Authors: Alex Flinn
Fade to Black (3 page)
But I look at Officer Bauer and say, “I didn’t do anything, sir. There was nothing I could do. I sat where I was told and tried not to breathe in too much. Ask anyone. Lucky, we only have those two classes together. I guess Crusan’s in the smart class for English. I tried to stay away from him, best I could. But other than that, I didn’t do a darn thing.”
Monday, 11:00 a.m., special ed counselor Joyce Taub’s office, Pinedale High School
Mondays
,
I wait
by the side of the road
for
Alex Crusan’s car
.
Monday
,
Mama says
I can go
if it
does not rain
and it did not
rain today
.
I waited
.
I like Alex Crusan’s car
.
The headlights
look like
big eyes staring
.
I like Alex Crusan
.
He smiles at me
.
The big eyes were there
.
I hid
by the side of the road
in leaves
that
crunched and
smelled
like rainy dogs
.
Alex Crusan
can’t see me
unless I
pop out
.
I wanted to pop out
.
I wanted to pop out
and say hello
.
I wanted to surprise him
.
The boy was there
in a blue letter jacket
.
Wham!
Glass—smash!
Like ice
falling up
.
Baseball bat
,
blue letter jacket
.
Alex Crusan
under the glass
,
blue letter jacket
.
Glass
like ice
falling up
.
I could not run
.
I ran
.
I saw who did it
.
I saw
the blue letter jacket
.
I said it
.
Monday, 11:15 a.m., Memorial Hospital
I guess I must’ve dozed off for real because when I look up, Mom’s gone. Which is better, really. Sometimes I can’t take her crying on top of everything else.
But someone else is there. A candy striper in this dumb uniform that looks like it’s from the 1950s, pushing a flower cart. I’ve seen her at school. Jennifer… Something, a little mousy, but pretty blonde, curly hair. I’m surprised she’s here during school hours. She stands there, staring at me. I know what she’s thinking. People who first see me think I’m going to look like Tom Hanks in that movie
Philadelphia
, where he lost, like, forty pounds and was covered in lesions from Kaposi’s sarcoma. I don’t look like that … yet. I can’t think about the day I’ll look like that. At least, I try not to.
I’m about to say something rude, like hasn’t she ever seen anyone with HIV, working in a hospital.
Then I realize she’s looking at my face. It’s all bandaged, so I bet I look like a mummy. I go to touch it, but my hands are bandaged too. Nothing hurts. I must be doped up, which would explain why I’m sleeping so much. I feel tired right now, and I just woke up.
I say, “Jennifer, right?” It’s hard to talk.
She’s getting the flowers off the cart, and she practically throws the vase at me when I speak. But she recovers.
“Good save,” I say. It’s easier the second time.
She puts the flowers beside the others on the windowsill, then leans to get a roll of paper towels to clean the water she spilled. I get a pretty good view of her legs and … stuff. Good to know I’m not too doped up to notice that. Nice. Very nice. I have no illusions that a girl like that—or any girl—would be interested in me. But I’m still a guy.
When she stands, I repeat, “You’re Jennifer, right?”
“Jennifer Atkinson.” She doesn’t come closer, which is no shocker. She folds two paper towels to make a thick square, then leans again to dab at the water. This time she leans forward, and I can see down the front of her uniform. “You scared me. I thought you were asleep.”
She stands again.
“Sorry.” I gesture at my bandaged face. “I’m Alex. We go to school together.”
“I know who you are.”
And, since she doesn’t say it like go-away-and-please-stop-emitting-carbon-dioxide, I ask, “Who are the flowers from?”
“We’re not supposed to snoop in the cards.”
“It’s not snooping if I ask, is it?”
She looks doubtful. “I guess not.”
I back up. “If you don’t want to talk to me, just put the cards on the nightstand.”
So tired. Eyes … closing…
“No, that’s okay.” She steps sideways and stoops to wipe some more water. “They told us we can’t get sick from casual contact.” She looks at me, looking at her, and her face goes all red. “I mean…”
“You’re right,” I say quick. “That’s totally right—you can’t. Not many people around here seem to know that.”
“My mom’s a nurse. And I want to be a doctor. I got special permission to work here Mondays during school, and other days after. You can’t be a doctor and get scared of sick people.” She looks up and blushes redder. “I’m not saying this right.”
She reaches out and fumbles for the cards. I want to tell her I’m not sick, not really, that maybe I’ll never get really sick. But it’s the first normal, human conversation I’ve had with anyone my own age since we moved to Pinedale, and I don’t want to kill it by sounding like a public service announcement. So I say, “No, you’re right. That’s smart. But then, you must be smart if you plan to go to med school.”
God, I sound like a moron. She ignores it and opens the first card. “From Mom, Dad, and Carolina.” She pronounces Carolina’s name right, unlike most people around here who pronounce it like the state. She opens the other card. “And this one’s from Mrs. Adele Cole, Melody, and Clinton.”
She looks a little surprised, and I almost laugh myself. Figures. Melody Cole is Carolina’s best friend, but she’s also Clinton Cole’s sister. Weird that with all the things Cole and I don’t have in common, we have sisters exactly the same age. Mrs. Cole is one of those moms who always acts like she’s running for the title of World’s Best Person. I figure she does it to make up for giving birth to an asshole like Clinton. So while everyone else is giving us the evil eye at Winn-Dixie, Mrs. Cole runs up to Mom in frozen foods to ask if we need help finding anything. She lets her daughter play with Carolina when pretty much no one else will. I know I should be grateful. But I wish I didn’t have to be, you know?
“Well, I’m damn sure they aren’t from Clinton,” I say.
Jennifer looks at me funny, and I’m about to apologize for my language. Kids around here don’t swear like they do in Miami and on the rest of the planet. It’s possible she’s shocked by the word
damn
.
But when I look at her, she’s staring at the card.
She says, “I hope they throw that guy’s ass in jail for what he did to you.”
Monday, 11:15 a.m., principal’s office, Pinedale High School
“I didn’t do anything,” I say again.
Okay, so I threw the rock. It wasn’t a big rock, and I did it when no one was home. No one saw me. I knew from Melody that the Crusans go to Sunday night services at the Catholic church on Rolling Road. So that’s when I went, last night around seven when the house was mostly dark. I parked my bike a block away, in front of that little retard girl’s house. Then I hoofed it to the Crusans’ place. It’s a real fancy house with big trees and bushes, so I could sneak over under the leaves. I chucked the rock through the window and left. I didn’t think it was a big deal since no one was there. But now the cops are here, so they must’ve found out somehow. And my ass is grass if my mom finds out.
They can’t prove a darn thing.
“It would be understandable if you did something,” Officer Reed says. “If you felt sort of … powerless.”
“I was powerless. That’s why I didn’t do anything. There was nothing I could do.”
“Are you telling me the truth, son?”
“Scout’s honor.” Though, of course, I’m not a scout anymore. But I was one when I was eight. It was fun, till Dad said he couldn’t handle any more of that camping junk. Now the whole thing of the cops being here, and not just Runnels, is starting to hit home, and my heart’s thumping now, going
oh-shit, oh-shit, oh-shit
… till I think maybe they can see it through my shirt.
“Because there was an incident this morning.”
Oh-shit
. “This morning?”
Not last night?
Officer Reed nods. “Someone attacked Alex Crusan’s car. They hit it with a baseball bat.”
“I don’t know anything about that, sir.”
And it’s true. My lungs, they feel like helium balloons. It wasn’t me. They don’t know about the rock. They’re looking for some other guy.
“I’d never vandalize a car, sir.”
“I’m afraid there was more to it than that.” I watch the tall cop’s lips moving, stretching, then snapping back like in slow-mo. I realize he’s talking like I already know what he’s going to say. “Alex was driving the car at the time. He was badly cut by flying glass. They’re treating this as a battery.”
I stare at him, realizing. Battery. What does any of this have to do with me? I threw a rock, for God’s sake. A stinking rock at an empty house. I didn’t
batter
anyone. I wouldn’t… I mean, I’d never actually hurt anyone. I look down at my hands, and they’re shaking. They’re trying to pin this on me. Jeez, they’re trying to pin this on me.
Calm down, stupid. Stupid!
I try to think about what my dad would say to do. I know he’d say keep a cool head. Be respectful. I saw him talk his way out of a ticket once. That’s exactly what he did. Smart, not stupid. I stick my hands between my knees to stop them shaking. I don’t act guilty—he’d say that, too.
I say, “That’s awful, sir. If I hear anyone talking about it, I’ll be sure and let you know.”
Officer Reed looks at the tall cop again. The tall cop looks at me.
“Son, let’s cut the crap. There’s a witness who identified you at the scene.”
Monday, 11:30 a.m., courtyard, Pinedale High School
First lunch,
me alone,
bench by the basketball hoop.
No one sits there,
just me.
I have baloney.
Mama uses brown bread.
Brown bread, not white,
orange cheese, not yellow.
The baloney smells good.
I put potato chips
between the slices.
The girls come,
one, two, three.
Don’t sit.
They’re not friends.
The yellow-hair girl’s hair
shines like hair
in a commercial.
“Hear what happened?” she says.
“That guy
got his windows smashed.”
Her voice sings up and down,
like Gramma’s piano.
The others look.
“What guy?” they say.
I say, “Alex… Alex… Alex Crusan.”
No one hears.
“That
guy,
” she says.
“Hel
-lo
?
You know.
The one from Miami, the one with AIDS.”
“Alex,” I say. “Alex.”
No one hears.
“Who did it?”
“Don’t know yet.
I saw his car
on the way to school.
The windshield was, like, totally smashed out.”
“On purpose?”
“No doubt.
Bound to happen sooner or later.”
“But who
did
it?”
I want to say
blue jacket.
I saw
the blue jacket.
I don’t say it.
They don’t hear.
“Who knows?”
The yellow-hair girl
sniffs the air.
My baloney.
She doesn’t say it.
“Was he hurt?”
I want to know too.
She doesn’t say.
She walks away.
The others go too.
Her hair is shiny.
Monday, 11:30 a.m., Memorial Hospital
Jennifer left when the nurse showed up to change my bandages. I still haven’t looked in the mirror. I feel less spacey, so whatever they gave me must be wearing off. I’m awake enough to notice I don’t have a roommate. I wonder if that’s because no one would want to room with me.
“He got it from a transfusion, you know,” my mother says to the nurse as she follows her in.
“Mom…” I say.
My mother saw me talking to Jennifer when she came in, so now I can’t pretend I’m asleep. She looks at me but speaks only to the nurse. Fine. She’s mad. If I’d listened to her about not going out alone this morning, this wouldn’t have happened. I give up on saying anything and submit to the whole
ER
routine. My mother hovers, getting in the nurse’s way.