Tilt (64 page)

Mr. Albert, to call me into his office. Apparently,

I’m not the only student with issues.

I’ve been here close to an hour. Finally,

the door opens. Out comes one problem

kid. And now it’s my turn.
Come in, Shane.

I’d really like to wipe that phony

smile from his face. Maybe with acid.

Except then he’d look like the Joker

or Two-Face or something. He motions

for me to sit in the big overstuffed

chair. Looks like I’m in here for

the long haul. He pulls a short stack

of papers from his desk. Leafs through.

This is some interesting poetry,

Shane. Pretty good, but there seems

to be a common theme here. Do you

want to talk about it?
He heaves a sigh.

“Not really.” I think I’ve disappointed

him. But what does he want me to say?

He sighs again.
Sometimes talking

about what’s bothering you can help.

A Slow Burn

Creeps out of my collar, up my neck.

My ears must be the color of cranberries.

“What’s bothering me is that my little

sister died. She was only four. Now,

how can talking about that help?

No amount of talk can bring her back.”

Mr. Albert swallows and his Adam’s

apple dips really low.
I’m sorry about

your sister.
He thinks a second, then

adds,
Did you know that the death

of a loved one can result in depression?

It’s really very common. And treatable.

Great. Now they’ll want to lock me

away in some crazy ward. “Look.

I’m sad about Shelby. Sad, and angry.

But I’m not depressed and I don’t

need treatment. All I need is time, and

for people to quit worrying about me.”

He’s not quite ready to let it drop.

Okay, so tell me. Are you eating?

Sleeping? Do you hang out with

your friends? Or are you keeping

to yourself? Your schoolwork has

slipped a little. Trouble concentrating?

Jeez, man. Is he spying on me?

I try to joke my way out. “My

mom’s cooking sucks and sleep

is overrated. Look, Mr. A., I swear

I’m okay. I’ll study harder and bring

my grades up. Thanks for caring, though.”

In my opinion, you are displaying

classic symptoms of depression.

I’m going to call your parents and

give them the names of a couple

of good therapists.
Now he smiles.

Just don’t shoot the messenger.

If I Only Had a Gun

But I don’t and I wouldn’t want

to go to prison for offing an idiot.

Anyway, he’s welcome to call

the house. Dad is currently in China,

and Mom drove Gram to Davis,

California, for some kind of medical

tests. They won’t be home until

tonight. “May I go now?” Ever so

polite. He nods, and as I leave,

I hear him go straight to the phone,

no doubt to tell our voice mail

about his concerns. Appreciate

your effort, Mr. A. Really, I do. But

Mom and Dad won’t get that message.

I Decide to Skip

My last class of the day. I was

called to the office. Waited an hour.

Was baited for another thirty minutes.

I think I deserve to go home. Besides,

I really don’t want to talk to Tara.

I can just hear Mr. A.’s response

to that.
Do you hang out with your

friends? Or are you keeping to yourself?

It’s not that I want to keep to myself.

But Tara will know something’s up,

and if I tell her what’s going on,

she’ll offer some sage advice. I’ve had

way too much of that for one day already.

The empty house welcomes me

with its silence. I check the answering

machine first thing. Yep. A red light

blinks. The first message is from

Mom.
We should be home by nine.

Be sure to feed yourself, okay?
Damn.

She’s worried about my diet, too?

Message two: Good ol’ Mr. Albert.

Blah-de-blah-de-blah-blah.
Delete!

I’m feeling pretty smug, until

I get to the last message. From Alex.

Hey, S. Check your cell voice mail.

When was the last time I did? Absent-

minded.
Trouble concentrating.
That’s

me. I dig for my cell. Find four calls,

one message, all from Alex.
Where

are you? Sorry I haven’t called

for a couple of days, but I’ve been

pretty sick. Thought it was the flu,

but it isn’t getting better. I’m going

in to see my doctor this afternoon.

I’ll call when I have more info.

Love you. Miss you. Everything okay?

God

Beef Broccoli Consumed

I am considering Dad’s alcohol stash when

Alex calls. “Hey. What did the doctor say?”

Well, turns out it’s pneumonia. But not

PCP.
Pneumocystis pneumonia would

indicate his T-cell count had dropped way

low. Something that shouldn’t happen,

considering his drug regimen. But there

are exceptions to every rule.
So it’s even

more meds for a few days. And no kissing

until the sputum is under control.
Lovely.

I tell him to get well and keep in touch.

Then I reach for one of Dad’s bottles.

Something strong to help me forget that

while HIV may be manageable, it’s also

unpredictable. I pour a teacup full of

bourbon. Think maybe I’ll also borrow

one of Mom’s antidepressants. Whiskey

and Prozac. Bet I’ll sleep great tonight.

Alex

I Sleep Great

Most nights. Don’t toss

and turn thinking about

my relationship with time.

What’s the point of

worrying

about something I have

no power over? The old

adage, “Live every day as

if it might be your last”

doesn’t

work for me. I have to

plan a future, or just hang

it up right now. While

there’s no real way to

change

the final outcome, how

I live until I get there