I felt awful. Inside and out. The bathroom stunk and my knees hurt from being on concrete for five straight minutes as I emptied my stomach. So much for that hotdog. And my apple. And my banana.
Knocking sounded on the stall door. "Jake?" A deep voice questioned. "It's Zeke. Is this the stall you're in?"
I didn't answer with words, just with actions. From my knees, I unlocked the door and went back to spitting in the toilet.
"Want to talk about it?" He asked, towering above me.
I shook my head.
He squatted so we could see each other's face. "You know, if you don't talk about it, you're not going to get better. You'll just get sick like this all the time. Is that what you want? To throw up every week?" He pulled out a water bottle from his pocket. "Here. Rinse your mouth first and then you can tell me what upsets you so much that you have to waste my two dollar hotdog."
