Getting tested for HIV tough, even when you know the answers

"Are you scared?"

I look up, and for a second, I see Jake's eyes meet mine, then quickly dart back to the carpeting of the clinic.

"No, I'm not scared," I say. "I have nothing to be scared of."

"Same," he says flatly, and I watch as he fingers the dark blue rosary hanging around his neck, lacing the beads through his long, skinny fingers.

It's only 11 a.m., but the clinic is already busy. It is worth noting, however, that Jake and I are the only guys.

Two teenage guys and six pregnant girls. A few of whom don't look much older than us.

There's no air conditioning, and beads of sweat run down my forehead and pool on the nape of my neck, even though we haven't been here long. The interior looks as though it was pulled straight out of 1973, complete with stiff plastic chairs (bright yellow) and green walls (probably from when lead was allowed in paint). A sign above the front desk reads, "No esta clinica libre!" and a tired-looking woman sits behind the desk, shuffling through a mountain of papers.

"Are you the two here for the HIV testing?" a women barks as she emerges from the hallway next to Jake's chair. I shift nervously for a second, and I can feel the eyes of the others in the room on us.

"Yeah," Jake says, defiant. "We are."

I look at the woman's name tag: "Estelle."

I feel as though she should be working at a truck stop instead of a health clinic.

"We can only take you one at a time," she says, and Jake and I both look at each other.

"He'll go first," Jake says, before I can open my mouth. It's ridiculous. I don't even need to be here. I'm only doing this because he wanted "moral" support, and Jake and I aren't even that good of friends. The only way I could possibly be HIV-positive is if I had accidentally touched someone's blood.

I look at Jake, and a smile spreads across his face.

I'm going to kill him.

"Ready?" Estelle asks, and I stand up to follow.

"Zac?" Jake says, as I start to leave. I turn back and look at him once more, directly into his eyes. "I really am scared."

Inside the room, Estelle gets to the point:

"Are you on crack?"

"Excuse me?" I ask. The room is small and cramped but clean and sterile, like a hospital. "Um, no? I'm not on crack."

"How 'bout ’E'? Have you taken that within the past 60 days?" It takes me a second to realize that she's talking about Ecstasy.

"No … I don't do drugs," I tell her. She scribbles something on the tablet that she's propping up against her stomach.

"You don't do any drugs?" Her eyebrow raises.

"Tylenol?" I offer.

"Hmm," she scribbles a little more on her tablet. "How 'bout sex? When was the last time?"

"Um …" Suddenly, I feel vulnerable and weird.

She runs the gamut of questions, about everything. By the time she reaches the end of her list, I've discussed more about my personal life with a complete stranger than I have with my parents in the past five years.

"So how do you want to do it?" Estelle asks and leans against the little counter on the right side of the room.

"There's more than one way?"

"Yeah, either I could swab your mouth quick or take a pin prick of blood," Estelle says and looks angry, as though I should have known this all before.

I think about what Jake and I had talked about earlier.

"I want them to take as much blood as possible," he had said. "I want to know for sure."

I tell Estelle that I'll take the pin prick.

She takes the needle and pokes me so that a single drop of dark red blood comes out.

One single drop of blood can mean so much.

"Oh, dear, this isn't good," Estelle says as she looks down at the counter where the cup with my blood is sitting. My heart jumps, and inside I start to collapse. "I spelled my name wrong on this form."

Estelle laughs and shakes her head.

I want to strangle her.

"So are you ready to know?" Estelle asks, and holds the cup in her hand after a few more minutes.

I can't read her expression.

"Yeah." I'm ready. Even though I know the results, I feel slightly nervous.

"You're negative," she says and smiles. "You've got nothing to worry about."

For some reason, I feel the sudden urge to hug Estelle.

When Jake emerges from the same room a half hour later, he smiles broadly.

"I'm clean!" he says and stands in the door frame.

That night, Jake and I are at Pioneer Trails, lying on a table in the middle of the field.

"You know what's hard to believe?" Jake asks. "That some people believe humans are the only things that exist anywhere. Look at all those stars, all that space. We're just so small here."

All day, I had been thinking the same thing.

How, in the vast continuum of time, we're all just so small.

Suddenly, the idea of death didn't seem so large. Not as large as space and time, at least.

It was a comforting thought: That the world would always spin madly on.



Zac Brokenrope is a senior at Aurora High School.