by Alex Flinn
A baseball
bat.”
Slow down,
Mama always says,
Slow. Down.
“Threw
a
rock,”
I say.
“House.”
Mama says,
“I’m sorry,
Officer.
She seemed so sure.”
“No.”
The policeman
nods.
“No, she’s right.”
He looks at me.
“Someone threw a rock
through the Crusans’ window last night?”
Mama looks.
“Daria,
were you at Alex Crusan’s house
last night?”
She will
be
mad.
I nod.
The policeman says,
“Did Clinton Cole
throw a rock
through
the window?”
I nod
yes.
“Girl’s
room.”
Monday, 3:45 p.m., Memorial Hospital
ALEX
Just what I wanted: parents in surround sound.
“He must listen to reason,” my mother says.
“Let the boy think, Rosario.” That’s my father.
“But he didn’t do it,” I say to the phone.
My mother is home now. Turns out my sister, Carolina, pulled some stupid stunt, running away to her friend, Melody’s house (which also happens to be Clinton Cole’s house). Mom had three heart attacks and is out for blood. Now Carolina’s home with Mom, and Dad’s here live and in person with me.
But that doesn’t stop Mom from invading my ears.
“There was a witness, Alejandro. She saw him.”
“I saw the guy who broke my windshield. It wasn’t Clinton.”
“Who was it then? Who?”
“I… I don’t know.”
I gesture at Dad like, Help me, puh-leeeeze. He shrugs and mouths, What is she saying? I hold the phone away from my ear so we can both hear her loud and clear.
“A boy in a letter jacket, though. You say a football player. It was dark, Alex. Maybe you don’t see so well. It was such a terrible thing. Maybe…”
She keeps going, but I’ve stopped listening.
“She is very upset, Alex,” Dad says.
No kidding? I mouth.
“What?” Mom says. “What did he say?”
“Nothing,” I say into the phone. “Look, I know it wasn’t Clinton. Clinton’s … mas gordo.” I can see the guy with the bat’s outline, tall and slim.
Mom’s voice starts again, like a scratched CD that plays over. “Do not do this, Alex. Do not let being afraid keep you from saying what is right.”
Jennifer said something like that, about me quitting the baseball team. I wonder if she’s gone for the evening, or if she’ll come back to say good-bye. It’s almost eight. She probably left. She probably does have a boyfriend—maybe some big, dumb football player who needs her to do his homework for him, so she rushes home.
Doesn’t matter.
“I’m not scared, Mom. But I know it wasn’t Clinton. If it was him, I’d say it—I can’t stand the guy.”
But I wonder if maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I don’t want it to be Clinton because that would mean there’s someone I know, someone I sit next to in class, who hates me enough to want me hurt bad. Is that possible? Somehow it’s easier to think it’s a stranger.
“No,” I say aloud. “No, that isn’t it.”
“This boy does other things,” Mom continues. I look at Dad, and he shrugs. “The police just called. They say there is a witness who saw him throw the rock in Carolina’s window.”
“Who is the witness?”
“A girl—Daria someone.”
“Daria Bickell? She lives around the corner. But she’s not … maybe she just made a mistake.”
I can picture Mom at home, pacing, talking with her hands. “She has eyes, Alejandro. And she knew about the rock. The police didn’t tell anyone about it. She knew. She told them about it all on her own.”
So Clinton threw the rock. I believe that. Probably he’s one of the people who left notes in my locker, too.
I want to kill him for hurting Carolina. For hurting my family. Even if Clinton didn’t attack me this morning, maybe he would have, given the chance.
They’ll probably never catch the guy who did this to me. But if they think it’s Clinton, they’d put Clinton in jail awhile. If they only tag Clinton for the rock, they’d probably let him off. He shouldn’t get off that easy. He hurt my sister. He made us all scared to leave the house.
So I say, “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“He is a bad boy, Alex. I was so afraid that Lina was at that house.”
And I know that’s true. They’re all afraid, even Dad, who’s usually calm and normal. When Mom called him about Carolina, he took off work to come here. He can’t do that all the time. I hate that they have to be afraid, and I hate being responsible for it. Maybe they’d be less scared if they thought they’d caught the guy. It would be worth sacrificing a scum like Clinton Cole for that. And what do I get by coming clean? I piss off my family for what—for Clinton Cole? Will telling the truth change anything? Will Clinton stop being like he is? No, and no. He’ll go “suckerrrr” and move on with his life. That’s what he’ll do.
“I’ll think about it,” I say to Mom.
That’s when the nurse comes in, saving me. “I have to look at those stitches.”
“Look, Mom,” I say to the phone. “The nurse is here. I have to go.”
“Okay,” she says. “Fine. Go.”
I hang up and look at Dad. He’s been quiet most of the time, but it’s good. Someone in this family should be quiet. The nurse pulls on her rubber gloves to start checking my stitches.
Dad puts his hand on my shoulder.
“You should do what you think is right, son.”
Monday, 10:00 p.m., Clinton’s room
CLINTON
“You crossed a line, Cole.”
It’s my friend Mo on the phone. I look around my room, like the right thing to say is written someplace there.
Mo keeps going. “I mean, none of us wanted him in school with us, but taking a baseball bat to the guy—what if you’d killed him?”
“I didn’t attack him.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
He’s gone before I can explain.
That’s pretty much how it’s been since Carolina and her mother left. I sprayed the kitchen with Lysol, and Melody hollered at me. The phone’s been ringing so much you start feeling like that’s just the normal sound the world makes. Mom stopped answering it. I only did this time ’cause I saw Mo’s name on the caller ID and hoped he’d be a pal. My other so-called friends haven’t called. It’s okay to talk big and tough, but now they’re all righteous, like I’m scum and they’re Mother Stinkin’ Teresa. Hypocrites!
Melody’s in her room, crying. No one’s talking to me.
I wish I could talk to my dad. I sure miss him sometimes.
Mom can’t understand why I even want to talk to him. She thinks he’s pretty worthless on account of his drinking and the money and all. I guess I’d think that too, if I was her. But he’s my dad. If I think that, then what have I got left?
Besides, there’s something I always remember times when I start getting mad at him. It’s about my name.
My father was the one who named me Clinton. My mother wanted to name me after her grandfather, whose name was Willard, so I’ll always be grateful she didn’t get her way. But Dad insisted on naming me Clinton after Clint Black, the singer. He says he got Clinton because of this song he heard on the radio, “Killin’ Time.”
It’s about this guy who realizes his drinking’s a problem, and it’ll probably end up killing him, but he can’t help himself. The summer I was born, my dad says he got a tape of that al
bum and listened to it all the time.
Another song that was on the tape was called “A Better Man.” “If you let me name him Clinton,” he told my mom, “it’ll be a sort of reminder that that’s what I’m trying to be. A better man.” And Mom gave in and let him.
So when I get mad at him, that’s always what I remember, that he was trying to be better for me, even if he didn’t get it completely right.
Monday morning’s when I call him. Every Monday. Dad has trouble getting out of bed after the weekend. At work they told him if he misses another day, he’s gone. So I promised I’d call and wake him, Mondays. Sometimes he even talks to me, tells me what’s going on in his life. Usually he doesn’t have time. I use the Gas-n-Sip pay phone so Mom won’t get the bill and get all mad. Or, worse, think I’m pathetic for calling him when he never calls me.
Today I was out the door at ten till six, on my bike. It was cold out this morning, even though it’s only October. I passed that retard’s house on East Main. She was outside. I know she’s telling everyone she saw me, and I guess she did see me. But she didn’t see me wale on Crusan, ’cause I didn’t do that. I didn’t even see Crusan. I’d have noticed him. There aren’t many people out that time of day, and Crusan drives that sweet, red Honda SUV—typical rich Cuban car. Meanwhile, I’m still sweating on two wheels. Dad promised me a car for my sixteenth birthday. But what with losing his job, I never ended up getting it. He said it was okay ’cause biking was better for me. “Keeps the weight down” was what he said, though I tried not to hear him.
When he picked up the phone this morning, I could almost smell the Jack on his breath. “Leave me alone,” he growled. I called back, but he didn’t answer. Don’t know if he made it to work. I’m trying not to care, either.
I think about calling Mo back. But what would be the point? Mo and, I guess, all my so-called friends think I’m scum. Just like that—on the word of a retard. I wonder if all the guys on the team hate me too.
It isn’t fair. Everyone was with me. They all wanted Crusan out as much as I did. Mo laughed when I called Crusan out that day in the cafeteria. Now they’re all suspecting me. Ragging on someone is not the same as beating them with a baseball bat. What happened to innocent till proven guilty?
I turn out the light. Mom’s downstairs. Mel’s still bawling, and I think she’s pouring it on just to make a point. I pull my pillow over my head to block it out, but I can’t block out my thinking. Like, what if I’m wrong? What if I really am a bad person, and that’s why everyone can believe this so easily? I mean, I chucked a rock through a little kid’s window. What would it be like if that happened to my sister? What would I do to the guy that did it?
I’d kill him.
I get up, put on my shorts, and head to Mel’s room. At least there’s one person I can clear the air with.
She’s at her desk, trying to study. The only light on’s the desk lamp, and she’s squinting. I try and remember if I studied much in grade school. Don’t think so.
But Melody’s studying. Or at least she’s staring at her math book. When I get closer, I see her hands are covering the pages. I turn on the dresser lamp. It’s shaped like a cat, and its stomach glows.
“You okay?” I say.
“No.” She looks up. She’s not crying anymore, at least. “I mean, yes. I mean… Carolina was my best friend, Clint. If she leaves or something, I won’t have anyone to play with.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. Even she only hangs around because she can’t make other friends ’cause of her brother.”
That stabs at me. I figured it was probably like that, but I sure as heck didn’t want Melody to know. I plunk down on her bed.
“Did she say that?” I ask.
“Of course not. She didn’t have to. Look at me.” She gestures at her body. “Before Carolina, I didn’t have any friends.”
“You talk about people at school—Taylor, and Alexa.”
“Yeah, at school. Sometimes people let me sit by them at school ’cause I’m smart. But Taylor had a pool party and invited half the class and not me. The only one who asks me to her house is Carolina, and it’s because no one likes her, either. For real, Clint. You can’t look like me and have real friends. You know that.”
It’s no use arguing. I know it’s true, and so does Mel. I say, “I bet she likes you now, once she got to know you. You’re the best.”
And even that, I know, might be a lie.
“I can’t wait to grow up,” Mel says. “I’m going to be a famous writer. Then everyone will want to be friends with me.”
I remember thinking that kind of thing too. Not about being a writer, but that I’d grow up and show them. And I have, being on the football team, popular. I am really one of the most important people at school now. At least till today. Now I’m as big an outcast as Crusan, and I didn’t even do anything major.
“It’ll be all right,” I say.
“Sure.”
When I go back to my room a few minutes later, I’m still thinking about that, about being miserable and wanting to grow up so things will be better.
I wonder if Crusan thinks that way ever. But in his case, it’s not likely to happen. I wonder what that would be like—knowing you’re not going to grow up.
Monday, 10:00 p.m., Daria’s room
DARIA
Mama isn’t
mad now.
She says good night.
Mama is
happy.
Thinks I did
a good thing.
“Daria?”
She stops
at the door.
“Yeah, Mama?”
My head
squooshes
the cold
soft
pillow.
“Are you sure,
Daria?”
“Yeah, Mama.
Sure.”
Tuesday, 12:13 a.m., Memorial Hospital
ALEX
Night is when I think about dying. That’s what I’m doing now, after midnight in the quiet hospital.
When I was first diagnosed, Mom and Dad thought it was really important for me to get my sleep. They said lights out at nine-thirty. So I’d lie in bed, thinking. During the day, you worry about school, math homework, all the normal, everyday stuff. But at night, when it’s quiet, that’s when all the thoughts you didn’t have during the day, the thoughts you didn’t let yourself have, swim up to the surface and float there so you can’t sleep.
“Pray,” Mom told me. Her answer to everything. I tried, but it didn’t help. Sometimes, I could lull myself to sleep by repeating the Lord’s Prayer over and over, but I didn’t think that was what she meant.
So I tried logic. “I feel fine,” my logical self said to me. “I could live to be a hundred,” Logical Me said. Logical Me knew all the details about my disease, all the stuff I’d studied like it was a textbook for school. All about incubation periods and aggressive treatment and people who’ve been around for years. “You’re fine,” Logical Me repeated. Finefinefine…
“Who are you kidding?” I told him. “No one else you know has to deal with this. Your T-cell count could drop to a hundred tomorrow, and you’d be gone.”
Logical Me didn’t have an answer for that.
The sucky thing about being sick is not being able to talk about how scared I am. I don’t want to worry my parents any more than they already are, so I stay quiet. Or lie about what I’m thinking, feeling. But you can lie to everyone but yourself, and that’s why I can’t sleep nights.
So finally what I started doing was, I didn’t sleep. I mean, I slept, but I’d stay up watching television or playing on the computer until I was so tired my eyes started shutting and I couldn’t help but sleep the second I hit the pillow.
I like it better that way. I don’t like to think about that time when my body won’t move anymore, and I’ll just be a thing in a box. And then I’ll be nothing at all. No one else I know thinks about that a
s their future. And I never do during the day, either. But after midnight, when there are no noises anywhere, there isn’t much else to think about.
So I’m lying here, thinking. My body feels stiff. My fingers feel like someone poured plaster through them, like they can’t move. The hospital brings the feeling closer.
Forget it. I find the remote and turn to Nick at Nite. It’s a Cosby Show rerun, where the kids find a lost puppy, and Dad lets them keep it.
I know them all.
Tuesday morning, various locations, Pinedale High School
CLINTON
“Hey, Andy. Could I copy yesterday’s assignment off you? I missed class.”
Andy looks down.
“Um, I don’t have it with me. Maybe ask Mrs. Gibson.”
“Sure.” I try and smile, even though I know Andy always has the assignments. I copy notes from him when I cut, and sometimes even when I just didn’t pay attention in class.
“Sorry, Clint,” Andy says. He turns away.
I sit. The desk by mine—Crusan’s desk—is empty. Everyone who comes in looks at his desk, then at me.
Soon my face hurts from smiling.
The same thing happens second period, and third. Even people who were completely on my side about not wanting him in school with us avoid me now.
Fourth period, Alyssa Black, who should have been my homecoming date by now, passes me a note. I unfold it like a starving cat on an anchovy pizza. I can practically feel what it would be like, having her fingers touching me.
I read it:
Sorry I didn’t say hi Mom says I can’t talk to u CU around.
A
I crush the note in my fist. My heart feels like there’s a bowling ball wedged up inside it.
At lunch I sit in my regular spot outside by the basketball courts. I’m one of the first there. I watch my friends, Andy and Brett and Mo, come in and get their lunch trays, then sit nearby, but a few feet down so I have to decide whether to move closer or sit there like an idiot. I remember that from my fat days in grade school.
I still don’t like books much. But now I wish I had one, like those brainiac kids who sit in the cafeteria reading. I always thought that was just sad. But now I wonder if maybe they’re reading to keep from doing nothing.
