Mom couldn't pick me up right away and said she'd came at around noon. While I waited in the office, the secretary glanced at me constantly; almost to say: "please don't throw up in here". I didn't think less of her for doing so. I felt like I could throw up again and the thick, chemical smell of artificial lemons from the air freshener she baptized the room in wasn't helping.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my sketchbook. It's spine, reinforced with duct tape, was weak from constant opening and closing. I liked to dog ear a page when I finished a drawing or filled the page with doodles.
I picked up that habit from my dad. Despite his brutish appearance, Dad had an affinity for literature. He'd often read to me hoping to carry that affinity over—it didn't. While I enjoyed the stories being read I never felt compelled to read them again or find something new. I've never been the type to read for sake of doing so. It took eye catching cover art and an enthralling synopsis to get my nose between the pages of a book—sometimes that wasn't even enough.
But I noticed Dad would dog ear a page after he'd finish reading it and I stared doing the same with my sketchbooks. Not sure why.
Tiny triangles adorned the corners of most of the yellowed pages. I flipped through until I came to a blank page. I pulled out a mechanical pencil and got busy.
Normally, I think about what I want to draw before putting my pencil to paper, but sometimes I let my mind and my pencil wander. This was one of those times. I suppose I was drawing my mood, but I couldn't be sure.
Soon, boys spitting up tear soaked petals, girls with flowers blooming from an eye socket, and skeletons handing out bouquets filled my page.
Maybe I felt like drawing flowers. I thought as the office door creaked open and a harsh, yet sweet scent overpowered the air.
"Sit over there," said the secretary.
I looked up, surprised when I say Rosette walking to the seat next to me.
She smiled.
"Hey."
"H-hey," I stuttered.
"You okay?"
I nodded.
"You heard about this morning?" I asked.
"Yeah. It's a small school, news travels fast. Must've been embarrassing, throwing up on Mr. Cuffington."
I grimaced.
Is that what people are saying?
"I didn't throw up on Mr. Cuffington."
Rosette shrugged.
"I said news travels fast, not accurately."
She sat in the chair next to me.
"Waiting for your mom?"
"Yeah. She should be here any minute. What brings you here?"
She held up a slightly crumpled slip of green paper.
"I skipped first block unexcused."
I raised an eyebrow.
"They don't give lunchtime detention for that."
"They do if you do it three times in a row," Rosette said. There was an air of superiority in her voice.
She could tell from my wide eyes that I was impressed. I felt guilty when I missed the first bell, skipping an entire class had always been something I thought of but never acted on.
"What did you do?" I asked. Rosette fascinated me and I wanted to get in inside look into her day—her world.
"Got some breakfast and strolled through the park for a bit. Did some bird watching too—blue jays are still around so that's nice. It's not super exciting, but sure beats going to chemistry."
She hates chemistry too. Cool.
"Was it... worth it?"
"Well, even though I got in trouble I still had a nice morning so I'd say yeah. Then again, I'd prefer it if I didn't get caught... but that's just me wanting to have my cake and eat it too."
Rosette's eyes lit up.
"Hey. You should come with me sometime. It'll be fun."
"Y-yeah. We should do that."
"But I should play nice for a few weeks. Teachers kind of expect you to stop doing something when you get detention. When people give you a slap on the wrist, you need to pretend it actually worked. That way, when you do something bad again, they'll think you've slipped up."
Rosette leaned back in her chair.
"And people are a lot more willing to forgive a slip up than they are—what does the school handbook call it—'willful disobedience'."
I stared at Rosette wide eyed, tempted to take notes.
Rosette giggled.
"I'm gonna be honest. Low key, I feel like I'm corrupting you."
With a half smile I asked, "Corrupting me?"
"You seem like the good boy type who's never done anything bad in his whole life."
Rosette sighed and feigned disappointment.
"Nah. It's best if you don't get mixed up with someone like me. I'm too far gone, but you—you should keep to the ol' straight and narrow."
I set my pencil down.
"Straight and narrow's boring. What you're doing sounds a lot more fun."
Rosette smiled as if she expected me to say just that.
"All right. Don't say I didn't warn you," she said with a melodramatic sigh.
We laughed a little too loud, and the secretary turned around and shushed us. We sat ridged with straight faces until she turned around again. Then we laughed more this time covering our mouths.
After the two of us regained our composure, Rosette's eye's wander to my sketchbook.
"I've told you this before, and I'm sure you already know this, but you're fantastic at drawing. It's like studio ghibli and Michelangelo's Sixteen Chapel had an adorable baby.
The uncomfortable heat of my fever still spread across my skin, but Rosette's compliment lit up my neck and ears.
"W-wow.. um.. thanks."
I noticed Rosette's eyes were glued to my drawing of a boy spitting up flowers.
"You can have the page."
Rosette shook her head.
"No, no. It's fine."
"No worries." I ripped the page out of the book careful not to tear it.
"These are doodles, I don't need them for anything."
I handed Rosette the piece of paper. She held it gingerly, like it'd break if she wasn't carful.
"You sure?" She asked.
I nodded.
"All yours."
Rosette smiled, not her usual smug, I'm-low-key-smarter-than you-smile. A genuine happy smile. Reminded me of the look little kids at Christmas.
It felt surreal to see someone who wasn't my mom mesmerized by something I'd drawn. Then again, I rarely showed people my drawings. But Rosette had already seen art of mine in the letter she read, so hiding my sketchbook from her seemed silly.
"Have you heard of Hanahaki Disease?" Rosette asked, not looking up from the paper.
"Uh.. no." I said.
"Huh. I thought you would since you drew—well, it's a fictional disease. Basically, when someone has unrequited feelings for someone flowers grow in their lungs, and they cough them out."
"That sounds horrifying."
"It think so too. The only way to stop it is to have your feelings returned, or die. You get them removed via surgery, but if you do, you'll lose your feelings for your crush. Supposedly that's the worst one."
"Well, that's sad. Having someone you love not love you back is painful enough. I think it might be real. I mean the flowers might be a metaphor or used for symbolism, but the other symptoms are real. Pain, debating on whether you should let the person go or not. I think I might have it."
Rosette looked up and shook her head.
"I don't think you have it yet. Unrequited love is hopeless. There's hope for you and Cecile."
"You think so?"
"You can't write beautiful, poetic letters to a girl and not end up with her. If you and Cecile don't get together, then... I'll guess I'll be right about thinking love is horseshit."
She leaned back in her chair a few strands of curly dark hair fell over her face.
"I'm right about a lot of things." She said.
"I don't want to be right about that."
I shut my sketchbook and slid it into my bag.
"Well, for both our sakes let's hope you're wrong." I chuckled to lighten our moods. It worked a little, Rosette laughed too.
"What would you do if you had Hanahaki?" I asked.
Rosette drummed her fingers against her chin. The door creaked open again before she could answer.
"Scottie?" Mom called as walked into the room.
"Looks like you ride's here." Rosette sighed.
I sighed too. Happy I'd get to home and lay down, but disappointed I wouldn't hear Rosette's answer.
I waved goodbye and stood up to leave, but Rosette stopped me.
"Wait, Scott."
I looked back at her. She held up her cellphone.
"Here, out your number in my phone."