My body had zero tolerance for capricious weather. Temperatures fluctuating from cold to warm offered me an unpleasant mixed drink: one part feverish headache and two parts stomach twisting nausea.
There's often a hint of anxiety mixed in too, but I can't blame the weather for that.
This made my living in Vancouver, a city known for wishy-washy weather patterns, rather difficult during some parts of the year. Today was much warmer than yesterday or the day before. And while people would enjoy this small break from the chill of fall; I laid in bed thankful the uncomfortable lump in my throat stopped the four pizza pockets I ate for dinner last night from coming back up.
Sunlight hit my face. I pulled my pillow over my head and decided I wouldn't go to school. I had done no homework, and I was sure I'd vomit if I stood up. Even if I could drag myself out of bed, I was sure I looked contagious.
A disappointed sigh escaped my lips. I wanted to talk to Rosette about Cecile, and it sucked I didn't have her number.
I spoke into my mattress: "Should've got her number.... or would it be weird if I asked?"
My door creaked open and I gruff voice called my name.
"Wake up, Scottie." my dad said.
Tall, reserved, weighing in at 90kg of what I assume is pure muscle, my dad was the no nonsense kind of guy who strived for excellence in everything he did and expected his family to do the same. That meant going to school even if the blood in your body reached boiling point.
It was as stressful as it was irritating.
I pulled the blanket over my head.
"I feel sick."
"Feeling sick isn't the same as being sick, Scottie. Get up."
"I'd argue that they are the same... but if you'd like me to rephrase: I'm sick."
"Scottie, I don't have time to fight with you."
"Then don't."
I felt that shiver people get when they say something they shouldn't to the wrong person. Before I could apologize cold air clung to my skin as my blanket was ripped right from on top of me.
"Scott. If you don't give up by the time I count to three. I will drag you out of that bed and toss you into a cold shower."
Dad spoke in that low rumbling voice he uses when he holds himself back from yelling—mom hates it when he yells.
He stared counting, I took a deep breath and got up when he hit three.
I made my way to the bathroom and heard dad mumbling something about disobedience and how he tries his best.
I sighed, shut the door before I dressing and turning on the shower.
"If nothing too stressful happens today, I'll be fine." I said as I stepped into the shower.
The water was cold.
***
My brain pounded against the walls of my skull and the contents of my stomach threatened to bubble up and spill over. I walked to my locker, like a zombie. Sluggish, dragging my feet across linoleum tiles with every step.
My vision blurred, and I took three tries to get my locker open. I glanced at my schedule. History presented an opportunity to sleep. Well, all my classes did; but I'd be less likely to get caught in history.
I placed my textbook in my bag and slung it over my shoulder. I might as well've thrown a bag of rocks over my shoulder. My sinews tore as I trudged through the hall. Walking to Mr. Cuffington's room took twice as long. The hall elongated with each step and my legs felt heavy. I Imagined lead balls attached to each of my feet.
The metal doorknob was ice against my skin; so cold it almost burned. I took a deep breath and ran a hand through my hair. It came out wet.
At this point I confirmed that I was in fact sick, or sicker than I thought I was this morning. I wasn't sure if I'd feel better if I'd stayed home or if coming to school somehow aggravated whatever illness I had. All I knew was I felt disgusting and I would feel disgusting all day.
The only solace I found was that Cecile was in Mr. Cuffington's class too. Now, my life isn't a fantasy romance YA novel, so I knew seeing Cecile's lovely face wouldn't heal whatever ailment plagued me. Still, I preferred the pleasant, airy feeling that filled my stomach when I saw her to abdominal pain and nausea.
Mr. Cuffington wasn't in class yet, consequently a discordant chorus of murmurs laced the air. Each individual voice became a spike which pierced my brain, and I felt like telling everyone shut up—or at least speak a little quieter.
I saw Cecile sitting at her desk. She wasn't doing much, just sharpening a pencil. She always kept a red pen, a blue pen, an eraser, and a freshly sharpened on the top right-hand corner of her desk. It was one of those little things she did that most people, including herself, thought mundane and insignificant. And they were, yet they still mesmerized and intrigued me. It was just so cute to see her organizing her writing utensils whist the rest of the class fall into chaos.
Cecile looked up and her eyes caught mine. Even with my fever, I felt the back of my ears burn.
Oh shit. She's looking at me looking at her. This is why we have the three second staring rule. Great, now she thinks I'm creepy.
I had no reason to think this, especially when she smiled and waved at me. But my mind's a bear trap. It latches on to any passing thought and refuses to let go.
Which is helpful in remembering good ideas, and detrimental in every other scenario.
I waved back and tried my best to contort my lips into something that resembled a smile. Cecile got up from her chair and walked over. By the time she reached me my back pressed against the door behind me.
I felt trapped between the door and the mortifying possibly of me saying and doing something stupid. There was a respectable distance between us, but I could still smell her perfume. I didn't know what scent it was exactly—it was a light girly scent that made my head spin.
Preoccupied with her scent, I almost didn't hear Cecile speak.
"Hey."
I swallowed and scratched the back of my neck.
"H-hey..."
"Are you okay? You look like death punched you in the face."
I nodded.
"Yeah. I'm don't feel—I'm sick... my dad forced me to come to school... today."
There was a random chuckle somewhere in the middle of my sentence.
Cecile grimaced and sucked her teeth. When she spoke her voice was light and sympathetic.
"That sucks. My mom does that all the time. Does your dad ever tell you to drink water when you're sick as if that will magically cure you?"
I nodded again. This time faster and with more enthusiasm.
"Yeah! He also tells me I get sick because I'm on my phone too much or whatever."
Cecile laughed and my heart pounded against my rib cage. Our conversation was short, dumb and meant nothing, but I didn't care. We stood in a classroom full of people talking, laughing, and just making noise, but I heard every word Cecile said.
I swooned over everything. From sentences to syllables to the tiniest inflections.
Cecile opened her mouth to say something, but the warning bell drowned out her sweet voice. When I asked her to repeat herself, my stomach turned painfully. I held my abdomen with one hand and covered my mouth with the other.
"Uh. Scott... you okay?" Cecile asked.
I responded by hunching over the little black garbage can by the door. The repulsive sound of my retching silenced the whole class. While I spat the remaining vomit in my mouth into the garbage can, the door opened.
A monotone voice broke the quiet.
"All right, everyone sit down. Morning announcements will start—"
Mr. Cuffington started at me. I stared back before vomiting into his trash can again.
"... Everyone to your seats now. Front, back wherever I don't care."
I heard shuffling, murmurs and the distinct squeak of Mr. Cuffington's shrivel chair.
Finally he focused his attention on me.
"Okay, Scott what do you need? Should I call your mom or something? Did—did you just need to throw up?"
I groaned.
Just let me die here please.
Mr.Cuffington slid his chair across to where the phone was.
"I'll just call your mom."