“Look, I’m sorry,” I say. “I was a first-class jerk.”
She looks, like, are you talking to me? Finally she says, “Yeah. You are.”
I note her use of present tense. I say, “It’s just … tough. Look, I won’t be in school for about a week. But I’ll be there next Wednesday. Will I see you there?”
She says, “Guess you will. It’s a small building.” She gestures over my shoulder. “Your elevator’s here.”
In the time it takes for me to turn and look, she pushes her flower cart away.
Friday, all day, Cole residence and Pinedale High School
CLINTON
Friday morning before school, the telephone rings, and Mom gives it to Mel.
When Mel gets off the phone, she says, “That was Carolina. She invited me to come over her house, but she can’t come here because of Clinton.” She gives me a mean look. “So that means I’ll be over there more than ever,” she finishes with a note of triumph.
“That’s great,” I say. I don’t tell her about calling the Crusans. I don’t know why I don’t, except I don’t want to act like I’m some big hero. I’m not a hero. I’m still not even sure I want Mel going over Carolina’s house. I’m still not really sure it’s safe, but I know it’s going to happen. So I let it go.
At school the big news at school is they caught the guy who did it.
Davis McNeill was one of last year’s seniors, a football player. He’s got a younger sister, Brianna, who’s a junior here.
Apparently McNeill’s girlfriend caught him with another girl, so she told the police that he’d said he’d “make that little homo sorry he came to Pinedale.” The police didn’t pay a whole lot of attention, figuring it was a little matter of “a woman scorned.” But when Alex told them it wasn’t me but it was a guy in a letter jacket, the police remembered. They took out a warrant to search Davis’s apartment. He lives in a studio over his parents’ garage … about a block from where Alex got attacked.
They found a baseball bat in the closet. It was a metal bat that had marks on it that looked like cuts from broken glass.
So everyone at school is talking to me again. Even Ms. Velez says hi. Mo and Andy ask me to sit at their table, and Alyssa sends me a note last period.
Rents say all clr 2 talk 2 u. R U coming to my party next Fri. nite?
I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say. So it kind of surprises me when I get her, live and in person, at the end of the period. She stops me at my desk
“Hey, Clint, didn’t you get my note?”
“Um, sure.”
“I thought maybe you were going to…” She looks down. “I mean, I hope you’re not mad about me not talking to you. It was just my parents, you know?”
“Sure.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brett, giving me a thumbs-up. I ignore him. “I mean, nah, I’m not mad at you. I understand about parents.”
“Yeah, they’re lame. I mean, I was totally on your side the whole time. I told people that.”
“You mean you told people you thought I didn’t do it?”
“Um, sure … well, and even if you had done it, it’s not like it matters that much. I mean, my brother, Jake, was saying you were, like, a hero or something.”
I look at her, a good look. Her eyes are still the same, and her fingers, and she’s wearing that same pink shirt that always makes me want to touch her. Except today, I just don’t. Don’t get me wrong—she’s really beautiful and all. Maybe I’ll still ask her, or maybe not, or maybe I won’t go. I mean, I’m glad I’m on the team and all, and I wouldn’t go back to before, to the way I was as a kid, for anything. But back when I was a dorky fat kid, I used to spend a lot of time alone, and I used to know who I was. Lately I’m not so sure.
“Well, I guess I’m not a hero,” I say, coming to. “Look, I have to get to class.”
I wait and hold the door for her on the way out.
At lunch I sit with the guys, and I do everything the way I used to. They act like nothing’s changed. Maybe nothing has for them. It’s easier for me to go along. After all, it’s not like I can up and find a whole group of new friends in this crummy school. But inside, that’s where everything feels different. I don’t know if it’s because I’m mad at them for thinking I’d do something like that or because they dumped me so easy, just like that time at Wal-Mart. But they’re the only friends I have, so I sit with them.
I wonder when Crusan will be back. Not that I want to hang with the guy or anything, understand. I just wonder.
Friday, 12:00 p.m., courtyard, Pinedale High School
DARIA
No one
sits
with me today.
I
don’t
care.
They don’t
really like me.
People think,
I don’t know.
But I do.
I ask
Mrs. Taub,
“Alex Crusan?
He’satschool?”
“Not yet.”
Her mouth
frowns.
“Miss him,”
I say.
“So do we all,”
she says.
“I mean,
so do I.”
The following Wednesday, 7:15 a.m., Pinedale High School
ALEX
The first person I see when I go back to school Wednesday is Clinton Cole. He’s getting out of a car with a bunch of other jocks as I park. He looks down when he sees me. He’s embarrassed. Since I have to sit by the guy in class, I mutter, “Hey.”
I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the car.
My face still aches.
He mutters “Hey” back. So do his friends. They aren’t exactly asking me to sit with them at lunch, but I wouldn’t want them to. I’m just glad I did the right thing, especially since they caught the guy who really did it. I walk toward the school, alone.
The night I got out of the hospital, I had a long talk with my parents. I told them I wanted to start telling the truth about how I contracted HIV.
“I’m not going to take out a billboard or anything, but I’m not lying anymore. I can’t go through life lying.”
They both stared at me, stunned.
I hurried on before they could say anything. “And I think we need to tell Lina. I’m sure she’s heard people talking. And it feels bad, being dishonest with her. She’s my sister. She’s not a baby anymore. Besides, don’t you think it’s better to know what’s out there than to go through life stupid?”
I don’t think they agreed with me, but they knew it was no use arguing. We told Carolina that night. I don’t know when I’ll tell other people, but it’ll be soon. I’m tired of lying. I’m tired, and it doesn’t help.
When I’m almost at the building, I see Daria. She’s sitting on her bench, alone, as usual. When she sees me, her smile is like the Fourth of July. I wonder why anyone wouldn’t be nice to someone like that when it takes so little to make her happy.
Then I wonder if that isn’t exactly what I accused Jennifer of.
I don’t have too much time to think about it because she comes bounding up to me, yelling, “Alex Crusan, you’re back.”
I grin at her. “In the flesh. I mean, yeah.”
“Not Monday … no car.”
It takes me a second to realize she means going to Dunkin’ Donuts.
“No,” I say. “My mother doesn’t want me driving alone anymore. It’s November, and it stays dark longer. She’s afraid I’ll get hurt. So we went Sunday night on the way to church and bought donuts and brought them home for Monday.”
She nods. “My mom too…” A long pause. “Thinks I am a baby.”
I shrug. “I bet it’s not that. It’s just, they want us to be safe.” Daria’s voice is really loud, and I notice a few people looking at us, walking by. The HIV kid and the Down Syndrome girl. Well, eat my shorts. Then I notice Jennifer’s one of the ones looking. When I meet her eyes,
she turns away. I tell myself I don’t care.
“I like … pink box,” Daria says, still loud.
“What?”
“… for for donuts.”
I understand now. “Yeah, I like the pink box too.”
“Pink box like pink hair,” she says.
I look down at her face, so happy to see me, and I want to just hug her. So I do.
When I let her go, I say, “Sometimes my little sister, Carolina, even gets pink donuts.”
“I like pink donuts,” she says, like she’s not startled at all by my sudden hug.
Jennifer’s gone. I say, “Thank you for telling them about Clinton, about the rock. It was a good thing to do.”
She nods, happy, and the warning bell rings.
“Gotta go now,” she says.
“Yeah, I do too,” I say.
I don’t see Jennifer the rest of the day. Thursday either, or Friday. This is more than weird because I used to see her around all the time, so she must be avoiding me. Plus there are only a few hundred kids at this school. You can’t really avoid someone here. I tell myself I don’t care. It wouldn’t have worked, me and her. Why would she want someone like me? And besides, what else can I do? I’ve already apologized. When you apologize and someone doesn’t accept, you have to stop, or it’s stalkerish.
I see her Monday, but the late bell rings, and she starts running toward class. I tell myself I don’t think she’s running away from me.
Meanwhile, some people—a lot of people—are nicer to me. I mean, there’s still people who obviously don’t want to breathe air that’s been up my nose, but other people have gotten nicer. So I have friends now—sort of—a place to sit at lunch, a partner for my science project, and an invitation to Alyssa Black’s party Friday night (I’ve decided to go if my parents let me). Maybe they’re not all bad. And maybe I didn’t help either, by not really trying to get to know anyone. I saw them as all being the same. But isn’t that the same as them thinking they knew about me, when they didn’t?
Anyway, I talked to Mr. Bell, the debate team advisor, and told him I’d like to join. After all, I’m really good at debate. And this school needs me because their team is pretty lame.
Before I was HIV-positive, I was okay popular. I was good in sports, which is important, and people liked me. After, even in Miami, things changed a lot. I still had some friends, but there was this sense of being—I don’t know—the resident oddity. Like, “Here’s the trophy case and the auditorium, and here’s the kid with HIV. Say ‘Hi,’ Alex.” And even some of the friends I had, it was like they were making it a point to be friends with me, like it would go on their college app or something.
And that’s how it still is here. But it’s getting better. At least some people are giving me a chance. And I’m giving them one too. Maybe some people are only being nice because it’s the cool thing now. But I hope I’ll make some real friends too. It’s good. If I’m going to live for today, I have to start by making friends, even in Pinedale.
Then Monday afternoon, I see her in the parking lot.
Her: Jennifer.
I know her car. It’s a white Civic, and I don’t see it anywhere. Yet there she is, standing there. I tell myself she’s not here to see me.
She walks around the general area of my car, so I say, “Need a ride home?”
“Maybe.”
She examines my baby, which has a new paint job and looks like nothing ever happened. Meanwhile, my face still hurts to the touch, and I slather it with SPF 30 every day. I reach for the door handle.
“You were right,” she says.
“Right about…?”
“What you said. It took me a while to admit it, but what you said about me was true, at least partly.”
No! I don’t want to be right about this! After she got so righteously indignant over what I said, I convinced myself I was wrong about her, that she really did like me as a person.
She says, “That probably was why I came to see you, at least part of it. I thought I was so much smarter than everyone else. I was going to be a doctor, so I knew better than those idiots. I was such a… You saw right through me.”
I try and fix it. “But at least you came. No one else did.”
“Right.” She looks up at me. Her hair’s loose, free from its ponytail, and it sort of flutters around her face like a bunch of butterflies. “But I came back because I liked talking to you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I was always … interested in you, from the second you came here.”
Interested? I nod. “Yeah, some girls are into guys with problems.”
She smiles, smart-assy. “Oh, maybe that was it.”
“Look, you don’t have … you aren’t required. I know I’m a tough sell. Most people don’t even want to use the bathroom after me, much less—”
“I’m not sure what I want. But I like you, Alex. When you said that about wanting someone to hug you—I wanted to.”
I’m drowning. I feel myself come up for air, but I’m drowning. I want to believe her, want to pick her up like in some movie and drive off into the sunset. But I remember what she said that day in the hospital, about it not being my fault, being positive. Would she see me differently if she knew the truth?
I say, “Um … really?”
“Yeah. I want to be friends. I want to be friends and maybe…”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Friends, at least. To start with.”
Maybe it’s the novelty, the being able to say she was so liberal, so smart that she’d even hang out with me. Maybe when the novelty wears off, she’ll bail. She’ll probably bail.
Who cares?
“But what about…?” If I get sick? Or if people don’t want to talk to you because you’re with me? “You don’t need to get involved with someone like me.”
Why are you arguing with her? A day, a week of being with someone is a lot better than nothing. I feel my aching face, and I think, Even hurting is good. Being hurt is at least being alive. Being real.
“I’m not worried about what people think, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I’m not worried about you getting sick. I mean, I don’t want you to. But who knows what could happen? Maybe they’ll discover a cure tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get hit by a bus on the way home. Who knows?”
“Who knows?” I echo.
“You have to let people in,” she adds. “Not be afraid of them.”
“I know that. But…”
I stop. I know I have to tell her the truth about that one thing, tell her and hope it doesn’t matter.
“You said you were lonely. You said you wanted someone to talk to. Why not me?”
Even if it’s only a day, I’m ready for it. I nod.
“So, how about that ride?” I say.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”
I start to take her hand, but it ends up being a hug. Then I do take her hand, and I lead her around to the passenger side. I open the door for her.
“But, Jennifer,” I say when we’re both inside. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to thank her family for their support, and the following persons for their invaluable help with this book:
Stacie Murray, Terry Link, Mary Mettis, and Loretta Etienne, all of AIDS Project Florida, for their guidance and fact checking; Pat Gladieux, Kersten Hamilton, and Lucille Shulklapper for various help with poetry, Down Syndrome, and Down Syndrome as poetry; George Nicholson, Paul Rodeen, Laurie Friedman, Marjetta Geerling, Catherine Onder, Meghan Dietsche, and Phoebe Yeh for help with this manuscript.
Special thanks to Barbara Brooks Wallace, writer and apparent Spanish scholar, for the poem which precedes this volume.
As always, a thousand thanks to my mentor and good friend, Joyce Sweeney. You are the best!
Reading Group Guide for Fade to Black by Alex Flinn
1. What do you think Daria saw on the morning of Octob
er 27? Did she misunderstand what she saw, or did she merely have difficulty communicating with the police?
2. In the early chapters, both Alex and Daria speak of feeling invisible or ignored. Does Clinton share this feeling? Why or why not? Do you see kids at school being treated like they’re invisible, and for what reason?
3. Alex describes Clinton as his “arch nemesis,” and Clinton would probably agree that the two boys have little in common. Is this true? In what ways are Alex and Clinton alike? How are they different?
4. How does Clinton justify his treatment of Alex at the beginning of the book? Does he change this attitude by the end, or does he merely agree with Alex to get out of trouble?
5. Why do Alex’s parents encourage him to lie about how he contracted HIV? How does this make him feel? Why does he want to tell the truth?
6. Would it bother you, as it did Clinton, to have to sit next to Alex in class? Why? Did your attitude change after reading this book?
7. Alex debates whether to tell the truth about Clinton’s involvement in the crime. Do you think he would have been justified in lying? Why? What would you do in his situation?
8. Why do you think the author chose to tell the story through three different characters’ eyes? In what ways might the story have been told differently if it were told in only one viewpoint? Do you think the “truth” is affected by who is seeing it?
9. Why do you think the author chose Daria as a narrator for the story? What does her narrative add?
10. In what ways, if any, do the viewpoint characters grow in the course of the story? Which character do you think experiences the most growth?
11. Why does Jennifer tell Alex the story about her experiences with her father?
12. Discuss the relationships Alex, Clinton, and Daria have with their families. How are these relationships similar and different? In what ways do these relationships change in the course of the book?
13. Did you feel sympathetic toward Clinton? What factors, if any, made him a character worthy of sympathy?