from blood, from sharing needles or from sex. I’ve never met one person who got it any other way. They do studies about it, with scientists. It’s not on toilet seats or chairs or pencils.”
He looks at me. “How’d you get it, Crusan? From a transfusion like they said?”
The way he asks it, it’s not mean for once, just curious. I almost want to tell him the truth. If I did, I know he’d believe me about everything. But I also know he’d tell everyone. I’m not sure Mom and Carolina are ready for that. I can’t make that decision for all of us yet.
“You get HIV from sex,” I repeat, avoiding his question but not his eyes. “Sex or blood. No other ways. You can’t get sick from being in class with me. Understand?”
He looks away. I think about that blaze of glory again, and I think maybe that’s not what it’s about after all. Not something like a song or a home run record or even a debate title. Maybe it’s all about how you live your life, about being human. And suddenly, I know I’m not going to let the police go on thinking Clinton did it. If I did that, I would be no better than Clinton is.
I have to let him go. I will let him go, but I want him to understand.
He still hasn’t answered, so I repeat. “I can’t get you sick, man. God, you think I’d want to go to school here if I could get people sick? You think I’d even be around my family?” I want him to … see me, Alex. Just Alex. I want someone to see me, even if it’s Clinton. “I just want to be—a regular person until I can’t be anymore. You need to believe me. Get it?”
He looks at me for a long time, like maybe the big behemoth is actually thinking . Finally he nods. “I get it.”
I feel like I’m practically shaking. At least, I’m trying pretty hard not to. When I look at Clinton, maybe he is too.
I hold out my hand.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Nothing will happen.”
He doesn’t move. Part of me’s loving it, this ability I have to make him sweat. But I need him to shake my hand for real, not because he has to.
So I keep holding it out. I’m wondering whether I should just not push it. He said he understands. Maybe that’s enough. I know I could get him to do whatever I want, just by threatening to tell them he did it. But I don’t want that. I want him to believe me. So I don’t say anything.
Finally he takes my hand.
Wednesday, 9:20 a.m., Memorial Hospital
CLINTON
His hand’s not bleeding or nothing, so probably it’s okay. It’s not like I have much choice in the matter. I mean, if I shake his hand, there’s this little chance I might get AIDS. But if I don’t come to some kind of understanding with this guy, there’s like a 100 percent chance I’m in deep shit. And even the school nurse said AIDS gets in through blood and … well, fluids, so if you aren’t swapping any, you should be fine. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself now. I’d feel better with gloves, but it’s probably okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. So I do it.
His handshake is firm and dry and somehow, I know it’s okay. I wonder what made me tell Crusan that junk about Mom and Dad. I never told my so-called friends that. I sort of thought Crusan might understand, might even know something about disappointing parents. I wonder again if he really got AIDS from a transfusion. I don’t think so.
But asking again would be a deal breaker, so I keep it zipped.
It’s like this special I saw on the Discovery Channel once (okay, it was Mel who watched it, but Dad and I were in the room, playing blackjack) about lepers. That was this real bad disease where people’s body parts fell off. It was in the Bible. They used to think it was a curse from God—like some people think about AIDS now, I guess, like people deserved it because of something they’d done. And they put them in special places so other people couldn’t get it. But it turned out you couldn’t get it from someone who had it. Dad said he wouldn’t want
He looks at me. “How’d you get it, Crusan? From a transfusion like they said?”
The way he asks it, it’s not mean for once, just curious. I almost want to tell him the truth. If I did, I know he’d believe me about everything. But I also know he’d tell everyone. I’m not sure Mom and Carolina are ready for that. I can’t make that decision for all of us yet.
“You get HIV from sex,” I repeat, avoiding his question but not his eyes. “Sex or blood. No other ways. You can’t get sick from being in class with me. Understand?”
He looks away. I think about that blaze of glory again, and I think maybe that’s not what it’s about after all. Not something like a song or a home run record or even a debate title. Maybe it’s all about how you live your life, about being human. And suddenly, I know I’m not going to let the police go on thinking Clinton did it. If I did that, I would be no better than Clinton is.
I have to let him go. I will let him go, but I want him to understand.
He still hasn’t answered, so I repeat. “I can’t get you sick, man. God, you think I’d want to go to school here if I could get people sick? You think I’d even be around my family?” I want him to … see me, Alex. Just Alex. I want someone to see me, even if it’s Clinton. “I just want to be—a regular person until I can’t be anymore. You need to believe me. Get it?”
He looks at me for a long time, like maybe the big behemoth is actually thinking . Finally he nods. “I get it.”
I feel like I’m practically shaking. At least, I’m trying pretty hard not to. When I look at Clinton, maybe he is too.
I hold out my hand.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Nothing will happen.”
He doesn’t move. Part of me’s loving it, this ability I have to make him sweat. But I need him to shake my hand for real, not because he has to.
So I keep holding it out. I’m wondering whether I should just not push it. He said he understands. Maybe that’s enough. I know I could get him to do whatever I want, just by threatening to tell them he did it. But I don’t want that. I want him to believe me. So I don’t say anything.
Finally he takes my hand.
Wednesday, 9:20 a.m., Memorial Hospital
CLINTON
His hand’s not bleeding or nothing, so probably it’s okay. It’s not like I have much choice in the matter. I mean, if I shake his hand, there’s this little chance I might get AIDS. But if I don’t come to some kind of understanding with this guy, there’s like a 100 percent chance I’m in deep shit. And even the school nurse said AIDS gets in through blood and … well, fluids, so if you aren’t swapping any, you should be fine. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself now. I’d feel better with gloves, but it’s probably okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. So I do it.
His handshake is firm and dry and somehow, I know it’s okay. I wonder what made me tell Crusan that junk about Mom and Dad. I never told my so-called friends that. I sort of thought Crusan might understand, might even know something about disappointing parents. I wonder again if he really got AIDS from a transfusion. I don’t think so.
But asking again would be a deal breaker, so I keep it zipped.
It’s like this special I saw on the Discovery Channel once (okay, it was Mel who watched it, but Dad and I were in the room, playing blackjack) about lepers. That was this real bad disease where people’s body parts fell off. It was in the Bible. They used to think it was a curse from God—like some people think about AIDS now, I guess, like people deserved it because of something they’d done. And they put them in special places so other people couldn’t get it. But it turned out you couldn’t get it from someone who had it. Dad said he wouldn’t want
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