Chapter 39
FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE THE EXAM, students are filing into their assigned examination rooms. The gymnasiums are allotted for larger classes and for our exam this morning, we'll be using one of them.
Everyone is here.
My former group of friends are scattered since the seating arrangement calls for an alphabetical order.
Blake and his new fling. Brent. Katy. A few douchebags from the football team.
Like setting off a chain reaction, they exchange secret smiles the moment they catch sight of me.
Blake's bruised up face doesn't stop him or a few of his football buddies from flashing malicious grins, the sight of them instantly putting me on alert and I know without a doubt that I have to watch my back.
It's coming. Soon.
Whatever plans for retaliation they have cooking up, it's coming.
Carter is in his assigned seat, and he waves at me from his row, shooting me a thumbs up in good luck. Dale, Laken, and Asher are also in their assigned spots.
Dale rocks back in his chair, arms crossed over his shoulder while he looks up at the ceiling.
Laken fiddles with a pencil, spinning it in a circle on his desk.
Asher isn't paying attention to anyone around him except for Brent.
He's glaring at him as if he's willing Brent to spontaneously burst into flames.
I don't want to know. For as long as I can remember, those two have always been butting heads. Brent is a renowned bully. Asher Stone hates bullies.
He's what one might call the bully's bully.
Just as I take my seat, a figure in his signature black jeans, black jersey, and jacket steps inside. The sight of him almost makes me swoon and I have to check myself to make sure I'm not drooling and my expression is schooled.
Nobody knows about me and Sky and for as long as I can manage, I'd like to keep it that way.
Immediately, there is a shift in the atmosphere. There's hostility radiating from Blake, Brent, and company, while Carter and Dale wear mischievous grins.
They nod at Sky who passes by me, swiping another pencil from my desk. Unlike the last time, he sends me a flirtatious wink before sliding into the seat beside mine.
I'm instantly drawn back to what Carter and Dale are doing, curiosity getting the better of me when I notice that Dale is fiddling with something – paper and a rubber band.
Dale aims, the paper projectile flying through the room, over the heads of other students to smack Blake right behind the ear.
The latter hisses, turning around to glare at the perpetrator who shrugs nonchalantly. Asher's boisterous cackle booms from somewhere behind me.
What's going on with those guys? They usually avoid conflict, which is part of the reason so many students fear them.
Little more than their pull in social circles, who their parents are, and them being born into founding families of the town, their duality of steering clear of trouble but being incredibly ruthless when it comes to getting even is a well-known fact.
They don't go around pulling petty stunts like that, so something must've really ticked them off.
I might have to ask Sky about that, but when I look at him for answers, he shakes his head.
Before Blake can get up and retaliate, the invigilators cruise in forcing Blake to sit back down. He grumbles and mumbles, shooting a glare back at Dale who acts as if nothing happens.
A whiteboard is placed at the front of the gymnasium detailing the duration of the exam, the start and end times, and what subject is being written.
A large clock is placed on a chair in front of the whiteboard.
The invigilators start distributing the exam booklets and our writing pads, Coach Hodge coming down the aisle I'm sitting in.
When he reaches me, he taps his knuckles against my desk, sliding a writing pad and an exam booklet onto it. "Are you going to be alright, kiddo?"
"Yeah. I think so."
Coach Hodge pats my shoulder. "I'll be looking out."
"Thanks a lot, Coach."
He moves along and I don't miss Sky's reaction.
That he looks like he wants to drag Coach back and demand to know what that interaction was about.
I can hardly ignore his stare burning into the side of my face, but I don't acknowledge him, too afraid that I'll fall apart at the seams, and he'll see every ugly thing I've been trying to protect him from.
The exam is two hours long and it starts promptly on time. Silence fills the gymnasium, disrupted only by the scratch of pens and pencils against our writing pads, and the flip and turn of pages, or the restless tapping of pens.
The invigilators make routine rounds of the gymnasium, Coach Hodge watching me closely as if he fully expects something to go wrong.
Ten minutes into the second hour, something does go wrong.
I'm halfway through the paper, thinking I've got this. Finally, I'll be able to finish a paper for finals when those hopes are dashed.
Sharp pains erupt in the back of my head, the simultaneous wallop of spreading agony leaving me lightheaded and nauseous. It feels like shrapnel – an angry storm of it – is slicing through my head, jabbing into my eyes and jaw, working its way down my neck.
Cold sweat coats my brow, the ache growing something horrible as my breathing starts to stutter. Panic grips me tight, the figures of the people around me beginning to blur. My eyes water, tears cascading down my cheeks, my breathing shaky and hollow.
Stomach acid burns my throat, the room begins to spin, the lights piercing and blurry in equal parts. I sniffle loudly, wiping my face as my heart begins to race a mile a minute, blood rushing to my ears.
I have to get out of here.
It's the worst migraine I've experienced so far and if I don't leave here, I'm going to pass out.
Panic surges as the rippling pain pushes me to my feet. I sway and crumble. The desk rattles, shifting, and scraping against the polished floor, the sharp noise sending a bolt of white-hot pain stabbing through my head.
Gasps ring out. Tears drip onto the back of my hand pressed flat on the floor, my body trembling in pain.
One second I'm on the ground, withholding the urge to throw up breakfast and the next, I vaguely recognize the sensation of familiar tingles erupting along my arm. I'm hauled to my feet, practically dragged out of the gymnasium.
The LED panel lights in the open corridor is harsh on my eyes. I hiss, ducking my head down, nausea piercing me and I gag, clamping my mouth shut to swallow a mouthful of bile.
"Hodge, I've got this."
Sky's voice is faraway even though he's inches away and the only thing keeping me standing. Slumped and wobbling, my legs threaten to give out from the merciless pain that feels like my head is going to explode.
Fear consumes me and I can do little more than crash and cry. It's never been so bad.
My knees give out and I go crashing. Tears and snot slide down my face. I can imagine what a mess I must look like because while Sky keeps his tone level as he speaks to me, his voice a faraway distortion over the roiling agony and nausea, I detect the faintest hint of confusion and panic.
"Stay with me. I'm taking you to the nurse's office."
I can't focus on anything as I'm dragged along. My vision blurs more, my feet two white fuzzy shapes haphazardly tripping over themselves. Another wave of pain stabs through my head, starting from the back and my neck, shooting to the front of my head. Pain explodes in my face and my stomach churns.
Groaning, I push Sky away as the burn of stomach acid shoots up my throat.
I barely make it to the nearest bin, my legs giving out and I crash against it just as projectile upchuck flies out of my mouth and nose.
The tears blind me, the horrendous stench doubling and tripling the misery.
It feels like my throat is being torn open, hot stones dragging up along my trachea.
It feels like it's never ending, my muscles clamping up and relaxing.
My stomach cramps, legs shaking and I'm slumped over the bin like a deflated cushion.
Heavy short breaths tumble out in breathless gasps.
Sweat coats my forehead. A bead trickles down the side of my face and in the haze of it all, overwhelmed and spent, weak and aching, the familiar tingles erupting across my back under a large, gentle hand is an anchor to a comfort I'm in desperate need of.
When I stagger away from the bin, Sky catches me around the waist, looping my arm around his neck.
He helps me to the bathroom nearby, to the sink, leans me up against it and opens a tap.
With shaking hands, I catch some cool water and rinse my mouth and wash my face.
His hand never leaves my waist even as he snatches paper towels from the dispenser and wipes me off.
He doesn't say a word about the migraine or the vomiting; his eyes trained on me in the mirror. Sweat coats my skin which has taken on a sickly sallowness. My eyes are rimmed red and puffy from the crying, my lips a little dry from the heaving.
I can see it all on his face. Fuck, I feel it too.
In the still silence, heavy and burdening, his questioning – albeit terrified – gaze sears into me. It carries the unspoken question, the very thing he's been trying to dig out of me all week.
My heart quivers in my chest. When I think about all that's happened between us in so short a time, how he's never failed to show up for me in ways I could never imagine someone like him would, more and more of that resistance to telling him the truth erodes.
Little by little, I'm losing the fight.
Not just to the cancer, but to my own fucking conscience.
He has to know. I can't keep this from him. My certain death will devastate him anyway but surely...maybe...he could find comfort in knowing the truth.
"Sky –"
"I'll take you to the nurse's office," he interrupts before I can get another word out. His hands slips around my waist and as he moves me along, guiding me to the door, he presses a kiss to the shell of my ear. "I've got you."
Those words wring a pathetic sob out of me. My heart stutters painfully, the fight leaving me completely. Forcing my haywire emotions into a quiet little corner, I'm escorted to the nurse's office in a daze.
The pain in my head still throbs but now a dull, manageable ache in comparison to the monster it was before. I'm still woozy. Still swaying, halfway out of it as Sky leads me inside the nurse's office and into the sick bay where he deposits me on an empty bed.
"Is the migraine easing?"
He brushes a strand of hair off my forehead.
The mattress dips with his weight as he sits next to me, reaching for my hand.
His thumb traces the lines of my palm and over my knuckles, his featherlight touch and just him as a whole acting like both an anchor and a wall calming me down more than any number of deep breaths can.
"It's not so bad."
"You should rest," he says, kissing the back of my hand. "I'll go get the nurse." He stands and flashes a smile that doesn't reach his eyes – one meant to distract from the storm of worry that dances in his dark blue gaze.
As he walks off, disappearing around the corner into a short hallway where the nurse's office is kept separate from the sick bay, I lie down and shut my eyes against the dull ache throbbing through my cranium.
One second I'm enjoying the coolness of the air-conditioned space and the next, I'm gone.