“That’s kind of weird. I mean, your mom seems nice.”
“She is nice. It’s just…” I wave my hand in the air like, forget it, knowing I probably majorly screwed up her opinion of me. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m on break. Thought I’d come say hi. I could leave if you want.”
“No!” I don’t mean to raise my voice. Maybe I have a personality disorder in addition to HIV. “No, stay. My mother… I mean, it’s frustrating. She’s upset and it’s my fault, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Shut up now, Alex.
Jennifer reaches up to touch her hair. Her blonde curls are whipped into submission in a ponytail and two red barrettes that look like something for a younger girl, like Carolina.
“I guess I could see that.” She takes out one of the barrettes and pushes the hair around. “Where is your mom now?”
“Home checking on my sister. Carolina wasn’t answering the phone.”
“Maybe she went to a neighbor’s house.”
“The neighbors haven’t exactly been over with the Welcome Wagon.”
“Sorry. That was stupid.” She replaces the barrette. “Can you believe they make us wear this dumb hairstyle, to keep the hair off our faces? We’re supposed to wear hats, too, but I pretend I lost mine. The nurses don’t wear hats anymore, so why should I? Most places, the hospital aides just wear T-shirts instead of this dumb uniform. Pinedale is so retro—and not in a good way.”
“I think your hair looks good like that.” I think a hat might be kind of hot looking too, like nurses in those World War II movies, but I don’t say it.
“Yeah, right.” She takes out the other barrette. A piece of hair falls in her eyes and, on second look, she’s a lot prettier than I thought. “Is Carolina your sister?”
“Right. I thought the school gave everyone a full briefing on my life history before I came here.”
“They didn’t … well, maybe a little. They had an assembly.”
“I know. They aren’t supposed to tell the students. That’s the law.”
“They didn’t tell us everything. It was mostly about dealing with blood products.” She replaces the second barrette.
“In case I started spontaneously bleeding at school or something?”
“I think it was more in case you got hurt.” She gazes at my face, and I think with a twinge that I have, in fact, gotten hurt. That under the bandages are all the contaminated blood products everyone’s so worried about. “They didn’t do it to be mean.”
“I know. No one does anything to be mean.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I think some people are mean, just not everyone.”
My parents wanted to sue the school for having that assembly, but I told them no. I told them I wouldn’t go to school if they sued. Everyone knew already. It’s not like they could make the school un-tell people by suing. I’m already the kid with HIV. If I sued, I’d be the kid with HIV who’s suing everyone. I wish I could just be Alex.
“I used to play baseball,” I say.
“What?”
“In Miami. I used to play baseball. I was a great hitter. I wanted to be the next Sammy Sosa. Do you know who that is?”
“The guy who was trying for the home run record a while back, right? The guy who got in trouble for the corked bat.”
“Right.” I ignore the corked bat comment, which is still a sore point with me. “He got so screwed when you think of it. Roger Maris had that record—sixty-one homers—for thirty-seven years. Sosa got sixty-six that season. He’s an excellent hitter. If he’d done it the season before, he’d have made the record books, at least for the year. Everyone would know about his record. He’d have been immortal.” I stop, thinking about the word. Immortal. “But Mark McGuire had to come along the same season and do just a little better. Seventy runs.”
“I remember,” Jennifer says. “Chicago, right? I remember thinking that wasn’t fair.”
“Depends how you look at it. Sosa’s great. McGuire’s just better. Anyway, Sosa was my hero. I wanted to grow up and be like him, and like I said, I was a good player. And when I got diagnosed, the doctor said it was fine if I kept playing as long as I felt okay. Baseball’s not a contact sport, so there was really no risk to anyone. And there’s no reason to think I couldn’t do anything I want.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah. Except people found out. Then a bunch of players quit the team. No explanation given. They found other players, but then a couple of teams forfeited games against us because they didn’t have enough players show up. We were having a winning season, but we’d only played about half the games. I didn’t want to ruin it for everyone else, so I quit.”
“You copped out.”
“Were you listening to the same story I just told?”
“Yeah. I’d have stayed on the team.”
I laugh. “Yeah, right. You think you would have.”
“No, really. I don’t think anyone should keep you from doing what you want.”
“Yeah. Everyone thinks they’d do something different. But after a while, you get tired of being a test case.” I want to slap myself for the way I’m sounding. “Never mind. I wouldn’t expect anyone to understand. You were nice to come visit. Tell me about you. Tell me about your plans for med school.”
“That’s really condescending.”
“What is?”
“Being all sanctimonious—assuming I couldn’t possibly understand. Actually, I think I do understand.”
“You HIV-positive?”
“No. But while you were in Miami, ditching the baseball team, I was in Crystal Springs, getting drummed out of the ballet recital because everyone in town knew that my father was screwing his law partner.”
“Ouch. What happened?” She looks pained, and I add, “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“No. Since it’s you.”
“Yeah, since it’s me.”
Which she ignores. “My father was a commissioner in the little town where I grew up. He planned to run for state senate. He and Mom were never, like, a perfect couple. But I thought they were okay, you know?” She walks to the door of the room, looks out, then comes back. “But about a week before Dad was going to announce his candidacy, there were these photos in the paper. Seems Dad’s opponent heard about Dad’s affair, so he hired an investigator with a long-lens camera. They got footage of Dad and Kimberley in his car.”
“Doing what?”
Jennifer looks away. “What people do in cars.”
I feel my face getting hot. She must see it too because she adds, “I mean, not that I’ve ever done that in a car. Or… I mean, anywhere… I just heard—”
“Sure.”
“Anyway, the photo was on the front page of the local paper, with a black slash over the important parts. The bigger regional papers picked it up too. Dad was out of the senate race, him and Mom split up, and I had to go to school every day knowing everyone knew about it, until we moved away six months ago.”
“And the dance recital?”
“My teacher said she thought it would be inappropriate for me to be in it. She refunded my costume deposit and everything. It was the first time I had a big part. Anyway, I guess she decided some girl from a decent family should do the Coffee dance from The Nutcracker.”
“What a bitch.”
She shrugs. “I sort of found out who my real friends were. And sometimes I’ll meet someone from Crystal Springs who says, ‘Is your father Harmon Atkinson?’ and I have to say, yep. Yep, he is. And I vowed that I was never again going to let anyone force me out of something I wanted because of some problem of theirs. So I know what it’s like … except the part about being sick, I mean.”
“Yeah, there’s that part.”
She paces to the door again. “Okay, I’m sorry. I know you can’t die from embarrassment … so maybe I don’t really understand at all.” She looks at her watch. “I ought to go. You’re probably tired.”
“No!” I want to get out of bed, disconnect everything, and kiss her for even trying to understand, but that would be too pathetic. “No. Don’t go. I like talking to you. I’m so lon—I mean, they gave me a single room, and it’s boring here.”
She looks around, like she’s seeing the room for the first time. “Yeah, I guess it would be. Didn’t your mom get you any magazines or something?”
I shrug. “She must be too busy worrying.” Which sounds lame, but why the hell didn’t Mom get magazines? She’s supposed to be so concerned, but she’s not really thinking about what I need. Sometimes I think she acts that way because it focuses attention on her. She doesn’t really care.
God, I am a shit.
“Oh, well. I’ll bring you some tomorrow—we get S.I. I could have my mom bring them. She’s a nurse. She works the early shift, so she could get here earlier.”
“That’d be great.” I want to ask whether she’ll come in too, but I don’t. I wonder if she has a boyfriend.
“I come after school. Or I could bring you books if you like books better?”
I nod. “Books are good. I like fantasy, magical worlds, stuff like that.”
She smiles. One of her top teeth is a little sideways, and it just works on her. “Those are my favorites too. I just finished a good one by Garth Nix. I’ll send it tomorrow.” She looks at her watch again. “I really have to go, though. My break’s been over for five minutes.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”
She turns to leave.
“Jen… Jennifer?” I put out my hand to stop her, and I notice she backs away. When she realizes what she’s done, she moves closer again, but not close enough to touch. She turns red, too.
Still I say, “My mom said they caught the guy who did this.” I gesture at my face. “Who is it?”
She gives me a funny look. “I thought you knew. It was that football player, Clinton Cole.”
Monday, 3:00 p.m., Cole residence
CLINTON
The doorbell rings. I jump. What if it’s the cops?
It’s not the cops. It’s not the cops. Calm down. Chill! They said they had to talk to Crusan first. But he’s in the hospital, all doped up. Probably Girl Scout cookies or something. I almost laugh at that. Who’d sell cookies at a time like this?
“Are you gonna go downstairs?” Melody asks.
“Nah. Mom will get it.” I try and sound casual. Right.
But I’m not casual. I stare at my math book and chomp my pencil, which I have been trying really hard not to do anymore.
A minute later, there’s footsteps on the stairs, then Mom’s voice calling Melody.
I follow her down.
It’s not the cops. It’s Carolina Crusan. She looks tired and sad. When Melody sees Carolina, she runs and hugs her. I stay back.
“I missed you,” Melody says. “I wanted to call, but they wouldn’t let me.”
She says they like my mom and I are involved in some big conspiracy against her, and she’s still hugging Carolina.
Carolina says, “My parents wouldn’t either. Someone threw a stupid rock through my window, and now they’re holding me prisoner. It’s no fair.”
“We’re going to have to call your parents,” Mom says. And the way she says it, I know she’s dreading it.
“No!” Carolina starts crying. “They’ll kill me. I wasn’t supposed to leave the house. I wasn’t supposed to ride my bike. I wasn’t…” She keeps talking, but it’s all lost in a flood of tears.
My mother stands, watching. Then she says, “Clinton, why not take the girls to the kitchen for a snack.”
I don’t want to. But on the other hand, I’m glad Mom’s even speaking to me, so I figure I better do it. I gesture for them to follow me.
Once we get there, Carolina quiets down a little and they start arguing about what to have for snack. I wonder if they even told her about Alex yet.
“Can we make slice-and-bake cookies?” Melody demands.
“We don’t have any.” Even though I know we do. I just want to throw some Oreos at them and get it over with.
“Sure we do.” Melody opens the door and takes out a roll of cookie dough. They’re Halloween cookies with pumpkins in the dough. “See?”
I don’t want to eat anything Carolina’s had her hands in. But I figure they’re just slice and bake. I decide it’s probably okay. “Wash your hands first.” I grab a handful of Oreos from the refrigerator before the door shuts. My mom keeps Oreos in the fridge since it’s Florida and humid. My dad always said, “Never trust a woman who’d put cookies in the fridge. She’ll be weird about other things too.” I don’t know, but it makes sense to me. I mean, who wants Oreos that got all gummy from the heat?
While they preheat the oven and cut the dough, Carolina gripes about her parents. “They only care about Alex. They’re so mean. Everything’s about Alex, Alex, Alex. He’s like a prince, and he ruins everything. And if I say that, I’m bad for thinking it.”
“My brother’s the same way,” Melody says.
“Um, am I in the room?” I joke, though I don’t feel much like laughing. I’m thinking about what Carolina said about her brother. I go to open the oven door, and I catch my reflection. Funny how, when you see your face by accident, it looks different than when you look on purpose. I seem like I’m ten pounds heavier than I thought—my chin is like a turkey’s. I peel one of the raw cookie dough pieces off the sheet and shove it in my mouth.
“Pig,” Melody says.
“Yeah, like you’d never do that,” I whisper. “Fat slob.”
Melody glances over at Carolina but doesn’t say anything. I say, “I didn’t mean that.”
She sort of nods. But that doesn’t stop her looking like she’s about to cry.
I am a big, fat jerk.
After they put the cookie dough in the oven, the girls sit down.
“My mother’s gonna kill me,” Carolina says again. “She’ll freak. She was calling me before, telling me lock the doors and stay in rooms with no windows.”
Windows.
“Because of the rock?” Melody says.
“Yeah. I stepped on some broken glass and hurt my foot.”
I notice for the first time she has a bandage on her foot under her sandal. I wonder how bad she got cut. Like, did she get stitches? God, I just wanted to scare them. I didn’t want to hurt a little girl. Maybe Mom’s right not to trust me. Maybe I really am a bad person.
But I can’t stop wondering if she could bleed on our kitchen floor.
“I was so scared to stay in the house by myself,” she’s saying. “Mom’s with my brother, and Dad’s at work. I mean, what if someone came to the house and did something?”
“I don’t think they’d do that,” I say.
“They threw the rock. They do all sorts of stuff to Alex. My mother calls them animals, and if they’re bad enough to do those things, maybe they’d do other stuff too.”
“I’m sure they…” I stop. I was about to say I’m sure they aren’t that bad, but I can’t get the words out. Is throwing a rock as bad as smashing someone’s windshield? I don’t think so, but Carolina cut her foot. I did that to her. That’s something. “You’ll be fine,” I say finally.
The oven timer goes off at the same time the doorbell rings.
“Oh, no.” Carolina starts to cry again.
It’s Mrs. Crusan. Even though she’s sort of a dark-skinned Cuban, her face looks white. She rushes toward Carolina.
“Oh, Lina, I was so worried. How could you do this?”
“I was scared at the house. Please let me stay here, Mommy. Just today.”
“No.” Mrs. Crusan gives me a look like I’m a serial killer or something. “No. You cannot stay here. You cannot come here ever again.”
Monday, 3:00 p.m., Bickell residence
DARIA
Policeman
here
in our kitchen.
Scary.
Mama is
mad.
“I don’t like
what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying
anything, ma’am.”
“My daughter
has no reason
to lie.”
“It’s not a matter of lying,
ma’am.
Just if she might be
mistaken somehow.”
“She’s not,”
Mama says,
standing up.
“Any witness can
make a mistake.
It’s not just because she’s—”
“She didn’t
make a mistake.”
“The boy’s mother says
he was home.”
Mama
looks mad,
looks at me.
“Did you see him,
Dari?
Did you see?”
I don’t know
what
to
say.
How to say.
“Daria, listen,”
Mama says.
“Listen.”
“Bike,”
I say.
“What?”
the policeman
says.
“On a bike,”
I say.
“On a bike?
Clinton Cole?”
I nod.
“Green one,”
I say.
“We can check
that out.”
He leans down.
“Did Clinton Cole have
a baseball bat?”
I don’t know.
“Dari,”
Mama says.
“It’s important.
Did the boy
have a bat?”
I saw
Clinton
on a bike,
green bike.
I saw a baseball bat
smash
Alex Crusan’s
car.
I don’t know.
“Daria?”
“Dari?”
“Did you see Clinton Cole?”
“Threwarock.
Broke
brokeawindow.”
“What?”
the policeman
says.
Mama sighs.
“Not a rock.