup two layers thick on her face. Her microphone practically pressing into my nose. Go away, I think.
Laurel leans into me. Her voice is a hushed whisper in my ear. “What you did … it’s contained in our little town of fifteen thousand right now. But if you want to make this bigger … louder … if you really want people to know … I’m telling you, you could really change things. You could make a difference, Juniper. For other kids like you with parents like yours. Kids who want to be heard and parents who don’t want to listen.”
“I’m only sixteen.”
“And look at what you’ve already done.”
I turn to Nico. “It’s true,” he says.
“Ms. Jade?” the reporter prompts. “Do you have anything to say?”
I push my hair behind my ears. Then stand tall and proud. “I want to say that I really believe in what I did. And when you really believe in something, it’s worth fighting for. It’s worth … everything.”
“Even losing your family?”
“I believe my family is worth fighting for, too.”
Nico takes my hand and we push past the reporter as she signs off from her story.
The sun is warm on my shoulders, bouncing off the cars in the parking lot, shooting sparks at my feet. I roll up my shirtsleeves. I want to feel the sun’s heat on my skin. On my face. Like a pinch to my elbow to remind me I’m really here. That today really happened. I want to relish this. But then I turn back and look at my parents one last time. They’re walking together toward the parking lot, holding hands, shoulders slumped. My mom takes her free hand and swipes at her eyes to catch her tears.
I consider running to them. But I don’t know what more I could say. The only thing that will make this better is time.
“Are you okay?” Nico asks.
“I don’t know.” I give my parents another glance. My mom’s dress flutters out behind her. My fingers reach forward as if to grab it. To hold on to some part of something even though she’s too far away.
Why does winning feel so much like losing?