Fade to Black (11 page)

I look at him and shake my head. I feel so sleepy. I bet if they left, I could go right to sleep now with no Nick at Nite or anything. I yawn.

The officers close their notebooks. My mother smiles at me. She’s happy I didn’t tell them the truth, that I decided to fry Clinton Cole even if it means letting the really guilty guy go. She’s so sure that it’s Clinton and I’m mistaken. I realize that in the months since I was diagnosed, her pain and fear and anger have become so huge, they’ve taken over, and it’s all about Us versus Them. I know she loves me. But somehow, what I stand for is almost as important as the fact that I’m her son. Maybe that’s how she deals—I don’t know.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Officer Bauer shakes my mother’s hand. Neither cop shakes mine. Big surprise. “We’ll be in touch if there are any new developments.”

“Excuse me.”

I’m surprised to hear my own voice. Everyone turns back, surprised too, like they’d forgotten for a moment there was anyone in the bed.

“Could I maybe…” I stop. It sounds like a request, and it’s not one. Not really. “I have to talk to Clinton Cole.”

Tuesday, 10:05 p.m., Clinton’s room

CLINTON

Mom always says it’s never good news when the phone rings after nine. According to her, most people know that you’re not supposed to call that late. So if someone does call, it’s either because they’re rude or clueless or because somebody died. Or it was Dad, calling because the bartender hid his keys.

My friends pretty much always call whenever they feel like it, which is what Mom means by rude and clueless. But my friends are MIA today, so when the phone rings at ten, I wonder who died.

A few minutes later, Mom knocks on my door.

“That was Bernard… Mr. Eutsey.”

Mom told the police and the newspapers they should call my lawyer about anything for my case. Now she says, “Bernard just got off the phone with the police. Apparently Alex Crusan told them he wanted to talk to you.”

Shit
.

“Do I have to go?” I don’t want to. Aside from the obvious reasons of not wanting to be in the same room with the guy, particularly with open wounds, I also don’t want to see him when I know he thinks I’m scum. Mom says she’s trying to understand about my throwing the rock. She knows I went a little crazy over Melody going there. But I don’t think Crusan will be as understanding. I know I wouldn’t be if my sister got hurt.

“Bernard was a little concerned that you might say something wrong. But we decided it could be a good idea. Bernard thinks maybe if Alex talked to you, it would jog his memory about what happened, that it wasn’t you.”

“What if he hates me so much he doesn’t care either way?”

“Alex has said that he wanted to talk to you without police present. It wouldn’t be a statement to the police, just a conversation. They have agreed that nothing in the conversation will be used against you.”

“Then why does he want to talk to me?” I’m thinking anything could happen without the police there. I mean, what if he bit me or something? Part of me knows that’s crazy, but why does he want to meet me? Or what if I screw up and say something really stupid?

“I don’t know, Clinton. I think we have to wait and see. Maybe you can…” She stops, looks down.

“What?” I say.

“Clinton, you need to connect with this boy somehow. You have to make him see that you couldn’t do something like this.”

“Do you believe I couldn’t?”

She looks at me a second before saying, “I believe you didn’t do this. And I hope maybe you couldn’t do anything like that ever.”

I nod. I know I have to go.

Tuesday, 10:06 p.m., Daria’s room

DARIA

Wait
.

Wait
.

Mama says

wait
.

Maybe

Alex Crusan

saw better
.

He will

tell
.

Maybe
.

Mama says

she is not

sad

I saw it
,

said it

wrong
.

I wish

I knew

the right thing
.

Wednesday, 8:49 a.m., Memorial Hospital

ALEX

In that play
Rent
, that we saw in New York, the main character’s a songwriter with HIV. He’s trying to write the perfect song, one perfect song before he dies. One blaze of glory, he says.

I like that idea of doing something special, something to be remembered by. I don’t know what that is for me yet. Not that it’s critical now. I’m living, not dying. Living, not dying. That’s what I’m telling myself every day. Except when I can’t.

I don’t know why that’s what I’m thinking about while I wait for Clinton Cole to show his face here.

I don’t even know why I wanted to talk to Cole. My parents, Mom especially, think it’s a terrible idea, but I insisted, and the cops said okay. I guess I hope if I see Cole, if I look into his beady blue eyes, I’ll know what to do. I’ll know if he’s the type of guy who’d do something like this, even if he didn’t
this
time, or if he’s some regular, normal asshole who’s in way over his head. Maybe it shouldn’t make a difference. Maybe I should just go along like Mom says, let him take the rap. But it’s easy to say things don’t make a difference, like trying to say being sick doesn’t matter. It’s harder to believe it.

Someone’s at the door. I turn, expecting Cole.

It’s my mother. “Alex, you do not have to do this.”

“You already mentioned that.”

“Then why—”

“Please, Mom, I appreciate everything you’re saying, really. But you have no idea what it’s like to live my whole life with other people deciding stuff for me.”

“You are a child.”

“I’ve grown up fast. I’m asking you to trust me to decide this one thing. The police think it’s okay.”

She looks at me. It’s so quiet here. I’m going home tomorrow, but everyone thought it would be better to meet Cole here—neutral ground and all. And security. But I’m wearing regular clothes—khakis and a T-shirt that says “AIDS Project Florida 5K Run/Walk”—and sitting on the bed.

“I am only afraid for you to get hurt again,” she says.

“Everyone’s parents worry about that.”

“But you are different.”

“I don’t want to be different. Don’t you understand?” I meet her eyes. “Look, I know I made mistakes. I know I’ve given you plenty of reason to worry about me, to be disappointed.” She knows I’m not talking about sneaking out on Monday anymore. I’m talking about having HIV in the first place. “But I’m asking you to trust me even though I haven’t always given you reason to. I’m asking you to forgive me and let me try and move on.”

We stand there a second, looking at each other, and I feel like for once, she really sees me. She knows what I’m talking about. Finally she sighs and walks over to my bed. “There is nothing to forgive you for.”

I look at her like,
really
? She hugs me. I hug her back, hard.

After she leaves, Clinton Cole walks in.

I know he had to walk by the cops to get to me. They’re in the hall in case there are problems. I didn’t want them close enough to listen in, though. I wanted to be able to talk for real. After a little argument, they agreed.

Clinton stares at me, and if I didn’t know him better, I’d say he looks sorry. Maybe. But I don’t have to remind myself to hate this guy. I remember his crap in the cafeteria and in class. I remember the notes. I remember the rock. I remember everything.

“Wow,” he says finally.

“Que?”
I ask, because I know the Spanish will bug him. I can’t resist.

“Nothing.” He puts his hands behind his back. “Sorry. It’s just … wow.” He stares at my face, the bandages, but he doesn’t come closer. I wonder if he thinks I’ll attack him, or bite him. I fight this incredible urge to lunge at him, just to hear him scream.

“Those cops listening?” he says finally.

“They’re just here in case something goes wrong. They’re not close enough to hear.”

“Glad you’re so sure.”

I shrug. “Check.”

“I don’t need to do that.” He says it loud. Then he tiptoes to the door and looks outside. He comes back. “Coast’s clear … unless you’re wearing a wire. I mean, if this is to get me to confess something, you should know I won’t, ’cause I’ve got nothing to confess. I didn’t do it.”

“I’m not wearing a wire. You can check for yourself if you want.”

“No thanks, man. I don’t want to touch you.” He holds out his hand, like to ward me off. Even from a distance, I can see he has these red welts on his arm. It looks like he stabbed himself with something.
Football Jock Involved in Bizarre Self-Mutilation Ritual
. Weird.

“No offense,” he adds.

“None taken. I don’t want you touching me, either… No offense.” I untuck my T-shirt and lift it so he can see my stomach and chest. There’s a few bandages and scratches, but no stitches and no wires. “Look.”

Clinton doesn’t move, but I can tell he’s looking. I turn so he can see my back.

“You can pull that down now.” He shakes his head. “Whoever it was really did a job on you.”

“Yeah. Whoever it was did.”

He holds both hands up. “It wasn’t me, man.”

“Sure.”

“It wasn’t. I mean, maybe you thought it was. Maybe I can see why you could think that, but it wasn’t.”

“
Can
you see why I’d think it was you?” I’m still trying to figure out if he could have done it, even if he didn’t do this. If he could have, maybe it’s the same as if he did. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

“I’m not following what you mean.”

“You’ve done a lot of other stuff. Why should I believe you didn’t do this? Why would anyone believe you, Cole?” I know he didn’t do it, but I want to see him squirm. I hate him for all the stuff he’s done to me since I’ve been here. I hate him for scaring my family, too. I want him to at least think about that for once. “Everyone’s sure you did it because they all know what a raging asshole you are. Everyone.”

When I say “everyone,” Clinton’s face changes, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. He turns away and walks to the door again and looks out, but I know it’s just for something to do this time. He stands by the door a long time, and I sit there, quiet, feeling my face hurt. Finally he comes back.

He says, “Look, I know I wasn’t nice to you, but…” He gestures at me. “This was over the line. I wouldn’t do that.” He takes a breath, a shaky one, and looks away. “You’ve got to believe me. My parents—they split up last year, and my mom’s trying her best with us, but this is killing her. I don’t expect you to care about me, but you know my mom. And my sister, Melody. They’re good people. Probably I’m not a good person, but I’m not… I wouldn’t do this. Cutting someone up. A baseball bat—shit—maybe I’m a jerk, but I’m not an animal. I didn’t do this. I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t.”

I don’t know why I say it. I was planning on playing with him, toying with him awhile to see what he’d do. But when it comes down to it, I can’t. He’s there, practically blubbering, talking about his mom, and it makes me think of my own family, my parents. Clinton’s still going, but when I say that, he stops. He looks at me.

“Huh?”

“I know you didn’t do it,” I say. “I saw the guy who did this. It wasn’t you.”

His face breaks into a big, doofy grin like he’d kiss me if … well, if he wasn’t him and I wasn’t me.

“That’s great.” He points toward the door. “Did you tell them?”

I shake my head no. “I said I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?” His smile begins to fade.

“Cole, you’ve been hounding me since the first day I walked into school. You left notes in my locker. You threw rocks at my house. My family’s afraid to go outside because of you. You bother me every chance you get, and I’m sick of it.”

“Look, man, I’m—”

“Sorry. Right. For now, so I’ll tell the cops it wasn’t you.” Clinton’s looking at the door again. “They can’t hear us. I can take you down. I have every reason to let you rot in jail and get you off my back.”

“Would you do that?”

“I want to. I really want to.”

“It wouldn’t be right.”

“What about this is right? I know you threw the rock at my house. Daria doesn’t make stuff up, and she couldn’t have known that if you didn’t do it. You did it. You hurt my sister, hurt all of us. But they’ll give you a hand slap for that. You think that’s right?”

“I don’t know.”

I don’t say anything. He paces across the room, then comes back. “No. No, it wasn’t right. It was a crummy thing to do. I didn’t want to hurt Carolina. She’s a sweet kid.”

“But you wanted to hurt me?”

“No. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But I didn’t want to get hurt, either. I wanted you out of here. I don’t hate you. It wasn’t personal, but I didn’t want to sit by you in class. I didn’t want to get AIDS.”

I nod. “I didn’t want HIV, either. But you can’t catch anything, being in class with me.”

“How can you be sure, though?”

“You get HIV from blood, from sharing needles or from sex. I’ve never met one person who got it any other way. They do studies about it, with scientists. It’s not on toilet seats or chairs or pencils.”

He looks at me. “How’d you get it, Crusan? From a transfusion like they said?”

The way he asks it, it’s not mean for once, just curious. I almost want to tell him the truth. If I did, I know he’d believe me about everything. But I also know he’d tell everyone. I’m not sure Mom and Carolina are ready for that. I can’t make that decision for all of us yet.

“You get HIV from sex,” I repeat, avoiding his question but not his eyes. “Sex or blood. No other ways. You can’t get sick from being in class with me. Understand?”

He looks away. I think about that blaze of glory again, and I think maybe that’s not what it’s about after all. Not something like a song or a home run record or even a debate title. Maybe it’s all about how you live your life, about being human. And suddenly, I know I’m not going to let the police go on thinking Clinton did it. If I did that, I would be no better than Clinton is.