Gwen
“Two days, Mom,” I say over the phone. “I’m sure I’ll be all better by then. I’ll be home with plenty of time to help get ready for Thanksgiving.”
My mom’s sigh is full of static and worry. “I just hate you being there all alone like this.”
“I shouldn’t be around anyone right now, anyway.” I straighten the quilt over my legs, fighting a shiver at my chill. “The nurse says it’s just a nasty, and very contagious, virus. It’s been going around for a few weeks. I really don’t want to get the twins sick, especially with Micha’s show coming up. I can order food, have it delivered here, and just rest up.”
I hate being sick, but it doesn’t happen to me often. The respite is almost a welcomed gift. With the help of my teachers and dorm advisor I’ve managed to keep up with my schoolwork, so I don’t even have to spend the downtime feeling guilty and anxious. I’ve made myself a comfortable nest of blankets on my bed, laptop open beside me, and spend most of my time sleeping.
My mom says, “I know you like to be independent. It’s one of the things I admire most about you. But I want you to know, it’s okay to let someone take care of you.”
“I will,” I promise, hunkering back down into my blanket nest. “In two days. You know Micha would kill me if he got sick before his performance.”
She laughs. “No, you’re right about that. He’s been absolutely off the rails this past week, as it is. But if you need anything—”
I reassure her over and over again, growing tired but more and more determined. Especially after the incident in the hallway during the fire, my mom has been particularly attentive. She’d had a long talk with the dean right after it happened, but I wasn’t privy to more than his strained, pale face when they left his office. I still remember the complicated look my mom had given me, something both concerned and scarily protective, and I knew instinctively that she’d threatened to sue the school into the ground if anything like this happened again.
Preston Prep is definitely on her shit list.
It takes a few more minutes until she relents. “You order whatever you need, you hear? Soup, more blankets, junk food, anything. Charge it to the credit card, go nuts.”
“I promise to be financially reckless,” I oblige, finally hanging up.
It’s Saturday morning, and by the time late afternoon rolls around, most of the campus will be gone for the break. A few students always hang around, so the dormitories are still technically open. Faculty will still be here. It’s not a big deal for me to rest and recover in the safety and comfort of my room.
I’ve been in bed since Friday morning. Sometime after second period, I started to feel worse—lightheaded, and feverishly hot. I remember trudging up the stairs to my dorm to change, and not much else. Not until I awoke to Hamilton’s worried voice.
I wish I didn’t remember what happened next; Hamilton bent over me, picking me up off the floor, and putting me to bed. I cringe at the hazy memory of me pitifully asking him to help me with my pajamas. Almost begging, really. I blame the fever, one hundred percent.
He vanished after calling the nurse and I haven’t seen him since. I have no clue what he was doing up here. If he was looking for sex, then he was SOL, although I remember the way he undressed me. It was perfectly clinical, no sense of that crackling tension present when he pulled down my socks or shucked off my shirt— only the gentle, sure touch of efficiency.
Maybe he has matured a little.
After the call with my mom, I take some fever-reducer and pass out again, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. I’ve been inwardly referring to it as time-traveling, because it’s like I close my eyes, and instantly open them again to find that hours have passed. This time when I wake up, I feel better than I have in days. The light coming through the room tells me it’s already early afternoon. I shift on the bed, turning my face into a long beam of sun, basking comfortably.
Saturday afternoon.
I jerk up in the bed.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
I missed detention.
I fumble for my phone. There are no messages from the Dean, and nothing whatsoever from Hamilton. I scroll through my contacts, since I have his number from the swim sheet, and send him off a frantic text.
G: I’m so sorry about detention! I slept right through it. How mad is Dewey? How mad are you?
I stare at the phone, panic building in my chest. I know Dewey would excuse me if I’d brought him a note, but I didn’t. I completely forgot about it! I groan miserably into my hands at the thought of him adding more days to my detention. We were so close to being done.
My phone pings and I scramble for it.
H: No worries. I took care of it. How are you feeling?
He took care of it? What does that mean?
G: Better. Alive. Thank you for... you know, yesterday.
H: Picking you up off the floor? You’re not the first girl I’ve had do that for.