by Dakota Chase
In my room, I flicked on the light and booted up my computer. I wasn’t entirely sure where to start, staring for a while at the blank search bar on the Google screen. Finally, I typed in “purposely infected with HIV” and hit enter.
The first item on the list of results read, “Bug-chasers.” The next five results were the same. Are they kidding? I thought. Stupid Google. Here I am, trying to research a serious topic like HIV, and I get an ad for exterminators? I grunted, re-worded the search, and hit enter again.
I got the same results. I sighed, clicking on the first result, expecting to get a page about roaches, ants, and mosquitoes.
I didn’t.
It was an article that had appeared in The Advocate, a GLBT news magazine. I started reading and didn’t stop for nearly two hours, finishing that article and moving on to the next on the Google list.
What I learned scared the crap out of me.
Bug-chasers were guys, like Billy, who purposely wanted to get infected with the virus, or “bug.” According to these articles, some guys were misinformed, thinking that, because of the advances in drugs to treat HIV, it was curable and could be kept from developing into full-blown AIDS.
I clicked on another site and kept reading. I think in the back of my mind I was hoping to find something, anything, to help me understand Billy’s decision, something I’d missed or didn’t know. Something that would make me feel better about it, at least, but I didn’t. All I found was site after site saying the same thing. There was no vaccine. No drugs to keep the virus from progressing. The drugs they did have were really expensive, and the side effects could kill you. The virus could mutate, like in a freakin’ sci-fi movie, into a strain that the drugs couldn’t help. The more I read, the more worried I got about Billy, and the more I didn’t understand him at all.
According to what I read, some guys, again like Billy, thought becoming infected was unavoidable for gay men.
I kept reading. Condoms prevent pregnancy, but they also do prevent infection. Okay, even I knew that. I mean, there’s a reason they call it “safe” sex right? All those ads and commercials are not just blowing smoke out of their butts. They speak the truth.
The article said some people think that if their partner is infected, they should be too, or that getting the virus would make them closer to the one who had tested positive.
That didn’t make any sense to me at all. Two sick people wouldn’t make dying any easier on either of them! It would only make things worse. Plus, if a guy really loved you, he wouldn’t want to make you sick, right? The more I read, the more confused I felt and the angrier I got at Billy.
I got up, went to the fridge, and swiped another Coke, careful not to wake Doug. Then again, nothing I did would have woken him; he was passed out cold. I probably could’ve screamed in his ear and he wouldn’t have blinked an eye.
The cold soda cooled my throat but not my temper. I was really pissed, mostly because I couldn’t understand how Billy could be so stupid. He was a smart kid. His grades were good, better than mine. I couldn’t wrap my head around his reasoning, and it was driving me nuts.
Slamming the Coke down on my desk, I clicked the mouse on yet another site, then another. I read until my eyes burned.
The articles agreed most bug-chasers had low self-esteem, and were sometimes depressed and self-destructive. That didn’t sound like Billy to me. Billy always seemed so confident, so sure of himself. He never cared about what anyone thought.
Some were into drugs or alcohol. Billy didn’t do drugs. He didn’t drink. He would have told me if he did, right? Friends told friends stuff like that.
Others didn’t see the danger in what they were doing. In my opinion, they weren’t just playing with fire—they were playing with a nuclear bomb that, sooner or later, was going to explode, destroying them. Billy was smarter than that… at least, that’s what I’d always thought. Now, I wasn’t so sure. God, it was all too confusing.
There were other reasons too, from being so paranoid about getting HIV that the guy felt it was better to just “get it over with,” to getting a cheap thrill out of the danger of the possibility of being infected, to being so lonely they try to become infected to be “accepted” by others who are already HIV positive. It’s sad, I thought. It’s sad, and it’s freaking scary. None of what I read seemed to apply to the Billy I knew.
Worse even than the bug-chasers, in my opinion, were men who were called the “gift-givers.” These were guys who are HIV-positive, know it, and don’t act responsibly when they have sex. I immediately thought of Robbie. Was he one of these guys? Didn’t he care at all about Billy? They call the virus “the gift,” and give it to whoever asks for it. Some freaking gift, I thought. Sometimes they do it without telling their partner, which, as I found out in one article, is a criminal offense in the United States and other countries. That was one of the few things I read that made sense to me, since giving someone HIV on purpose was no different than putting a bullet in their head; it was just a slower bullet that killed over time instead of instantly.
There were other articles, ones that seemed to support the bug-chaser’s freedom to choose to have unsafe sex, or to become infected. I couldn’t make sense of them. I just couldn’t see the difference between that and suicide.
I finally shut down my computer, unable to read another word.
Sitting alone in my room, two empty Coke cans at my elbow, I glanced over at my guitar and remembered the hours Billy and I had spent rocking out to Guitar Hero. It suddenly seemed like a million years ago.
I thought about Billy. Fun-loving, out-and-proud Billy, who’d hadn’t cared what other people thought of him and who did what he wanted, when he wanted. I’d always thought he was so self-assured, so comfortable in his own skin. I’d wanted to be just like him. Maybe I’d been too close to him to see what he was really doing all along. Maybe I hadn’t wanted to see it.
Now I felt like I was on the outside looking in, and the picture I was seeing wasn’t the same one at all. Suddenly, Billy looked like a stranger to me, somebody I didn’t know at all. He was spoiled and self-centered. It always had to be about him, because he was the only one he really cared about. The only one who mattered. I felt like the only reason he hung out with me was for the attention he could get from me, and that made me mad too.
There was no denying Billy hadn’t been good for me. He had. He’d been there for me, listened to me, accepted me without blinking. But as I looked back on our friendship and all the times he’d made light of my feelings or steered the conversation back to himself, I realized he’d always been an attention hog. I’d just chosen not to see it.
I guess I’d been a pretty lonely guy myself. Maybe if I hadn’t been so absorbed in my own life, Billy wouldn’t be in the situation he was in. Guilt settled over me like a heavy, suffocating blanket. It wasn’t fair. I was a piss-poor friend.
Now I had Dylan, and maybe a chance at the love Billy had wanted so badly.
If Billy had been successful in his hunt for the virus, he had no one except for a deadly little bug that would be with him for the rest of his life.
He was only seventeen years old.
I broke down again, and this time, Dylan wasn’t there to comfort me.
I’D TOSSED and turned all night, unable to sleep. Billy’s face haunted me; again and again I heard him yell at me to get out of his hospital room. I felt like I didn’t even know him anymore, like maybe I’d never really known him at all.
He was a stranger wearing a friend’s face.
Outside, the sky was gray and gloomy. Rain was in the forecast for that afternoon, but I wondered if it would hold off until then. It looked as though it was going to pour any minute.
At school, I hesitated to seek out Dylan. What we had together was so new and fragile I was afraid to talk to him, scared to be seen with him in public. What would I do if he ignored me or, worse, got angry with me? I didn’t want to give his friends the “wrong” idea about us. I felt l
ike I was walking on eggshells.
I spotted him leaning against the wall of the school near the basketball court. He looked great in his jeans and gray, open-throated, button down shirt. I could see the tip of his undershirt peeking at the neckline, startlingly white against his tanned skin.
He was laughing at something one of his friends had said, deep dimples showing in his cheeks. I remembered touching those cheeks when we’d kissed, his five o’clock shadow prickly against the palm of my hand. Dylan’s eyes flicked in my direction and a shadow passed over them. Great, I thought, turning away. He doesn’t want to talk to me in public. I could understand it, but I really needed him, especially after last night. I wanted to share the information I’d found online and talk about it with him, try to make sense of it. I turned away, walking toward the picnic tables outside of the cafeteria.
“Hey, Jamie! Hold up!”
I stopped and looked back over my shoulder. Dylan was jogging toward me, his heavy backpack dangling by the strap in one hand. I felt a huge sense of relief as I waited for him to catch up to me.
“You look like crap,” he said. His turquoise eyes looked troubled, worried even. He was worried about me? Did that mean he cared? I felt an inexplicable bubble of happiness displace some of the misery I’d been wallowing in.
“I couldn’t sleep. Do you have time to talk before class?” I asked. My eyes darted toward the group of his friends so he would know my question really was “Can you talk before class while your buddies are watching?”
His eyes followed mine. “You worry too much,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “As far as they’re concerned, we’re talking about English IV. Hamlet, remember?” His easy grin returned, and he winked. “Let’s sit down.”
I nodded. “Yeah, English. Okay.” I followed him, sitting across from him at one of the picnic tables. To complete the illusion, I pulled a notebook and the English IV textbook out of my backpack, opening it to a random page. “I surfed the web last night, Dylan. You won’t believe what I found out.” For the next five minutes, my gums flapped without stopping, telling him everything I could remember about what I’d read.
By the time I was done, I was near tears again and he looked angry. I could see his muscles bunched under the sleeves of his shirt, and his eyebrows nearly met in a fierce scowl.
“He did this to himself, Jamie. Don’t you dare make it your fault! You didn’t put the idea in his head, did you? You didn’t hook him up with Robbie, or drive him to that party.”
“I know, I know, but I should have seen that something was wrong, Dylan. I should have known!”
“Bullshit. You were supposed to be his best friend, but he didn’t trust you enough to tell you about it. Why?”
“He said I wouldn’t understand. He was right. I don’t,” I said miserably.
“No. He was afraid you’d try to stop him, Jamie! That’s why he lied to you. That’s why he didn’t tell you. Because he knew you’d never let him do it.”
“I’m not his father, Dylan. I couldn’t have stopped him.”
“Maybe not. But you would have tried. You would have done the research earlier, and when you found out what you know now, you’d have lectured him, nagged at him, argued with him. You would have at least made the attempt. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want somebody slapping him in the face with the consequences of what he was doing, wrecking his little fantasy.”
“I guess.”
“Look, we don’t even know if he’s positive. Let’s go back to the hospital after practice today, okay? We can talk to him again.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Dylan.”
“Hey, that’s what boyfriends are for, right?”
Wow. That was last thing I’d expected him to say, and it floored me. It was weird hearing him say boyfriend. Nice, but weird… wonderful, but weird. I smiled a goofy kind of grin, feeling my cheeks heat up hot enough to grill burgers.
I officially had a boyfriend.
The day seemed a lot brighter after that.
Chapter Twelve
I STILL didn’t want to hit the showers with the guys, even though Dylan had officially declared himself my boyfriend. Actually, I didn’t want to shower with them more than ever, because of Dylan’s and my new relationship. I didn’t trust my body not to betray me. I just knew if I saw him naked, I’d pop a boner and it would be all over. Sometimes there wasn’t enough cold water on the planet, you know?
Keeping to my usual routine wasn’t easy. I wanted to be with Dylan but knew it was too dangerous, so I dawdled outside, waiting until the team—including Dylan—had finished before I showered. Dressing as quickly as I could, I met up with Dylan in the parking lot. By the time I got there, everyone else had gone.
“Where were you?” Dylan asked as I scooted into the passenger seat of the Mustang. “I turned around after practice and you were gone.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t shower with the guys.”
“I have noticed, actually. Why not?”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Why do you think? Naked guys equal problems that would get noticed, and I don’t want to have that particular conversation with the coach.”
Dylan snorted. “Oh. Yeah, I know exactly what you’re talking about.” His eyes darted toward me, and he grinned. “Did you ever look at me in the shower?”
“Please. Be serious—and watch the road! I’d rather not spend the afternoon being scraped off the pavement by the EMTs.”
“I looked at you.”
My cheeks started burning again. I knew he’d seen me naked; he’d whipped my butt with a towel the last time we were in the showers. I didn’t realize he’d looked at me as more than just one of the guys. I was suddenly extremely curious as to whether he liked what he saw—not that I had the nerve to ask him.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah? Well, maybe I peeked at you a few times too.”
“Did you like what you saw?”
“Dylan!”
“Well, did you?”
“Quit fishing for compliments.”
“I liked what I saw,” he said. He was grinning widely, even though his eyes were on the road. Good thing too, because I had to shift in my seat, having developed a problem that made my jeans uncomfortably tight. “Especially after I ripped off your towel. Why did you decide to shower with a towel on anyway? Seems like kind of an odd thing to do….” He spared me a quick look that told me he already knew the answer.
“Perv,” I said, not quite sure of what else to say. Thanks? Wanna see it again?
“Takes one to know one.”
“Oh, now you’ve wounded me,” I said sarcastically. “Give a guy some warning before you turn that sharp wit of yours loose on him. What’s next? I know you are, but what am I? I’m rubber, you’re glue, bounces off me and sticks to you?”
Dylan laughed. “Maybe.”
He sobered after a few minutes, a frown wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows. “I’m not sure if I like hiding, Jamie. I’m not very good at it. I mean, it was one thing when I wasn’t sure about myself, but now we’re together. I don’t like not being with you at school. I hate not being able to talk to you without excuses. I don’t like you walking ten paces behind me so no one will notice we’re together.”
“What are you saying? You want to come out?” I asked, shaking my head.
“Maybe.”
“Do you know the kinds of problems we’d run into? Once you come out you can’t go back into the closet, Dylan. Besides, we’ve only officially been together for less than twenty-four hours. I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”
“Believe me, I’ve done nothing but think about it. Want to know what I’ve been thinking about in particular?”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking that prom’s coming up.” He glanced at me again, and there was no laughter in his eyes, no smile. He was dead serious.
“You’re asking me to prom?” I gasped, gaping at him. That was the last thing I’d expected him to
bring up.
“What? Should I be down on one knee or something?”
I swore, then laughed and leaned my head back against the seat. “I’ve created a monster,” I said to the roof of the car.
“I’m not going if I can’t take you. I mean it, Jamie.”
“Dylan….”
“I’m serious, Jamie. We only get one prom, and I want to go with you.”
I felt that toasty, warm-oatmeal feeling again and couldn’t help but smile. I wanted to scream “Yes!” and start picking out tuxes and boutonnieres, but somebody had to keep a level head. “Look, we have two months until then. Let’s get through the SATs and this crap with Billy, and see where we are then. You may not even like being my boyfriend,” I said, being truthful even though the words drained the warm fuzzies right out of me. I would hate it if Dylan dumped me, but I had to face facts: Dylan was the Super Bowl, while I was strictly Little League. Sooner or later, he was going to find that out for himself. “You may find out you don’t like guys, or find somebody you like better than me.”
“I think that’s a moot point, Jamie. I already said I like you, and last night I couldn’t sleep because I had such a hard—”
“Please!” I said, putting my fingers in my ears, “Do not give me the mental image I think you’re about to give me. Have some pity, Dylan.”
“Jamie, has anyone ever told you that you’re a real downer?”
Yeah. Billy had, all the time. He’d been right too. “We haven’t even been on a date yet!”
“We went to the park,” Dylan countered. “Yeah, you were upset, but the night ended pretty nicely.” His grin told me he was remembering our kiss. My belly warmed thinking about it, and I had to shift in my seat—again.
“I know, but that wasn’t a real date. Let’s just take it one step at a time, okay? Coming out is a big decision.”