Life and Other Complications Read online

  I braced myself, waiting for her to ask me what I’ve been writing about. And the strange thing is, a small part of me wanted her to ask.

  But she didn’t.

  She said, “We’re picking Natalie up in an hour.”

  “Why?”

  “We need to find you a prom dress.” Caroline help up a hand to stop me before I could get a word out. “Mom and I already talked, and we’re paying for it.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “You don’t have a choice. You promised Luke, and it’s not like the Millers are going to help you.”

  It’s true. They appreciate the extra stipend that my diagnosis brings them, but they don’t actually spend the money on me. The extra money and the martyrdom points are their rewards for taking me in.

  “Think of the dress as an early Christmas present,” Caroline said.

  “It’s May.”

  “A very, early Christmas present.”

  I knew she wasn’t going to let this go, so I finally agreed.

  Caroline grinned. “Now, what do you think Luke would like to see you in?”

  I frowned at her. “It’s not like this is a real date.”

  “Of course, it’s a real date. He’s been in love with you forever.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “Let’s examine the evidence,” Caroline said. “He asked you to prom. You turned him down. Did he accept that? No. He took the coupon he had been saving for eight years and cashed it to get you to say yes.”

  “He was trying to be nice.”

  But she wasn’t listening. “He gets up at ungodly hours to go running with you.”

  “He likes to run.”

  “He likes being with you.”

  “We’re friends.”

  Caroline leaned toward me. “You’re more than friends. And you know it.”

  It’s hard enough knowing that nothing is ever going to happen between me and Luke. I don’t need Caroline making it worse.

  “Can we please change the subject?” I said.

  “Fine. But eventually you’ll accept that I’m right.”

  “You think you’re right about everything.”

  “I don’t think. I am.”

  “You were convinced that our middle school principal was demon-possessed.”

  “Oh, she was,” Caroline said. “No one in their right mind would willingly wear plaid polyester.”

  “Then how do you explain the 1970’s?”

  “Mass demonic outbreak,” she said.

  And I laughed.

  Caroline wrapped an arm around me and squeezed. “Better.”

  We picked up Natalie in the next village over. Today she was wearing a t-shirt that read, “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I said.

  Natalie smiled. “Most people think it’s Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Then it would say, ‘The course of true love ran off the edge of a cliff.”

  “True.” And then Natalie said something that surprised me. “I hate Romeo and Juliet.”

  Even Caroline raised an eyebrow.

  “Because they both die young?” I asked her.

  “Because they both choose to die young. Some of us don’t get a choice.”

  Her words hung in the air until Mrs. Reese said, “Aly, are you looking for a short or long dress?”

  When we walked into Betsy’s Best Dress, a plump middle-aged woman wearing a nametag that read Mary Anne came over to us. “Can I help you ladies?”

  “We need a prom dress,” Mrs. Reese said.

  “Well, most of my stock is already gone,” Mary Anne said. “But you’re welcome to look at what we have left.”

  Mary Anne showed us the racks of prom dresses and then left us to browse. Usually, I’m not much of a shopper. But I needed a dress, so I joined the others as they dug through the racks. I quickly decided that most of the dresses were left there for a reason.

  “Aly, I want you to find something you love,” Mrs. Reese said.

  Caroline held out a dress.

  “No,” Mrs. Reese said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she doesn’t want to be mistaken for a disco ball,” Mrs. Reese told her daughter.

  “No,” Mrs. Reese said to Caroline’s next choice.

  “So, it shows a little cleavage,” Caroline said.

  “We are not putting her in anything she will be afraid of falling out of.”

  “Do you know your friend at all?” Mrs. Reese asked when Caroline held up her next choice.

  “Yes,” said Caroline. “And she has nice legs. She should show them off.”

  “I’m not looking to show anything off,” I said. “I just want a dress that—”

  “Would be approved by a convent of nuns,” Caroline said.

  “That doesn’t make me self-conscious,” I finished for myself.

  “You’re beautiful,” Caroline said. “As long as we don’t put you in a horrible dress, you’ll be fine.”

  Mrs. Reese leaned in and dropped her voice. “We do have plenty of options for horrible dresses.”

  For a while, we tried to outdo each other with awful dresses. Mrs. Reese was holding the top contender, a skin-tight sequined gown with a three-dimensional snake wrapped all the way around it, when I realized that Natalie wasn’t with us.

  I found her on the other side of the store, standing a foot away from a mannequin that displayed a silk bridal gown. She didn’t touch the dress or say a word. But you could feel her longing. Caroline had followed me across the store, and we framed Natalie’s small figure.

  “That one would swallow you,” Caroline said.

  I was already looking. I pulled out a dress from the petite collection.

  Natalie looked between us, her face confused. “I don’t want to try one on.”

  I held out the dress. “Yes, you do.”

  Natalie started to protest, but Caroline was already saying, “Mary Anne, we need a dressing room.”

  Mary Anne frowned. She knew we weren’t going to buy a wedding dress with the same certainty that I know that Caroline will start tomorrow with a steaming mug of her beloved.

  I could see the word no forming on Mary Anne’s lips. But Mrs. Reese walked over and said something to the saleswoman. Caroline’s mother spoke quietly enough that we couldn’t hear her words. But we watched the expression on Mary Anne’s face shift. There was deep sympathy in her eyes when she looked back at Natalie. Apparently, Caroline’s mother isn’t above playing the cancer card when it’s needed.

  “Of course, we’d be happy to open a room,” Mary Anne said, pulling out her keys.

  Natalie tried again to protest, but now I had extra leverage. “You don’t want to argue with Mrs. Reese, do you?”

  And Natalie finally conceded.

  Mary Anne not only helped Natalie try on the wedding dress, she brought her shoes and a veil. When they came back out, Natalie was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. We all stood and watched her walk slowly over to the three-way mirror.

  Caroline pulled out her phone and took dozens of pictures, because this was Natalie, the way her life should have turned out.

  In the end, I was the one who found my dress. In a sea of garish colors and clinging curves, it was perfect simplicity. My dress looks like a dancing costume. It’s creamy white with inch-wide straps and a scoop neck. The fitted bodice flows out into a full skirt that stops midcalf. It’s not something that any of them would have chosen. But I liked it enough to try it on.

  When I came out of the dressing room, Caroline said, “I love it,” at the same time that Natalie said, “It’s perfect.”

  It was a little disturbing to have them agree on anything.

  But Mrs. Reese looked at Mary Anne and said, “We’ll take it.”

  Standing in front of the mirror, I was incredibly grateful, and I told Mrs. Reese that. But I also couldn’t shake the feeling that I was pretending as much as Nata
lie was.

  Wednesday, May 18

  My first deposition is in less than a week. I keep trying to distract myself. But the only thing that can completely consume my thoughts is painting. And I can’t paint all the time. My teachers would frown upon that. Today, school provided a distraction—just not a very pleasant one.

  Most of the kids at our high school aren’t cruel. They just aren’t comfortable with HIV. Which means they aren’t comfortable with me. They don’t know what to say to me or how to act. They don’t shun me, exactly. They just give me extra room, an empty seat between us in class, several feet of empty space around me in the hall.

  Most of the kids aren’t cruel—but there are exceptions. Luke got into the only fight of his life when Brian Dorren said that AIDS stands for Aly Is a Dirty Slut. They were both suspended. Luke still says it was worth it.

  No one has made a comment like that since. At least not to my face. But they still show up sometimes in writing. Today, I saw kids clustered around my locker and I knew what I was going to find. But I couldn’t bring myself to stand there and read the signs with a crowd gathered around watching like spectators at a car crash.

  So I ducked into the bathroom and slipped into the first empty stall, locking the door after me. With my back pressed against the cold wall, I waited until the bell rang. Then I waited another five minutes. By the time I came out of the bathroom, the hallway was empty, except for one figure, Madison Nelson.

  Madison was homecoming queen last fall and is a front runner for prom queen. We aren’t friends. But today, she was standing in front of my locker pulling down signs. Right next to her head was one that read, WHORES GET WHAT THEY DESERVE.

  I have one more year of this.

  I told myself that I can do anything for a year. Then I can go to art school where there are no lockers.

  Madison saw me as she pulled down the last paper. She looked almost as awkward as I felt as she said, “I’m sorry.”

  I took the signs out of Madison’s hands and said, “Thanks,” before stuffing them into my bag.

  I didn’t know what to do at that point but walk away. I passed trash cans, but I couldn’t just throw the signs away. Then they would still exist. I don’t know why, but when these signs show up, I have this need to hide them, to cover them up. So I walked down the deserted hallways to the art room. Ms. Jones, the art teacher, doesn’t have a class last period, so the room was dark. I technically do have a class last period, but I didn’t go. I went into the art room and shut the door.

  I took Art I with Ms. Jones during the fall semester of my freshman year. I guess she saw something in me. Because every semester since then, she’s signed me up for independent study. Basically, that means she keeps me stocked in painting supplies and offers the occasional advice about technique. Last year, when I didn’t have the same lunch period as Luke or Caroline, I ate in the art room every day. Ms. Jones never complained. She just let me work or talked to me about painting.

  Today, I turned on a few lights, set up a palette, and sat down in front of an easel. When everything was ready, I reached down into my bag and pulled up the first sign my fingers touched. That slightly crumpled piece of paper I set on the easel. It read, WHO WANTS TO PLAY AIDS ROULETTE?

  At those words, something inside me wanted to curl up so small that I stopped existing. But at least I knew why Madison had been embarrassed.

  When Jessie Cooper said that she was going to invite the whole eighth grade to her birthday party, I knew that wouldn’t mean me. But then there was an invitation taped on my locker, just like all the others. Everyone was talking about this party. And I was going. I thought maybe, the kids were finally past the HIV. Maybe I could be like everyone else.

  Except I didn’t know how to be like everyone else. So I asked my friends for help. Luke was fourteen and in high school. He played me all of the popular songs and tried to teach me how to dance—which didn’t go well. We eventually agreed that I should stick with the classics: the sway and the jump. Caroline helped me pick out Jessie’s gift and figure out what to wear.

  By the night of the party, I was as ready as humanly possible and almost excited. Caroline was supposed to be going too, but she got strep. So I was alone walking into the Coopers’ basement with my present. Caroline had assured me that Jessie would love the sweater I got her. So I triple-checked that the card was taped to the gift before I put my present with the others. Once that was done, I wasn’t sure what to do next. Wishing Jessie happy birthday seemed like a good option. So I walked over to the birthday girl and engaged in one of the shortest conversations of my life.

  “Hi, Jessie, happy birthday,” I said.

  “Oh, hi,” Jessie said and then turned back into the tight little knot of girls around her.

  “What is she doing here?” someone whispered.

  “My mom made me invite her,” Jessie whispered back.

  And my stupid idea that this was the first of a long line of parties disintegrated. I wanted to leave, but couldn’t, unless I was prepared to tell the Millers why I was home so early. Which I wasn’t. So I retreated into the far corner of the room and tried to be invisible.

  After a while I either developed the superpower of invisibility out of pure will, or the kids lost interest. Because they stopped looking over at me and whispering. They danced to the songs I knew. And most of them danced as badly as I did. I would have fit right in. If I wasn’t me.

  When Jessie opened her presents, Caroline was right. She loved the sweater.

  “It’s so cute,” a girl said. “It’s too bad it’s from her.”

  Because obviously Jessie couldn’t wear it. Not since the whole class knew that I had given it to her.

  With the cake eaten and the presents opened, we still had an hour, and nothing to do until Madison threw out the idea of Truth or Dare.

  I don’t think she would have suggested it if she knew what was going to happen. But either way, there was no going back. Madison was the most popular girl in our class. She wanted to play Truth or Dare, so the other kids all went along with it.

  To start things off, Troy Coleman dared Peter Jenkins to lick the toilet. There were no good options for Peter. Either he didn’t do it and would be called a coward, or did do it and would be called a toilet-licker. Peter decided to go with the gross factor. He headed for the small half bath in the corner of the basement. The crowd pressed in to watch, shouting with glee and disgust when he actually did it.

  Peter was clearly annoyed when he came back to the group.

  “Truth or Dare?” he asked Troy.

  “Dare,” Troy said.

  Peter looked around, trying to find something more disgusting than licking a toilet, and he saw me. “I dare you to kiss Aly Bennett for thirty seconds,” Peter said, and the toilet was forgotten.

  “You’re daring me to play AIDS Roulette?” Troy said.

  And Peter said, “Yeah.”

  “You catch HIV, not AIDS,” I whispered. But no one heard me. They were all too busy watching Troy.

  “I’ll do it,” Troy said, and the kids all started talking at once.

  Troy was big for thirteen and seemed to be growing bigger as he walked across the room. I tried to back up, but there was nowhere to go.

  I said, “I don’t want to.”

  But Troy didn’t care what I wanted. He grabbed me and pushed me up against the wall, his fingers digging into my arms. I tried to get away, but Troy used his body to pin me to the wall. His mouth was rough and mean as it came down on mine. And then his tongue was forcing its way into my mouth.

  Behind Troy, kids were counting off the seconds while his tongue punished me for existing.

  When the count hit thirty, Troy pulled back, and said, “God, that’s disgusting.”

  Then he was pushing his way through the crowd to wash his mouth out in the bathroom. Everyone else laughed. Except for Madison. Guilt and pity were competing for top billing on her face. But her pity was as unbearable as their laughter.r />
  I ran, up the basement steps, through the Coopers’ house, and all the way back to the Millers’. I could feel the sobs building up in my chest, but I didn’t let them out. I pushed it all down. Because if I let myself cry, I wasn’t sure that I would ever be able to stop.

  Today, there were no tears to hold back, just a tightness in my chest as I painted over the signs one by one, covering the ugly words with huge bursts of color. I created hydrangea blossoms and violets and roses that filled the page. What’s buried underneath is irrelevant.

  The only thing that matters is what people can see.

  Luke and Caroline found me after school. Caroline hugged me so hard it was difficult to breathe. When she let me go, she went off on a tirade about what should happen to the people who had done this. Luke pulled up a stool and sat down in front of me, his eyes focused on mine.

  “What do you need?” he said when Caroline paused for breath.

  I had been fine. But the concern on his face seemed to bring it all back. Not that I was going to tell him that. He needed something he could fix.

  “I can’t deal with Mrs. Miller right now.”

  “Done,” he said.

  “Rock n’ Bowl?” Caroline said.

  “Rock n’ Bowl,” Luke agreed.

  “We don’t have to,” I told them.

  But it was too late. Caroline had already pulled out her phone. Seconds later all of our phones dinged. The message had been sent.

  The Rock n’ Bowl Karaoke Lounge and Bowling Alley is two towns away. But this message is our equivalent to the Bat signal. It’s always answered. And by the time we had swung by the Millers to give Luke a chance to convince Mrs. Miller to let me go out on a school night, everyone else was already there.

  When we were growing up, the other kids in Group used to call Luke, Caroline and me the Surviving Triad, because we had been around the longest. Ben, Kyle and Natalie are the next circle out. Together, I guess we would be the Surviving Six. Josie and Miranda haven’t been around long enough to be invited to the inner sanctum of Rock n’ Bowl. But the others were all there.

  Inside, we rented the world’s ugliest shoes—I’m convinced they make them this hideous so no one will try to walk out with them—and chose our balls—which always elicits a comment from Kyle—before we settled into two lanes.