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,
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,
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