7 Days at the Hot Corner Read Free Page A

it.
    â€œYou just want to play it safe?” Dorothy asks.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “I mean, even the trainers on our baseball team wear rubber gloves when they wrap ankles or wrists, and that isn’t even about blood, right? But they’re still being careful. Plus I have other reasons to be worried, and my team is on a run at the city championship—it’s the most important thing ever.... I just can’t be distracted by this thing right now. I hope to someday get drafted to play pro ball and …” I don’t finish this sentence. I feel stupid even saying it, as the chance of my getting a call from the pros is probably slim or none.
    Dorothy looks a little confused by my rambling explanation, but at least she doesn’t ask me about the “other reasons.” Instead she questions me some more about the blood at the batting cages, and I explain about it again.
    She asks, “May I examine your hands, please?”
    I hold out my hands, sweaty palms up. Wearing white plastic gloves, she turns my hands over and stares at them intently. “You bite your nails a bit, huh?”
    My head reels again, and I feel even more dizzy than I did earlier, out in the foyer. The room begins to spin. I drop my head down between my knees to keep from passing out and falling off the chair.
    â€œWhoa!” Dorothy says, putting her hands on my shoulders and steadying me. “You all right?”
    I mutter, “No.”
    Blood to blood! My raw skin where I bite my nails and Travis’s blood all over my hands! Sweat runs down from each of my armpits and a sheen of it covers my face. My mind screams: AIDS! AIDS! AIDS! AIDS!
    â€œBreathe deeply now.” Dorothy’s voice calls to me from somewhere. “Steady, easy, breathe deeply. Come on, you’re going to be fine, take it easy.”
    I follow her directions, and soon the room stops spinning. I sit back up in my chair.
    â€œI’m a dead man,” I say.
    â€œNot at all,” Dorothy responds. “That’s not true at all.” She pauses until I look at her.
    She says, “Even if your friend is HIV positive, which we have no reason to believe he is, especially given his age and how little we know about his sexual history—even if your friend is sexually active, there’s no reason to assume that he’s infected. You don’t get HIV just by being sexual. You may get it by having unsafe sex with someone who has the virus.”
    â€œ May ?” I ask. “I thought you definitely got it by doing that.”
    â€œThat’s not accurate,” Dorothy says, her voice calm and reassuring. “Many people, not knowing that their partners were HIV positive, have had unprotected sex with those infected partners for years without contracting the virus at all. Based on what you’ve told me about your history, you have a very low risk factor. I wouldn’t even recommend an HIV test for you at this time.”
    â€œWhat?” I can’t believe she is serious. “What about my fingernails? What about all that blood?”
    â€œI can see how worried you are,” Dorothy answers softly. “If you want to have an HIV screening, I’d be glad to do the procedure. If you think it would make you feel better, I’m glad to help.”
    â€œYeah,” I answer. “I don’t wanna keep worrying about it.”
    Dorothy smiles again and says, “Okay, roll up your right sleeve.”
    The procedure is no big deal. Just a regular blood test, I guess. I look in the other direction, not wanting to see the needle go into my arm. Dorothy must have done millions of these, because I don’t even feel it. I honestly don’t even know she’s stuck me until several seconds after she’s finished, when she says, “Okay, that’s it.”
    â€œYou’re done?” I ask. “I didn’t even know you’d started.”
    She smiles.
    Settling back in