Acronyms

“Hey, Brig,” Jonah said, his voice quivering.

“What’s going on?”

“Melanie’s dead.”

The phone twisted in my damp hands. The receiver’s plastic squeaked under my grip.
“Okay?” I said in bewilderment.

“It’s rumored she died … of AIDS.”

Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, that shitty acronym sucked the air out of my lungs. My mind went gooey and my legs wobbled. What the fuck?

Jonah broke the silence, “Brig, I was wondering if you’d get tested with me in Des Moines tomorrow.”

I agreed.

A nurse called our names.

I hated this clinic. It was a sad state when Planned Parenthood had bars and bulletproof windows. Two weeks had passed since the sadistic vampire with the too-long nails had drawn my blood. Today was November 19th, my seventeenth birthday, yet I was not in a celebratory mood. I was a wreck. I came for Jonah, knowing I was negative, but what if.

“Brig, that’s us.”

The nurse escorted us down the hall, indicating our separate rooms.

“We want to be together,” Jonah said.

“That’s not how we do it,” she said.

“Well, that’s how we are going to do it today.”

She pursed her lips, smacked the clipboard against her hip, turned on her heal and stalked off.

We entered the small impersonal space and I sat. Jonah picked through the glass containers: tongue depressors, q-tips, and cotton balls. He made little stick men out of the medical implements, making them dance and sing “Do, Re, Mi.”

“Fa a long, long way to run-” Jonah sang.

“Hello?” a voice called from the opening door. A middle-aged man stepped in carrying two manila folders. Bearing the scars of an acne-riddled adolescence and frizzy troll doll hair, he looked like a demon in scrubs.

“Jonah,” he said. “Would you please step out into the hall?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not leaving.” Jonah walked over, took my hand in his, and sat down next to me.

The man took a deep breath, sat on the exam table, and opened up the folders.

“Alexandra, your results are negative.”

Jonah kissed my forehead. “Happy Birthday, baby.”

“Jonah…” the man paused flipping through the chart. “Your test results are positive.”

Jonah merely blinked. I felt nauseous. My mouth began to water signaling I had about a minute to find a toilet.

“Excuse me, where’s the bathroom?” I stood and wobbled. Both Jonah and the nurse jumped up and reached for me as I crumbled. I shook.

Jonah sat behind me on the floor, his hand on my back. My stomach turned.

“Grab me a trashcan,” Jonah said.

Jonah placed the small can under my head just in time for me to puke. He wrapped his body around me as dry heaves racked my body and whispered, “We’re going to be okay.”

Photo: myrkky