Thirsty - M. T. Anderson [45]
Then I panic. It’s sitting there on my tongue, evilly sitting on my tongue, like a fairy-tale toad on a lily pad. Lumpy. I can’t breathe past it. My breath won’t fit.
The room is suddenly very hot and crowded. My mouth is too full. There are people pushing and trays clacking, and an apple is flying through the air. My napkin is stained with red grease like blood.
My chair squeals backward and I run for the bathroom.
I push someone over. I say, “Sorry,” but when I do, it all comes out: The lump of Cajun joe splats on the floor — and behind it, my breakfast. I’m heaving, and it’s all there: orange juice, butter, home-style waffle.
Everyone is muttering and sniggering. Completely disgusted.
I’m supporting myself on one weak arm resting on a tabletop. I raise up my head. Tom is looking at me like he’s a total stranger who’s just seen a murderer. I turn to the side because someone is running over with a mop and I realize that an umbilical cord of quivering spit still trails down to my pukey discharge.
I reach up grimly and, with a single finger, snap it.
I stand straight and tall and head for the men’s room. My face is so hot it feels like my eyes must be red. I think it’s embarrassment.
The janitor is arriving with the mop. I really want to offer to clean it up, but I can’t. I don’t even apologize to him. I just run for the bathrooms.
“Chris, wait up,” I hear Jerk saying, back in the crowd. And then he says to someone else, “Man, I feel bad for him. He must be wicked sick.”
The bathroom is white. That in itself is good. It feels as cool as a glacier. I splash cold water on my face. That’s a mistake because I involuntarily snarl and start snapping at the water like a dog with a hose. Then I realize there’s someone in one of the stalls, so I stop. Whoever he is, he pulls up his feet when he hears me growling.
I’m not in the mirror. I look, transfixed, at the tiles through my head.
I can’t stay in here. No safety. Not with this bank of mirrors hollering out my vampirism like a Klaxon.
Got to get out of the building — that’s all there is to it — until I can calm down.
I charge out of the bathroom and almost run into Rebecca Schwartz, who’s waiting by the bathroom door.
“Chris,” she says. “I just came to see how you’re doing.”
“Fine,” I say. “Fine.”
“You looked really sick.”
“I was,” I say, backing up slightly. “I don’t believe you came to see how I was doing! That’s so nice. I’ve got to go.”
“Hey,” she says, reaching out to touch my elbow. “What’s the problem? Everyone’s wondering what happened.”
I yank away from her touch. We’re standing against lockers, gray metal lockers, on which I have no reflection. I keep my eyes glued to her face. She can’t look down. Can’t look at those lockers. I have to get away.
“I have to go,” I say.
“You going home?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, shrugging. “I’ll be back as soon as I’ve changed my name and grown a beard.”
She laughs. “You just got sick,” she says, “and yakked all over the floor.” And then, more concerned, “Look, Chris, I, like, don’t want to be a pain, but is everything okay? You’ve seemed really, you know, depressed and things recently. Throwing up can be a sign of nervousness. It was with my sister. She went through this whole depressed thing.”
“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” she says. “It’s just, I mean . . . Really, I don’t want you to think I’m being nosy or anything. But if you ever want to call someone and talk about it, you know you can call me. I mean, we had to deal with my sister and all.”
I’m still not reflected in the lockers. Someone passes by, and Rebecca looks up at them. I take the opportunity to move a few inches away so I won’t be so near the metal. She turns back and looks at me quizzically.
I splutter, “It’s . . . mucus. I have all these springtime allergies, and I get all filled up with mucus. My stomach and things. All mucus.”
She’s smiling lightly. “Mucus? Are you sure? Not phlegm or sputum?”
“Mucus.” I nod.