April Showers7

A few weeks later
April 29

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I was alone in the loft, drifting around it like some kind of spirit. I didn't know what to do. The nurse at the neighborhood clinic had been moderately friendly when Leila and I went for testing two weeks ago. She scowled at the tracks on our arms, but conceded that at least we were intelligent enough to be tested. I told her that she ought to be thankful, it was so easy to find a vein from which to draw blood. After it was all done, she told us to call back in a week, and find out if our results were back from the lab.

Leila did call, three days ago. They told her to come in, and some doctor informed her that she had turned up negative. She was so ecstatic, she hugged him, and proceeded to ignore his advice to quit drugs. On the phone with me that night, she never shut up about how happy and relieved she was, and that I should get my results back, too.

But I was too scared to pick up the phone and call the clinic.

So here I was, alone at 5:30 PM on a Thursday afternoon, wandering around the apartment, unable to sit still. My hands were a little shaky, but not too bad. I could hold out until Roger got home before shooting up, anyway. I hated getting high alone.

I hated keeping Casey's condition a secret from our party group. Including Roger. Casey wouldn't let us, and I was afraid of causing some sort of mass panic. Frankly, I just didn't know what to do. When you got right down to it, I was just tired. Bone-tired. I didn't want this.

I didn't want to know my results.

My birthday's tomorrow, I suddenly realized. I'm gonna be nineteen. Just nineteen. But old for my age. Just born to be bad. Still pacing through the living room, I wondered if anyone else ever felt this way, or if I was completely alone.

Not quite alone, I thought wryly, as the front door opened, and Mark stepped through.

My face fell as he entered. No way around it, he and I just don't get along.

He frowned slightly when I resumed pacing. What are you doing? he asked.

What does it look like? I responded testily. Just go away, Mark, I thought at him.

Telepathy doesn't really exist, after all. He plopped down on the couch. You're making me dizzy, he said matter-of-factly. Just sit down, for God's sake.

If you don't like it, you can leave, I informed him, a little nastily. I was not in the mood to play nice with Mark. It's not like he ever makes the effort to be civil in return.

Coolly, he pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. I lived here first, he reminded me.

I threw up my hands. I spat. My irritation was escalating unreasonably. I wanted to slap that smug look off the filmmaker's face. Glancing at my hands, I saw that they were shaking even worse than before. I turned to the bathroom, where the needle gleamed enticingly in my mind's eye. Just one shot, just to calm me down, so I don't fly off the handle, I thought.

But Mark was suddenly standing directly behind me, arms folded. Need a fix? he asked, almost tauntingly. The small rational part of my mind wondered what had happened with Maureen today, to make him so eager to exact some petty revenge on me, instead. You're sweating, he added. I didn't know I made you so nervous.

I fought to restrain myself from strangling him. No, I don't need a fix, I gasped out. I just want one. Deal with it.

In the next instant, his hands were gripping my shoulders, and he was shaking me. I should have been able to shake him off -- I was his height, and just as strong -- but I was too surprised to react. Look at yourself! he practically shouted. You and Roger are turning into ghosts! Drugs, drugs, drugs, that's all you care about! Your stupid heroin! He released me, but didn't relax his intensity. You are killing yourself, he hissed. Ever taken a look in a mirror lately? You look like crap. You had already started using when I met you back last July, but believe me, you didn't look it. You were young, pretty, independent. So was your boyfriend. And now you are slaves to your precious smack. He took a step back, breathing heavily. You don't even care about living anymore, he said quietly, bitterly. And Roger's a fucking shadow.

I closed my eyes tightly, trying to block him out, searching frantically through my addled brain for something to throw back at him. I found a wisp, and snatched it. My eyes flew open again.

You blame me, I growled. Ever since I showed up, you've used me as your fucking scapegoat. You've blamed me for Roger's drug use. You blame me cause he's turned into a junkie. Well, why not? I'm just another damn junkie too, right? It makes sense, right? I threw words around wildly, advancing on him slowly. You love hiding from the truth, don't you Marky? You know that Roger had been using long before I ever came into the picture. You recognized the signs immediately. But you pretended it wasn't happening. That everything was just swell. Lucky I showed up just as his signs were becoming evident to others, you could dump it all on me. I lowered my voice tauntingly. That new girlfriend of Roger's, she's bad news. She's a bad influence. She's convincing him to get high with her.' You son of a bitch. I stopped, nose inches from his. He still met my eyes defiantly. You noticed from the very moment he started, I whispered. That's what you do, observe. Especially your best friend. And if you honestly thought it started with me, then what kind of lousy excuse for a best friend are you?

Finally, finally, I had struck a chord with him. He drew back, eyes filled with hurt. But he had struck home in me, too. He was right. His words echoed in my head, ringing with truth. What was I doing to myself? And Roger, the one man I had ever thought I cared about -- he was just as much of an empty shell as I was, and I was only furthering his destruction.

Losing the rush of my anger, my energy level crashed. I crumpled to the floor, crying.

To my surprise, Mark rushed over to me. April, please, oh my God, April, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, he babbled, putting his arms around me and holding me tightly. Shhhh, it's all right, it's my fault, I'm sorry. Please, just calm down, don't let Roger see you like this, he'll kill me. I buried my face into his sweater, dampening it with my tears. Slowly, I pulled myself together, and stopped sobbing. Mark kept holding me, murmuring apologies, as I gradually calmed.

Finally, I was done. Mark gently helped me to my feet, still gripping me tightly. His eyes met mine, worried and a little frightened. I managed a small, watery smile. Thank you, I whispered, for telling me the truth.

He blushed slightly. Yeah, you too, he muttered. He didn't release me.

I knew what I had to do now. Gently, I loosened myself out of his grip. Excuse me, I said. I have to make a call. He let me go, dropping his arms to his sides, watching me. Abruptly, I turned back and asked, Can you get AIDS from a kiss?

He shook his head no, a little confused at the question. I smiled, leaned toward him, and kissed him softly on the mouth. He made no move to resist, leaning into it himself. After a few moments, I broke it off. Thank you, I whispered again. His eyes followed me, a little dazed, as I walked over to the phone and dialed the clinic.

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just....one...more.... thanks for sticking with it! keep reviewing, please, pretty pretty please with a raspberry on top? (i don't like cherries)