FADE TO BLACK
Alex Flinn
DEDICATION
For Toni Markiet,
an editor in a million.
I am so glad my manuscript landed on your desk!
CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
MEMO
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
CLINTON
DARIA
ALEX
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
READING GROUP GUIDE FOR FADE TO BLACK BY ALEX FLINN
EXCERPT FROM BEWITCHING
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
BACK ADS
BOOKS BY ALEX FLINN
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
EPIGRAPH
Y es que en el mundo traidor
nada hay verdad ni mentira:
todo es según el color
del cristal con que se mira.
RAMON DE CAMPOAMOR
(1817–1901)
And it is that in the treasonous world
nothing is truth nor lie:
everything is according to the color
of the crystal through which it is seen.
RAMON DE CAMPOAMOR
(1817–1901)
MEMO
Pinedale Senior High School
“Home of the Panthers”
PINEDALE, FLORIDA
TO: Eugene Runnels, Principal
FROM: Celia Velez, Assistant
DATE: October 27
RE: Incident Involving HIV-positive Student
Alejandro Crusan, a junior, was apparently attacked this morning at the corner of East Main and Salem Court. According to his parents, Alex was en route to Dunkin’ Donuts at 35 East Main at approximately 6:00 a.m. A witness, Daria Bickell, a special education (Down Syndrome) student at Pinedale, saw Alex’s red SUV stopped at a red light. An assailant, said to be wearing a blue Pinedale Panthers letter jacket and carrying a baseball bat, attacked Alex’s car, smashing the front windshield and passenger-side windows. When the assailant attempted to run around to the driver’s side, Alex was able to drive away. The witness saw Pinedale student Clinton Cole, 16, leaving the scene.
Although this incident did not take place on school property, I have contacted the school board, and they have pledged full cooperation with local police. Due to the nature of the incident, and also Alex’s HIV-positive status, police will investigate the incident under the Florida Hate Crimes statute.
Monday, 10:50 a.m., Principal Runnels’s office, Pinedale High School
CLINTON
How do they know I did it?
They ought to give me a stinking medal. If you asked most people around here “off the record,” they’d agree with what I did. I mean, sure everybody wants to be politically correct—whatever that’s supposed to mean. Just because Pinedale’s a cow town doesn’t mean we’re all rednecks without opposable thumbs, no matter what people from Miami might think. But people move here because it’s a safe place. Or it was. No one wants to die. All the political correctness in the world’s not worth that.
And most people would agree with that, “off the record.”
But on the record, there’s this little problem: they can’t. That’s why my butt’s here in a green plastic chair in Principal Runnels’s office instead of a plain old wooden chair in English class where it belongs.
I’ve been here an hour now, since they called me out of third period. And Runny-nose is nowhere to be found. His secretary, Miss Velez, acts like he’s out on some kind of top-secret school business. But I know better. The one time, I got caught with Brett and Mo in that now-notorious mascot-swiping incident—he was late then, too. When he finally showed up, he was carting groceries—eggs and milk and Chips Ahoy. You’d think a big important principal would get his wife to do the shopping. But you’d be wrong. The man is PW, and if you don’t know what that means, check with me sometime when I’m in a better mood and I’ll tell you.
Miss Velez walks by, trying to look casual. But I’m pretty sure she’s checking to make sure I haven’t bolted. I stand when she comes in the room (my daddy taught me right) and say in my politest voice, “Excuse me, Ms. Velez?” She wants to be called Ms.
“Yes, Clinton?”
“Um, I was thinking if Principal Runnels won’t be here for a while, could I maybe go back to class? We’ve got a test in English, and I sure do hate to miss it.”
Or, more important, I hate to miss Alyssa Black. She has that class with me. Other girls, if they’re pretty, I get tongue-tied. But Alyssa’s different in the way she looks at me. It’s not just that she’s got beautiful eyes. But she sees me different, I feel like. Other girls see a big jock who runs with the pack. With Alyssa, it’s like she… I don’t know, understands me, maybe. Is that corny? It’s like she can see inside to the part that’s still this little fat kid no one likes much, the part I try to hide from most people. Today’s the day I was planning on asking her to homecoming. It’ll put a big dent in my plans if she knows I’m in here or if I get detention. Alyssa doesn’t hang with delinquents.
Miss Velez glances at the clock. When she looks back, her face is sort of hard.
“No, Clinton, you can’t go to class. They’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
She’s gone before I get the chance to ask who “they” are.
Figures she’d be against me. Alex—the guy this is all about—he’s a spic like she is. Or Latino as my mother would say. My father says those kinds of people always stick together. “That’s the problem with ’em,” he’d say. “With the whole damn State of Florida, really. You work a job your whole life, then some spic fires you and hires his second cousin. It started down in Miami, but darned if it isn’t spreading up north. And soon, it’ll be the last American in Florida, heading out and taking the flag with him.”
My father ought to know because that’s what happened to him. The getting fired part. My father was one of the most powerful men in Pinedale. But when he lost his job, my mother left him. She said it was because she couldn’t stand being around his “attitudes”—whatever that means—but Dad says different. He got a new job out of state, and now I hardly see him. Mom won’t let me call him much either, on account of the cost of long distance and all the child support Dad isn’t paying. Dad can’t really afford to call us, either. Mom would say that’s a good thing. But I miss him.
My mom and I don’t see eye to eye on much. She’s sort of liberal, which is really what started this whole problem with the Crusans. She’s always worrying about people’s rights and so forth. When my little sister, Melody, started playing with Carolina Crusan at school, Mom said fine. Then Carolina invited Melody to sleep over their house. Mom said fine again. Go. Never mind that her HIV brother’s going to unleash the black plague on Pinedale, Florida. Never mind that we don’t know what type of germs and spores and junk is flying around their house (I al
ways try not to breathe too much when I’m in class with him). Just go. Have fun. I tried to tell Melody not to eat anything over there and to wash her hands and not touch any sharp objects and not drink out of the glasses (was that really unreasonable?). But Mom made me shut up. “Stop scaring her, Clinton. She might say something to the Crusans.” Like she’s more worried about their feelings than her own daughter’s safety.
That’s when I realized I needed to take matters into my own hands. With Dad gone and Mom acting sort of crazy, what choice did I have? But I wasn’t going to hurt the guy or nothing. I just wanted to scare him so he’d go back where he came from before anyone got hurt. I only wanted to protect my family, like my father would’ve.
Mom thinks I should feel sorry for Crusan, on account of he’s got AIDS. Maybe I would feel bad for him if he was living in some other town where it didn’t affect me or my family, or even if he just stayed home. Or even if he didn’t sit by me in two classes, for that matter, and act like we’re a bunch of hicks. I thought about asking Mom to take us out of Pinedale. Some kids’ parents did that. They let them study at home. But Mom would’ve said no way. She’s like that. Dad would’ve been different. Dad would’ve understood.
Miss Velez shows up again. She’s smiling this time, so I guess Runny-nose must’ve finished buying the toilet paper and made it to work. She turns back to the door.
“Right this way, gentlemen.”
I look back and see it’s not Runnels following her.
Hey, what are the cops doing here?
Monday, 10:50 a.m., hallway during passing period, Pinedale High School
DARIA
Maybe
I am
a ghost
people look through
like water.
Maybe
I
am invisible
so they do not
know I watch.
Maybe they
think words
are invisible
so I cannot
hear
retard, retard, retard.
But words are not
invisible.
Me either.
And I always,
always
watch.
Monday, 10:50 a.m., Memorial Hospital
ALEX
My mother’s crying. I make out shapes… IV pole, television set, window. Hospital window with flowers on the windowsill. I shut my eyes quick. Mom can’t know I’m awake. My face aches a little, and the rest of me feels like it’s still asleep. Like, numb. Even closing my eyes hurts, but I keep them shut tight anyway. I’m not ready to talk to anyone and, what’s more, I’m not sure I can. I can’t even believe this has happened, so how can I talk about it?
And my mother’s crying. Again.
Last year, when I was first diagnosed with HIV, my mother cried a lot. When she finally stopped crying, my parents took me to Disney World. It was pretty cool. Even though we lived in Miami, we hadn’t been in years because my sister, Carolina—who’s nine, now, eight years younger than I am—had been too young to go on many rides before that. I didn’t think about why we went, that I was like one of those Make-A-Wish foundation kids who wants to see Mickey before he dies. It hadn’t totally sunk in yet, you know?
Even though I felt fine, Mom made me ride in this wheelchair we rented. In a stroke of brain dead-itude, I went along with it. There were tons of gimpy kids there, and we got to go right to the front at every ride. The line for Space Mountain was, like, two hours, but we shot up front and I stepped out of my wheelchair and got on. When the Disney guy let us ahead of this one family that was waiting, the dad turned to his son and said, “Don’t you hate people like that—rent a wheelchair just to go first.”
Mom started crying then, too. She yelled at the guy, “You should thank God you have healthy children. My son has HIV. He’s dying.” And all around, people who’d been happy and smiling started looking afraid or away. It ruined the whole trip.
That was the first time it really sank in that I was going to die. Me. Die.
Die.
We haven’t gone back to Disney since then and, if I did, I wouldn’t ride in a stinking wheelchair. I don’t need one. I’m no poster boy, and I am nowhere near needing to see Mickey. Besides, they’re making some big gains in AIDS medications. I could live twenty years, maybe. Maybe longer.
Or maybe not.
I don’t have AIDS yet, anyway—that’s the first thing anyone needs to know about me. I read all these books about it, and I know all about T-cell counts and viral loads, but the bottom line is: I was diagnosed with HIV a year ago, and I still feel fine. I’m not on meds yet. I’m hanging in, living with it. My doctors say if I keep doing what I’m supposed to, maybe they’ll find a cure before I even get really sick.
So this year we didn’t go to Disney. In August, before we moved here to Podunkville, Florida, we went to New York City, and my mom and Aunt Maria took me to see this Broadway play called Rent. It won a lot of awards, and it’s about people with AIDS. Of course, of all the musicals in New York, we had to see the one about AIDS. The people in the play, they’re all junkies and homosexuals, and they’re dealing with the fact that they’re going to die, like, tomorrow. Aunt Maria hated the show because 1) It had loud music with electric guitars and stuff, which interfered with her sleeping; 2) It was depressing; 3) She said, “None of these people are like you, Alejandro. You are an innocent victim.” I guess she meant because the people in the show were in what you’d call high-risk categories. Still, I think everyone with AIDS is an innocent victim. Most of the people I’ve met with HIV are in those higher-risk categories, and who cares? I don’t think anyone deserves to get sick or die. I mean, I wouldn’t wish this disease on Clinton Cole, much less some innocent homosexual.
Clinton Cole is what DC Comics would call my nemesis. He’s Joker to my Batman, Green Goblin to my Spidey. Since we moved to Pinedale, people have pretty much been assholes. But Clinton’s, like, the uber-asshole.
The first weeks of school, it seemed like any time I turned a corner, everyone dove together, whispering. Did they think that because they were whispering, I didn’t know they were talking about me? And the people who don’t whisper walk right past you in the hall, looking down, pretending not to see you. I try not to get mad at those people, because I remember I used to do it myself before. When you see someone in a wheelchair or missing a leg or something, you don’t want to seem like you’re staring, so you look away. Which I now know is worse. And a lot of people backed up close to the wall when I walked by. The up side (if you’d call it that) was, I didn’t have any trouble getting through the halls because no one would touch me.
But then there were the people like Clinton. People who didn’t care what I heard or thought. When I walked into the cafeteria the second day, he stood up and said, “Go back where you came from, fag.” And you could tell everyone was with him. Since then he’s been doing all kinds of other crap. He wore a surgical mask one day to Government because we sit next to each other. I think he’s one of the people who left threatening notes in my locker, though I don’t know for sure.
We moved here for Dad’s job. We’d lived in Miami all my life, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was better. I had some friends, like Austin and Danny, and other guys I hung with at school. Sure, a few people were weird, but not as many. And even though I stopped playing baseball when I got diagnosed, I was on the debate team. I made it to State with my original oratory last year, and I was going to try again this year.
Then Dad’s company wanted to start an office here in Pinedale (Why here? Hell if I know), and they transferred him. I knew my parents didn’t want to live here in the sticks, where there isn’t so much as a Target, much less a mall. We have to drive to Gainesville to find a doctor who knows how to deal with me, and there are for sure no AIDS centers here. Without me, my parents probably wouldn’t have come here. They’d have choices. Dad could get a different job. But Dad had to stay with the co
mpany to keep his health insurance. We’re pretty much uninsurable as new patients because of me.
And you know what the debate team at Pinedale is? Two guys who gave me the evil eye when I walked through the door. I walked right back out. It’s not even worth trying to make friends in Pinedale.
And now I’m here in the hospital, listening to my mother crying because one of these rednecks thought I wasn’t dying quick enough and tried to take me out early. But he didn’t finish it off, so I’m here.
I hear my mother moving around, and I keep my eyes closed, so she won’t know I’m awake. I can’t deal with any more crying right now.
But when I close my eyes, it’s like I’m there again. This morning. The sun streaming through my windshield. The baseball bat, the broken glass. The outline of some guy—the guy who attacked me.
And now I’m here, face aching, and the rest of me just numb. Numb.
Monday, 11:00 a.m., principal’s office, Pinedale High School
CLINTON
“Where’s Mr. Runnels?” What the hell are cops doing here?
“Come with us, son,” the shorter cop says.
You know what I hate? When people think they can call you son or boy, just ’cause they’re older than you. I’m not your son! I want to shout. I have a father! Still, I remember what Dad said about cops: “Always be respectful. A cool head and the word sir will get you out of many a situation, my boy. I know.”