My Life After Now - By Jessica Verdi Page 0,17

alone are enough to make you declare condoms your best friend for life.

My first instinct was to go to my regular gynecologist to get tested. But then I realized that the tests would be on my insurance record and my dads would find out. Not that they’d be against my getting tested, but they’d definitely have questions as to why I thought it was necessary. And that was one conversation I did not want to have.

So I was going to go to a free health clinic in the city. I found one that actually specialized in STI testing, and you didn’t even have to give your name. I could get this whole damn thing over with, and no one would ever need to know. Perfect.

I left for school in the morning like I always did, but instead of turning into the school parking lot, I kept driving south, straight toward Manhattan. I parked in a garage and walked to the Harlem address that I’d scrawled on a Post-It. It was a random, nondescript three-floor building with no signs or anything indicating I was in the right place. The doctors’ offices I was used to were in shiny, large office buildings, with security desks and potted plants. This place didn’t feel at all welcoming, but I forced myself to push on. I was here for a reason. I pressed the buzzer for the lower level and was buzzed in a few seconds later. I took the elevator one flight down to the windowless basement and had to be buzzed in through a second door.

“Good morning,” the man at the front desk greeted me.

“Hi,” I replied quietly.

“How may I help you?” he asked.

Didn’t he know? Didn’t everyone come here for the same reason? I just stared at him, not wanting to say it out loud.

He smiled curiously back at me. “Are you here for one of our group meetings? Or for our needle exchange?”

I shook my head. “You do STI screenings here, right?” I finally asked. I felt weird saying it out loud.

“Oh, yes, of course,” the man said, and handed me a pen. “Please sign in—first name and last initial. Someone will be with you shortly.”

I wrote “Lucy M.” and my arrival time on the sheet taped to the desk, and sat down in the waiting room.

Almost every seat was taken; the room was packed with people. Mostly men. The walls were painted red—I guess in an effort to make the place seem less depressing—and there were posters pinned up everywhere, with sayings like, “Think you picked up more than you bargained for at that party last night?” and “BYOC: Bring Your Own Condom.”

One by one, like a graduation procession, people were called from the waiting room. I waited and tried not to stare at anyone. My leg shook uncontrollably, and the man sitting next to me had to ask me to stop. I apologized and saw the curiosity in his eyes as he caught a glimpse of my face. He was probably wondering what a girl like me was doing here. I was wondering the same thing.

Time crept by. I tried to read through my script, but it was like my eyes and my brain had been disconnected. Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast. I read the same line over and over again, registering no meaning. It was three hours before they called my name.

I followed a middle-aged woman into an “interview room.” She was wearing white pants and a white jacket, but she introduced herself as simply “Marie” and was wearing a whole lot of tacky gold jewelry, so I was pretty sure she wasn’t a doctor. The room was stocked with medical supplies, and there were more posters on the wall. “Syphilis is Back!” one shouted at me. Marie indicated that I should sit in the chair across the table from her.

“So, Lucy,” she began, with a cheerful smile. “What brings you here today?”

“Um, I wanted to get tested for STIs,” I said. Why did they keep making me say it?

Marie nodded. “What do you think the likelihood of a positive result is for you today?”

“Pretty low. But I just want to be sure.”

“That’s very smart of you. All right, let’s get started. I’m going to ask you several questions. You’ll see me writing your answers down, but it’s just for our records—anything you tell me will be kept confidential, so please be as accurate and honest as you can.”

I nodded.

“First, I am legally required to