Fade to Black

  It got darker, and people kept coming, and I held tight to my cup, which was sweating and half gone warm and funny tasting. Some people were dancing in the grass, and I saw Mike with some guys drinking out of funnels. The music was an electronic haze, hanging in the trees. People were moving in and out of their own shadows, and I knew I shouldn’t be drunk. I hadn’t even had very much. But I felt like when I was a little kid and sick, when you wake with these fever dreams and everything feels half real, half not. I could feel the pizza like it was clogging my head, in there with the music, and finally, the beer became too hot even to pretend to drink. I dumped it out, got another, and held the cold plastic cup to my forehead until it hurt. Then I thought, Maybe go ahead and drink it.

  With the first sip of beer, I felt my stomach lurch. I went off into the bushes and puked, felt a little better, then puked some more and felt a lot better. I started looking for my friends, but everyone looked the same, all black and white, and the heat of the crowd brought the sickness back. I finally went and sat on the steps leading to the upstairs apartments. I figured I’d watch until one of them came by.

  I heard a voice behind me.

  “You can’t sit here.”

  At first I wasn’t sure she was talking to me. I didn’t answer.

  “Hey!” A hard tap on my shoulder. “You can’t sit here, asshole. You’re violating the fire code!”

  This time I twisted to see where the voice came from. A girl. A tiny girl. In the gray haze from the party, I could make out her short haircut and that she was pretty. Her arms were loaded down with books.

  “Did you hear me?” she said.

  Finally I said, “Yeah, I heard you. I just…”

  “Stupid frat boys, think you can party every night, sit anywhere you want whenever you want, think no one else has the right to study or sleep or anything.”

  “I’m not a frat boy,” I said, sort of amazed she’d think I was old enough, this close. “This is my first frat party ever. My friends brought me, and now I lost them, and I was… You live here?”

  “Right.” Her voice was a little less hostile. She was a college student, nineteen, maybe twenty.

  “I’m Alex.”

  “Leigh.” She stared at the step. I was still in the middle of it.

  “Oh … sorry.” I scooted over an inch so she could pass. “Look, I needed to sit down a minute. I got a little sick, okay? I don’t usually drink much, and I guess…”

  She didn’t move past me.

  “It must suck, living here, having all this noise all the time.” I considered my stomach. Better. Puking had helped. I didn’t even feel drunk anymore. Or, at least, I didn’t think I would if I could get away from the pounding, pulsating music that seemed to make my bones vibrate. Suddenly I wanted out of there more than anything.

  “Look,” I said, “can I carry your books upstairs? You look really loaded down.”

  She smiled for the first time. “That’d be great. I’m on the fourth floor, and those … idiots are trying to see how many people they can get into the elevators.”

  I stood and took her books from her, then waited for her to get ahead of me so I could follow her to her apartment.

  “This is very decent of you,” she said.

  “Hey, I’m a decent guy.”

  “You’re a minority, let me tell you. There’s a shortage of guys who’ll carry a girl’s books. I don’t know if I’ve ever met one before.”

  “Well, you’ve met one now. A card-carrying member of Book-Carrying Guys of America.”

  “Only member, maybe,” she said, laughing.

  We got to the third-story landing and stood there a moment, looking out. The party spread across the apartment complex and, in the dark, the shapes of people looked like the bumps on a topographical map. The music was pounding, pounding, pounding.

  “They really do this every weekend?” I asked.

  “What?”

  I repeated the question, louder. We were walking up the third flight now, and I was watching her from behind. She was smaller than girls I was usually into, but there was something about the way she moved and the very tininess of her that made me want to watch her, her short hair bobbing up and down, her tiny butt. I wanted to touch her, suddenly. Blanca, my girlfriend, would only let me touch her over her shirt. She wouldn’t touch anything of mine. Said she didn’t want to give me ideas.

  “Yeah,” Leigh said. “And sometimes, they party during the week too.” She stopped and fumbled in her pocket for her keys. She turned and saw me staring at her. I glanced away. “I didn’t mind so much, first semester. But I got sick during finals—major flu—and I need to make up all my exams, plus the new work, and it’s ridiculous, having to go to the library all the time because I can’t think straight here.”

  I looked at her again. In the clingy blue T-shirt she had on, I could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “You’re a freshman then?” she said.

  I nodded. I started to say my usual thing, about starting school late, so I was really too old to be a freshman. Then I realized she meant a college freshman.

  “And this is your first frat party.”

  “I guess I don’t party much, either. I live at home.” Changing the subject. “You’d think they’d have a little consideration.”

  “No one else in the building seems to mind. Guess I’m a nerd.”

  “Then I’m a nerd too.”

  We were walking toward her apartment. I looked over the railing. Downstairs, two guys wearing yellow raincoats even though it wasn’t raining were shaking up beer cans and spraying each other’s mouths. We reached her door, and Leigh unlocked it and gestured me inside. A girl’s apartment. I placed her books on the loveseat near the door.

  “Guess we should’ve known, huh?” she said. “‘Suntan U,’ they call it.” She flipped a switch. I turned to look at her. In the light she was even cuter, even almost beautiful. Her hair was penny colored, blue eyes, and her skin was white, almost see-through, like she’d come from another world.

  “No suntan for you.”

  She smiled. “Nope. I just burn.” She looked at my arm, which was permanently brown, though baseball and beach season were long over. She touched it. “You fit right in here.”

  I felt a warm shiver run from my wrist to my shoulder even on the side she hadn’t touched. I tried to laugh, but it didn’t come out right. “Genetics,” I said. “I was even a tan baby. And I play ball—so I’m outside a lot.”

  Her hand was still on my arm, so I knew it wasn’t accidental; she wanted to touch me. “Not me. I’m not athletic at all. I was a debate team nerd in high school.”

  “No kidding? I…” I stopped. I knew the conversation would end if she found out how old I was. She thought I was in college, and now I was stuck with that. “I used to debate in high school too. Original oratory.”

  “Me too. Funny. We have a lot in common. I’m going to law school next year.”

  “So you’re a senior then?”

  “Yep, an older woman.”

  I glanced at the door, which had closed behind us. “Well…”

  Leigh looked at me. “Well…”

  “I guess…” I stopped. I was going to say I should go down and find my friends, but I didn’t want to go. I looked around the room. It had what my mother would call a decor—blue and white, warm and inviting, neat except a mess of CDs on the floor. From outside I could still hear the pulsing music, but it was dulled by the door.

  “Maybe—” We both started at the same time, then stopped.

  “What were you going to say?” she asked.

  “No. You first.”

  “I was thinking if you wanted coffee or something … it’s not like I’m getting any sleep anyway.”

  “That’d be great.” I didn’t drink coffee, but I’d long since given up on Austin and Mike, and some inside voice was shouting, You have a shot with this girl! A college girl! “You mind if I use your bathroom?”

  She gestur
ed me toward it and went to the kitchen. I did the usual bathroom stuff and rinsed my mouth out. But I could still sort of taste the bile, so I started snooping in her cabinets, looking for mouthwash. I figured the party noise would cover the sound. I didn’t find any, but I did find a round, plastic package which I knew (embarrassingly enough, from having seen one in my own parents’ bathroom) was birth control pills. The package was open and some were missing. I have a shot, I thought, then wondered if she had a boyfriend. But he would be here, wouldn’t he, on Saturday night? I put the pills back. No mouthwash. So I rinsed my mouth again and went back to the living room.

  The living room smelled like coffee, and Leigh had moved the books off the loveseat. She was sitting at its center, waiting, looking at me.

  “Coffee’s not ready yet,” she said.

  “Should we put on some music?” I asked. “Maybe it would drown out the other stuff.”

  “Nice thought, however doubtful.” She gestured at the CD pile. “Choose something.”

  I sensed it was a test. She had all types of music, some classical and jazz, but also some recent stuff and groups I’d never even heard of. I finally found an old Smashing Pumpkins album. I put on my favorite song, “Through the Eyes of Ruby.”

  “Your innocence is treasure,” the CD sang a minute later. “Your innocence is death.”

  “Good choice.” She nodded her approval. She moved over, making a tiny amount of room for me between herself and the sofa arm. I sat. She was so close I could feel her, even though we didn’t touch. “This is my favorite song. I love the lyrics. Like poetry.”

  “Yeah, mine too. I think the words are the most important thing about a song. Don’t you?”

  She didn’t answer, just leaned close. I didn’t think of Blanca at all. I knew I had to kiss this girl now if I was going to, so I did. Her lips were soft, and she tasted—somehow—like flowers. My hands went instinctively to her body, slipping under the blue T-shirt to touch her. I couldn’t believe she let me, even pulled me closer, her hands in my hair. It was like there was nothing but touching her, her touching me. I sort of fell on her, kissing her, feeling fine now, feeling lost and tense and relaxed, and fine. So fine.

  Then sirens. At first I thought they were in my head. Then I saw blue lights in the window, spinning, turning. The music outside stopped, and there was only ours. Leigh moved away.

  “Hooray, South Miami Police,” she said.

  “What?”

  “They’re breaking it up.” She glanced at her watch. “Only one a.m. this time.”

  The song ended, and below I heard people running, yelling.

  “My friends.” I looked out the window. “I don’t know if I have a ride home.”

  “I can drive you home.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “But I thought maybe you’d stay.”

  I did stay that night, my first time. I knew it was safe because of the birth control pills. And when I left the next morning, I got her number. I called her. It wasn’t a one-night stand. I wasn’t a scum. Really, I sort of—I don’t know—fell in love with her. But maybe I really didn’t know anything about her. And she didn’t know anything about me, either.

  A few weeks later, she found out. Or she found out how old I was anyway. Then it was over. The way she yelled that last day, I knew I’d never see Leigh again.

  And I didn’t. I went on with my life. I kept going out with Blanca and getting crap from my friends for not getting laid. But that summer, I got a note from Leigh in the mail.

  Get an AIDS test, it said. And, Sorry.

  There was no signature.

  Sometimes I wonder where she is, how long she’d had it, not knowing. I wonder what her family said, if she’s still in college, if they still love her. And I wonder if she’s sick.

  When I found out, my mother cried a lot, and I didn’t want to get out of bed for about a week. Then I made myself. I didn’t feel bad physically, but everything had changed. My parents didn’t understand how I could have gotten it. I mean, they did understand, but they didn’t want to. They hadn’t raised me to have sex in high school. They’d preached about waiting. We’d never discussed condoms, but I knew anyway. Everyone knows. My mother told me not to tell anyone I had it, or if I did, to tell them I got it from a transfusion, which these days is pretty much impossible, medically. I don’t know why, what the difference was. But I guess she didn’t want people to think:

  I’m gay.

  I’m a junkie.

  I’m a skank.

  I deserve it.

  Other than Mom and Dad, none of my relatives know the truth about how I got sick, not even Carolina or Aunt Maria, who told me I wasn’t like those people in Rent. I know my parents are disappointed. But at least they’ve stood by me.

  Most people assume I’m gay anyway, even when they hear I got it from a transfusion. I’m so over caring about that. It sounds dumb to say I didn’t think it could happen to me. But I didn’t. I didn’t.

  Wednesday, 6:00 p.m., Cole residence

  CLINTON

  Dad finally returned Mom’s calls. He said I shouldn’t have confessed to anything. If he’d been around, he wouldn’t have let me.

  There’s really nothing to say to that, so I don’t say it.

  Mr. Eutsey says he can get me into something called a “diversion program” where nothing will be on my permanent record. That’s something at least. I can’t believe I could have screwed up my whole life over something like this. I can’t believe I didn’t think.

  Even though I’ll probably have probation with a million hours of community service, the hardest thing is telling Melody I threw that rock.

  “But why would you do that?”

  None of the answers sound right anymore.

  “I don’t know. I guess I was scared. I didn’t want you over there, catching anything.”

  “But that’s stupid. I couldn’t catch AIDS from Alex. Not unless…” She makes a face.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I’m stupid.”

  “You are. I lost my best friend, and it’s all your fault.” She gives me a hard look. “I hate you.”

  She storms off to her room

  It’s a tough evening, with Melody not speaking to me and Mom fuming about Dad. There’s all this silence around, and I’m starting to think you can be stupid, like dumb in school, and stupid, like dumb in life. I hurt the Crusans, even if I didn’t hit anyone with a baseball bat. I know that. I don’t like knowing it. But I don’t want to be that guy anymore.

  So at nine-thirty, I pick up the phone and dial 411. Then, the number.

  “Who is this?” The voice on the other end doesn’t have that much of an accent, really.

  “Hello, Mrs. Crusan?”

  “Who is this?” she repeats.

  “It’s Clinton. Clinton Cole.”

  A little gasp. “Do not bother us here. Can’t you leave us alone?”

  I hear her voice go farther away. I yell to keep her there. Mom, who’s been working on legal papers of some kind, looks up when I say, “Please! Please don’t hang up, Mrs. Crusan.”

  Mom’s eyes lock on me, and she’s like a tigress, ready to spring if I say the wrong thing. I remember she’d get that look around Dad sometimes. I can see now she worries she screwed up with me by staying with Dad so long, that maybe I’ll turn out like him. But I’m not like Dad. I’m not. And I’m going to show her that.

  I say, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Crusan. I wanted to say…” I turn away so Mom can’t see my face. “I’m so sorry for what I did.”

  I hear the phone clatter onto the receiver.

  I hang up the phone and stand there a minute. Then I walk over to the window. There’s no moon out, and the sky’s so black that all you can see are stars, stars for miles, going and going and going and never touching one another.

  A minute later, I feel Mom’s hand on my shoulder.

  We just stand there, looking at the stars, and I’m glad she’s there, still there. Always there.

  Thursday, 7:45 a
.m., Pinedale High School

  DARIA

  “What do you expect?”

  The girl’s voice

  cuts

  through me

  in the hall.

  “What do you expect?”

  the boy behind me.

  “She’s a retard.”

  “Retard.”

  “Retard.”

  “How would she know?”

  “Of course

  she got it wrong.”

  I pretend

  not to hear,

  and after a while,

  I do not.

  I know

  I did right.

  I helped.

  I did help.

  What they say

  doesn’t matter.

  I helped.

  Their names

  don’t hurt me.

  I helped.

  I can help.

  Thursday, 3:15 p.m., Memorial Hospital

  ALEX

  Leaving the hospital, they make me ride down the elevator in a wheelchair. Hospital policy, they say. But I still hate it. Makes me think of that day at Disney World.

  An orderly’s pushing me, and Mom follows behind. Mom says she guesses I did the right thing, but she isn’t real happy about it. I think what she’s really upset about is the fact that they don’t know who really did it. I am too. We’re leaving early—around three—because Mom doesn’t think it’s safe to be out after dark. I actually agree with that, too. It’s scary to think that there’s still someone out there who did this, who hates me that much that he didn’t care what happened to him, so long as he hurt me.

  Mom wanted to leave even earlier, but I held out for three so I could look for Jennifer on the way down. Not obsessive at all, right?

  I see her.

  She’s by the flower cart, like the first day I saw her, surrounded by roses and those big star-shaped pink flowers. The barrettes have totally given up, and her hair’s in her face. She looks good. I wish she’d talk to me, though.

  We’re by the elevator. I stand, eliciting protests from Mom and the orderly. I walk over to her.