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On Wednesday night after school, I decided to go round to see Emma. I was still feeling really chuffed about Darren and couldn't help walking around with a grin on my face. I didn't fancy going straight home, where my good mood would be frowned upon and I'd be grilled with twenty suspicious questions.

Aunty Jean answered the door and waved me through to the living room, lighting up a fag on the way. A full ashtray spilled onto magazines and papers that were strewn over the coffee table next to a half-empty bottle of red wine and a dirty dinner plate. The ironing board was up in the corner of the room, with a basketful of washing waiting to be ironed by its side. Mum would have had a fit. Aunty Jean isn't dirty, but she isn't fussy about the state of her home like Mum is. Again I thought of how different they were; you'd never believe they were sisters.

Emma was on the phone in her bedroom. It was still a bit awkward between me and Aunty Jean. For just a short time when she opened the door everything would be normal and happy and easy, and then the reality of Emma's situation would descend once more. I often felt really guilty that I wasn't ill too. I felt as though I was a constant reminder to Aunty Jean of a girl practically the same age as Em, brought up almost identically, but with the one difference: that I didn't have HIV. I was always surprised that she didn't lash out more or ever feel the urge to grab me and tell me how unfair it all was. And it was unfair. Why Emma? I wondered whether Aunty Jean resented me and wished I wouldn't come round to remind her of the fact that I was healthy and her daughter wasn't.

We sat quietly on the sofa together. Aunty Jean flicked through a copy of Hello!, making the odd bitchy comment about some B-list celebrity draped over a chaise longue in a tasteless million-pound home. "These people might have money, you know, but they've got absolutely no style," she said, shaking her head in despair as she turned the page over to reveal the interior of yet another soap star's dreadful country cottage. On the telly Ricki Lake was encouraging some woman with big hair to tell the audience about how she'd found her husband in bed with her brother. I wished Emma would hurry up and get off the phone. I picked up a copy of Cosmopolitan from the coffee table and pretended to be engrossed so that Aunty Jean wouldn't feel the need to talk.

After a while I realized that she was being exceptionally quiet and had stopped making even the smallest remark. I looked up and noticed a few tears rolling down her cheeks. I strained my neck so as to see the article she was reading. From what I could gather it was about some actress whose daughter had cancer. She was fighting a daily battle with the disease and undergoing chemotherapy. The actress was telling the interviewer how touched and overwhelmed she'd been by the public's kindness and generosity. Her family had been inundated with cards, presents, donations, flowers, prayers, and advice.

Aunty Jean's face was drawn. I linked my arm through hers and squeezed tight. She pulled out a tissue that was tucked in her cardigan sleeve and mopped her eyes and blew her nose. "Oh, I'm sorry, Leyla. I shouldn't be crying in front of you like this."

"It's all right, I don't mind, honestly."

"It's just that, you know, when I read stories like that where there is so much public sympathy for a young girl who is tragically ill, I realize how different the situation is for families who are affected by HIV, whether they're rich or poor, famous or not. Imagine the response I'd get to my story about my sixteen-year-old daughter who had sex in the woods with some bloke she didn't know and contracted HIV. It just wouldn't be the same, would it?

"HIV is a dirty disease. That's what everyone thinks, anyway. I couldn't tell anyone that Em's got HIV. It's not socially acceptable to talk about it. It's best if it's kept our little secret. That's the worst thing about all of this, Leyla. I feel so alone. I know I've got to stay strong for Em, but there are times when I just want to break down and tell one of my friends and beg for help to get through all of this."

She cried into my shoulder. I suddenly felt really grown up. It felt odd and quite scary to have the roles reversed — me comforting good old Aunty Jean instead of the other way round for the first time in my life. God knows she'd mopped up enough of my tears over the years. I wanted to help, but I still felt panicky inside, like I wasn't sure how to handle it. At times, since Emma had told me about the HIV, I'd felt like a little girl who had been plonked in the middle of a totally grown-up situation with no guidebook, no rules or instructions on how to find my way around. I was scared of making a really big mistake, saying something stupid and making an already bad situation even worse. So I just kept quiet and held tightly on to Aunty Jean, hoping that my just being there would be enough.

Aunty Jean sat up suddenly and tossed the magazine onto the floor. "You won't be seeing any photos of me and Emma in some glossy magazine, sat together in our nice little flat, thanking the nation for its kindness. God, I could scream sometimes." She blew hard into her tissue.

Emma eventually came out of her room, looking pleased with herself. "You two look cozy. Any room for me?" she said, squeezing between us on the sofa.

"Who have you been talking to? You seem pretty chuffed," Aunty Jean probed, trying to act as normal as possible.

"I've been talking to Lucinda at the support center, and they're really excited about Leyla joining our music group. Leyla, they want you to come along this Saturday to meet everyone and find out about the plans for the music workshops," she said, turning to me with a slightly concerned look. "You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

Aunty Jean got up and offered to make us a drink.

"No, not at all. I've been practicing, actually. I didn't expect it to happen so quickly, though."

"They're just keen to get things moving. Quite a few people at the group are really excited about it all. They can't wait to get started."

"Oh God, I hope I can do it, Emma. I'm not sure I'm good enough yet to be teaching anybody."

"You'll be brilliant, and you won't be doing it single-handedly, anyway. There are going to be other musicians there."

"It feels strange to be called a musician. I only knock around on an old drum kit in my garage. I'm hardly a musician."

"You'd better start having more belief in yourself and stop being so modest, because you'll never make it big otherwise. You're a musician. Get used to it and start believing it." Emma gave me an encouraging smile. "I was thinking, though — what are you going to tell your parents you're doing every other Saturday?"

"Shit, I hadn't thought about that. How long will I be there for?"

"Well, it's eleven in the morning till five in the afternoon. I usually leave at about ten and get home at about six. Do you reckon they'll be really suspicious?"

"Yeah, probably, but I'm out practically every Saturday anyway doing something or other with you or Sarah."

"But you're going to have to leave at a regular time every week and literally be gone all day. You're almost never out of the house for the entire day. They'll begin to wonder what you're getting up to." Emma was starting to get a bit shrill. She jumped to her feet and seemed very agitated all of a sudden.

"I'll tell them that I've started drumming lessons in Manchester with a group of kids from our music class at school," I reassured her. "They'll buy that. They know I've wanted proper lessons for a while; I've just never got round to doing it. It's totally believable, and not that far from the truth, either, so I won't feel too bad about lying my arse off."

Emma had her back to me, and I could see her shoulders tense up. "This is awful. I hate all these lies. I've even got you lying to your parents now. I wish we could all be open and honest with one another. I just want to be normal. I hate all of these hushed, coded conversations and feeling like I've got to be looking over my shoulder wherever I go in case I'm doing something no one should know about. I hate it. Why don't I just tell everyone about the HIV and be done with it. I mean, what the hell are they all going to do to me anyway? Throw me in a pit and stone me to death or something?"

She was kicking newspapers and magazines about the floor. Her mood had changed dramatically, from being cheery and optimistic when she'd told me about the workshop to being at a boiling point with anger and frustration now.

"Listen, I'll just tell them that I'm going to a drum workshop. That's the truth, isn't it? I won't be lying at all then. It'll be fine. I don't have to tell them any more than that. I never tell them any details about my life anyway — they practically have to hold a gun to my head to get me to tell them what I want for my tea. It'll be fine," I said, trying to calm her down.

"That's not the point, Leyla."

I knew it wasn't the point, but I wanted to say something to make her feel better. I couldn't bear to just sit there yet again not knowing what to say or do.

"The point is that I'm sick of all these secrets and not being able to be honest about what's happening to me. It's driving me insane."

"Well, at least we'll go insane together, darling," Aunty Jean said in a calm, soothing tone. She was leaning against the living room door with her arms open to Emma. We hadn't even noticed that she was there; she must have heard everything. Emma went to her and fell into her arms. "I haven't got any answers for you, Em. I know all these secrets and lies are unfair and cruel, but it's just the way of the world. All I can think to do is blow the whole bloody planet up and start all over again. That's not very realistic, though, is it?" she said with a smile. But her attempt to diffuse Emma's anger wasn't successful.

Emma pulled herself away from Aunty Jean. "It shouldn't be this way, though. I can't be as complacent as you, Mum. I feel like I'm a walking time bomb about to go off any second. Why should I be made to feel so ashamed just because I've got this virus? I almost feel like society's cruelty could kill me before the HIV got a look in." Aunty Jean tried to put her arm around her, but Emma pushed her away. "Why has this happened to me? Why me? What the hell did I ever do wrong, eh?" she snarled, punching the living room door.

For one moment I really did think that she was going to lose it and trash the place or hurt someone — anyone, anything. I sat on the sofa with my knees drawn up to my chest and hugged myself, wanting to become as inconspicuous as possible. I couldn't stop thinking about Aunty Jean's outburst just a few minutes before Emma had come into the room. I didn't know how to handle the intensity of emotions. I felt completely out of my depth and wanted to disappear. It made me feel like a complete coward — a coward because I didn't have the guts to face their pain head-on. All I wanted to do was disappear out of there and go back to the happy thoughts of Darren and me that I'd walked into the flat with just half an hour earlier. I shut my eyes tight and buried my face in my arms for a couple of minutes, desperate to get my head together.

When I looked up, Emma was slowly beginning to unfurl herself from the tight knot she'd wound herself into. She relaxed her fists, unclenched her teeth, and flopped to the floor in a heap. Aunty Jean and I rushed to her and threw our arms around her. We all cried together, as much with relief at getting a lot of pent-up thoughts and feelings out in the open as anything else.

After we'd had some tea and calmed ourselves down, I quietly left the flat. Emma and I were so lucky to have her mum, I thought, because I didn't think I could handle it all on my own; the responsibility would just be too much. After the scene I'd just witnessed, I felt completely exhausted and emotionally drained. If I had to shoulder all of that on my own I think I would have collapsed under the pressure long before now. I wanted to help Em and Aunty Jean, but I was also aware that there was only so much I could do. I had to reassure myself that between me, her mum, her counselor, and the support group, Emma would be okay. I would be the best friend that I'd always been to Emma and help out in any way I could.

I was really late for tea and I knew Mum would be having a hairy fit, but our house is one big stifled emotion where absolutely no one talks about how they are feeling or what they really think about things, and the idea of going back there just wasn't appealing. Mum and Dad talk to each other about what needs doing in the house, what so-and-so did at work that day, or what they're having for tea. Sadie talks about Anthony and diets and gossips about her work colleagues. I couldn't remember a single time any of us had ever sat down with one another and had a heart-to-heart. It was probably as much my fault as anyone else's, but Mum and Dad never encouraged me to talk about my problems and refused to acknowledge that I had a personal life all of my own, so I never asked about theirs or about how life was treating them.

I suddenly felt a real urge to see Darren. I hadn't seen him since Sunday, and I knew he would do a good job of taking me out of myself, even if I couldn't talk to him about what had just gone on at Em's. My head was pounding with all the different images flashing through my mind. I could still see Emma bubbling over with anger and frustration, and Aunty Jean weeping into my shoulder, but I could also see Darren kissing me in the bandstand. Adrenaline soared through my veins, and I ducked into the next phone box I saw. I leafed through my address book, praying that I'd written Darren's number down from the scrap of paper he'd given me on Sunday. There it was, written in big bold letters under D.

I opened and closed the book a few times, making up my mind to call and then deciding against it. I was scared he'd think I was chasing him really hard and be totally put off. I was suddenly convinced that he didn't like me after all. But I'd been through all of this before, and every time I'd seen him he'd been really pleased to see me and had made me feel great about myself. I decided to take the plunge and just go for it.

I rang his number. Darren answered and sounded so surprised to hear from me that he almost dropped the phone. When I asked him if he fancied meeting me, instead of getting all flustered like I expected him to, he seemed genuinely excited and said that he'd meet me at the end of his road. I phoned Mum and told her I was going to Sarah's to finish off a history project that had to be in tomorrow.

I'd never felt this way about anyone before. I wanted to get to know this unbelievably cool guy so badly. I wanted him to like me. I had butterflies in my stomach and I kept checking myself in shop windows. I still had my school uniform on, so I didn't exactly look my best. I'd just have to dazzle him with my personality.

He was sat on a garden wall, and was staring down at his hands as I turned the corner. I saw him before he saw me, so I had a chance to gather myself and take a good look at him. He was as gorgeous as ever. He always looked so effortlessly cool. He glanced up and saw me, walked straight over, and kissed me hard on the lips.

"It's good to see you," he said.

Copyright © 2001 by Adele Minchin

Tags: Sexually Transmitted Diseases (STDs)

About the Author

Adele Minchin has worked in public relations for four years, first at Campaign Against the Arms Trade and currently in publishing. She is a volunteer at Body and Soul, the self-help organization that supports adults and young people living with or affected by HIV/AIDS. The Beat Goes On is her first novel and, shortly after its first publication, won the Branford Boase Award for fiction in the UK. Adele Minchin resides in London, England.