Rush looks my way and shakes his head just enough to let me know he wants me to knock it off. Nolan turns around once again, and I open my mouth to say something—say anything in order to excuse myself, but all I manage is a long, horrid belch that sounds as if I’ve channeled my inner cruise ship and I’m honking my way into harbor.
The bride turns around and gasps, as does the crowd behind me.
Dear God. Kill me.
That horrific feeling deep within me takes over, and my body bucks with a revolution as I projectile vomit a river of what was once a bucket full of chocolate balls between Seth and me, and at least twelve different people scream as if I’ve just unloaded an AK-47 on the crowd.
“Oh God,” I bubble through another round of heaves. I turn and make a run for the exit, and wouldn’t you know it, the crowd parts like the Red Sea as I dart past them like a projectile vomiting missile. I can’t help but note the terror on their faces. Damn cowards.
“It’s just a virus!” I shout as I hit the exit. “Probably noro!” Like that makes it any better. Why don’t I just go back in there and tell them the cake is laced with anthrax? God, I’m such an idiot.
A handful of people run out the back right along with me and make a beeline for their cars.
“Crap,” I whimper as I stagger toward a couple of old barrels set out front. “I can’t believe this.” I’ve singlehandedly ruined Nolan and Misty’s wedding. Before I can properly feel sorry for myself, Seth pops up, panting and clearly alarmed. I can’t help but note there’s a bit of splatter on the shin of his pants, and I’m secretly hoping he won’t notice, because if Seth is forced to leave the wedding, Mr. and Mrs. Baker will forever hate my family. Oh hell, I probably cinched that by a landslide when I belched out the alphabet without meaning to.
“Sunday.” He jogs in close and warms my bare arms with his hands. “Let me take you back to Briggs.”
“Noooo—” The word stretches out in one horrific burp and, dear God, why am I suddenly possessed by a drunken frat boy? My body does its best rendition of a bucking bronco, and I upchuck right on his dress shirt, another brown river of chocolaty delight. I’m beginning to think Trixie’s mother secretly hates her.
Hey? Maybe the bonbons were laced with anthrax? And sadly, the thought actually makes me feel better. Once my organs begin shutting down, people will feel sorry for me. Nobody hates the dying girl. And this whole vomiting-my-insides-up-at-the-wedding fiasco will be considered an act of bravery rather than a one-woman biological attack.
Seth groans as he takes a solid step back, “You really do hate me.”
“Only on days that end in Y.” I wipe the slobber off my chin as we make a run for Seth’s truck. It’s safe to say I may never gain entry to Serena’s pristine Honda Civic again.
Seth drives us back to Whitney Briggs with the windows rolled down partway, and even though it’s a balmy thirty degrees out, I don’t seem to mind the fact my face is freezing solid in a grimace. My insides grind. They bubble and brew, percolating all the way back to Cutler Tower, and I vomit up any digestive acids I might have left just before we hit the elevator.
Seth is kind enough to see me all the way into my room, and I fall onto my bed in a heap. Thank God Rush disassembled those birth control loft beds Trixie and I had started out last semester with. Mostly it was to help him cozy up with Trixie while I was gone, but it’s made going to the bathroom a lot less of a midnight hazard.
“Leave,” I groan.
“Not until I get you some water.” He has the audacity to pluck my shoes off and, oh wow, it feels like I’ve died and gone to foot heaven. Seth takes a water bottle from the mini fridge and places it carefully on the bed next to me. “You want me to—”
“You’re not undressing me.” I drool onto my pillow, and I can feel that coma-like sleep that’s been after me all day, ready to knock me out like a heavyweight fighter coming in for that final TKO. And am I ever welcoming it.
“Goodnight, Sunday.” His voice is soft, and a cool whistling breeze snakes in as he opens the door to leave.
“Seth?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Any time. I owed you one anyway.”
And with that, the door closes, and I’m left drifting off to a blissful slumber wondering what in the heck Seth meant by he owed me one?
As much as I hate to admit it, I owe Seth one.
Big time.
Who knew the flu had a propensity to linger for three weeks straight? February has just peeked over the horizon, and thanks to Cupid I’m about to enter into my busy season—vlogging that is. I’ve just received six boxes—giant boxes—stuffed with every blusher, mascara and beauty sponge under the sun. Usually I’m orgasmically excited on D-Day, but this delivery doesn’t seem to be agreeing with the flu I’ve nicknamed Fred. Rush once had a turtle by that name, and the sight of it made me sick, so it seemed only appropriate that this lingering foodborne, virus-culled monster inside me be aptly named with the same moniker. Fred here obviously dislikes these boxes because the scent of the corrugated cardboard is literally making me want to find the nearest bush and heave.
Trixie and Harley step onto our floor at Cutler Tower, laughing it up over God knows what—probably the fact they seem to be cleverly evading Fred’s best efforts to infect them. How I wish I had their immune system superpowers. It’s becoming painfully clear my DNA was slapped together on a Friday before my chromosomes took off for hormonal happy hour. Have I forgotten to mention I’m a tad touchy? I’m giving the Wicked Witch of the West a run for her green bitchy money in more ways than one. Look at me sideways and see if I don’t pick a fight.
“Let me get that,” Trixie volunteers as she takes the bundle of packages from me and lets us into the dorm. “The last thing I need is you puking on my new highlighter combo eyeshadow palette that smells like marshmallows.”
We spill the boxes onto the floor, and I’m quick to slice them open with my keys. Just as expected, these juicy little packages are filled to the brim with an entire beauty counter’s worth of treasures. A delivery like this only happens at the holidays, and since the biggest heart-shaped holiday of them all is almost upon us, I seem to have scored twice the haul.
Trixie has been freely digging into my stash, but only because I heavily encourage her to do so. I’m so exhausted lately with trying to keep up with my classes, and doing a giveaway a week is taxing me on the back end. Leaving all these goodies to rot in boxes is tantamount to brandishing cheeseburgers and fries in front of starving frat boys. I can’t let that happen. It’s best Trixie and I put them to good use.
“You’ll take some, too, Harley,” I’m quick to make the offer. “And take something for your sister. Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” Her sister, Harper, is dating Trixie’s twin brother, Knox. It’s all a little incestuous here at WB, but I don’t really mind. Everyone seems beyond thrilled with the crisscrossing of family trees. My stomach twists as Serena pops to mind. “Maybe we should give Serena an entire box,” I tease. “Now that she’s dating Eli, she’ll have to disguise herself as a different woman every night just to hold his interest.”
Harley belts out a laugh. “Please. The guy is a douche. Serena can do better.” She wrinkles her nose as she pulls out a hot pink sponge. “Besides, they’re not dating. Trust me on that one. He just so happened to be seated all by his lonesome at the Black Bear, enjoying his burger when Serena suddenly found herself on a fifteen-minute break. I’d hardly call that dating.” She holds up a Stila lip gloss for my approval, and I nod.
“That’s a good color on you.” I can hardly get the words out as a hard roll of nausea razors through me, and I moan as if I were about to give birth to a black bear myself. That’s exactly what it feels like, a two-ton beast trying to claw its way out of my intestines every freaking morning—afternoon and evening on some days, too.
“Geez!” Trixie screeches as both she and Harley back u
p to the door. “If you keep puking like that, I’m going to start calling you Old Barfing Faithful. I told you, all you needed was to take a couple of sick days and knock this thing out. But no”—she tosses a used sock at me while plugging her nose with her free hand—“you have to be the ridiculous brave one who toughs it out.” She grabs her backpack off the floor. “I’ve got a media club meeting in ten minutes. When I get back, I’m going to tuck you in, and you’re not getting out of bed until the color comes back to your cheeks, sweetie. Don’t go anywhere. I have mad topographical skills, and I will hunt you down and find you.” She bats her lashes at me as she takes off.
“I’d better get going, too.” Harley stands, holding a couple of glosses and what appears to be a full-sized sample of my favorite Better Than Sex Mascara. My wimpy little lashes are forever indebted to that magical stuff—so much so I’m beginning to think the moniker is aptly given.
“Enjoy it all. I know it’ll look great on you.” My mind wanders back to that infamous frat party. I can’t believe I had sex last December. It’s just something I can’t seem to wrap my head around. Mostly because I can’t seem to remember it. I guess that means it was pretty uneventful. Honestly, I had no business throwing myself at Eli Gates of all people. He’s a notorious womanizer who probably bedded a long line of girls that night. No wonder he has no problem looking me in the eye whenever he’s around. He’s not the least bit ashamed of what we’ve done. Having sex to someone like Eli is equivalent to a bodily function. I was nothing more than an extension of his toilet seat that night. Disgusting. The thought makes me feel ten times more nauseous than the smell of those boxes did, and I moan my way to the bed while holding my stomach.
“Hey, are you okay?” Harley comes over and lands her cool hand over my forehead.
“Oh, that feels good,” I groan and do my best to hold her captive there.
“You don’t have a fever. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were knocked up. My best friend in high school had a similar extended flu.” She says flu in air quotes. “And nine months later, she had a bouncing baby girl. Brought her to prom and everything.”
“Nice.” My chest rattles at the thought. “But I’m not knocked up.”
“Oh, I know you’re not.” She gives a dark laugh as she hits the door. “Serena doesn’t call you The Holy Virgin Born on a Sunday for nothing.” She gives a little wink. “We V’s need to stick together. By the way, I’m convinced Serena is one, too!” She shuts the door as she takes off, and I give a little chuckle. As much as I love Serena, she can be a pain in the ass. She’s not a virgin, is she? She swore up and down she slept with Heath Hathaway last year at the quasi-high school reunion beach bash that lasted three solid days. Huh. But I didn’t believe her then, and I don’t see why I should now. Serena has a long history of making me believe she’s ahead of the curve, only to later discover she’s not even in the driver’s seat or in the right race.
Harley’s words come back to me. Knocked up. I roll over, and my insides beg to ingest themselves. I can’t be knocked up. I spent one lousy night with a guy, and I had a condom with me.
I suck in a sharp breath and sit straight up. “My God, my God!” My voice hikes into its upper register. I have no clue if we used a condom that night. I reach for my phone and peel the case back, revealing the purple foil packet still firmly in place. Trixie is the one I snagged it from. God knows my brother has a never-ending supply, and now, apparently, so do I. My heart drums into my ears as I stare at it blankly.
“It doesn’t matter.” I laugh to myself like a madwoman. “He probably had his own.”
God. He had better have had his own. I bet a pro like Eli glides one on before he ever gets to the party.
My stomach twists and turns as if I were on a roller coaster with a never-ending loop. Besides, I just had my per—
“Oh. My. God.” I pull up my period app and note it’s been suspiciously inactive since November thirtieth. “WHAT?” I scream so loud the girls in the next room pound on the wall. “Oh, screw you,” I say, only I don’t have the energy needed to deliver it properly.
I can’t be knocked up. That’s not something that happens to me—it’s not on the list—hell, it’s not on any list I’ve ever made. A tiny laugh bubbles from my throat because it happens to be true. When and if I do get knocked up, I will be firmly in a loving stable relationship, preferably with a giant rock on my left hand and living in the Hamptons. Getting knocked up will be very much on the list at that point in my life, but until then, this is a nonstarter for me.
“It’s just the flu,” I whisper, picking up my purse and heading out the door. “Everyone gets the mothereffing flu,” I say as I make a beeline for the parking lot.
I drive like a bat out of norovirus hell and head straight to the farthest pharmacy in the seediest part of Jepson, buying up every makeup counter in sight, buying an industrial sized box of tampons, two boxes of pads that qualify as diapers, and one measly—and, my God, is it ever overpriced—pregnancy test. There. The cashier won’t suspect a thing, and I’ll finally catch some long-sought-after Zzz’s tonight once I reassure myself that the last place I’ll be visiting is the motherhood.
An outwardly bored teenager rings me up and bags my copious purchases. She waves the box that holds my future in its hands and winks my way. “Pro tip—wrap it up like a used maxi pad when you’re finished with it. That way your nosey ass mother won’t find it on the sink and call you a ho at the next family dinner.” Her affect grows increasingly hard as if she were reliving a memory, and I’m pretty sure she is.
“Duly noted,” I say, snatching the box and sinking it deep inside my purse. There’s no way I’m risking it to tumble out as I schlep half of CVS up to my dorm.
Besides, my dead mother won’t have to worry about calling me a ho.
I’m not knocked up. This is just the damn flu.
Pro tip—never sleep with Eli Gates again.
My God. My God! My life is suddenly nothing but a blur. The drive back to Whitney Briggs, crawling back up to my dorm, spilling all my panicked purchases at my feet as I sit on the floor, examining that silly box with its incessant death rattle—I remember none of it. Instead, I shove that silly cardboard box and all the crap I’ve incurred because of it on the shelf behind me and get back to work. I have a vlog to tend to, giveaways to flaunt before my faithful followers. I need to focus on what’s real in my life right now—school, my beauty biz that I plan on extrapolating into a mini cosmetics-based empire, and being happy. It feels as if I’ve done nothing but wallow in misery ever since that fateful night at Beta Kappa Phi. Deep down, I knew I would regret the decision to let down my hair and pretend I was Serena. And my God! Serena doesn’t even sleep around. What the hell was I thinking?
I shake it all off, take a deep swig from my water bottle, and get to doing what I do best—live streaming my very next vlog.
“Hey, guys! It’s Sunday Knight, and I’m super excited to share all of the delectable delights that were sent my way this afternoon! I can’t wait to try some of these delicious new treats. I feel and look like crap, so you’ll really see a transformation happening today.” The comments feed is running like ticker tape, and it momentarily distracts me. I cast a quick glance their way.
Real transformation! Crying and dying!
Sunday! OMG! Congratulations!
Aw! What a way to tell us! You are so freaking funny!
Can’t wait to see the cute clothes. No wonder you’ve been so sick! Feel better! Ginger ale helps!
Flu SMH. I called it.
True colors. I knew that goody two-shoes routine was all an act. Congrats, girl!
So sly! You win the internet!
“What the heck?” I whisper while holding up a facemask that I’m about to start the party with. Usually I never read the comments. Sure, my eyes wander every now and again, but in order to avoid the one-off troll trying to throw me off my game, I hardly ever go there. But this? What the actual f—
/> Wait. It’s like they know what I’ve done. Crap. I bet that girl at the store recognized me. How stupid of me to think I didn’t need to don a disguise for a covert operation like that. I look up, stunned, at the pinhole of bright red light capturing my every movement. “And so I thought I’d start with a mask to cleanse and—”
It’s no use. My eyes dart right back to those bizarre comments exploding to life one after another like popcorn. I can’t help but look. It’s like a runaway train at this point.
Are you taking the test live?
“Test? What test?” I shake my head into my laptop, and why does it suddenly feel as if I’m speaking to a Magic 8 Ball?
LOL! You are a freaking riot! #Fanforlife
The comments roll in, hot and heavy, and it’s as if time stands still. That white-hot witch’s cauldron in my stomach boils over, spilling throughout my entire body as it hits me.
“Shit.” I turn around stiffly. The entire universe seems set in slow-motion as I zero in on the box sitting face out screaming at home pregnancy test for all the world to see.
And then, just like that, the universe whips right back to warp speed. I snatch the box from the bookshelf and turn around with a manufactured smile. “You mean this? Ha!” I tip my head back and laugh like a woman who’s long since seen her sanity. This is it—do or die. I take a quick breath and glare back at the camera. “My next guest happens to be the beautiful Izzy Edwards. You may have seen her a time or two at the Black Bear Saloon? She’s the one who’s knocked up—and her skin is amazing because of it. But because she’s hardly showing (my God, that girl has a bowling ball tucked under her shirt, if not twelve) I thought it’d be prudent to make her pee on a stick to prove it. Just a little naughty fun, my pretties.”
That fake smile falls from my lips as I spastically look to the comments feed.
Nice cover!
Izzy? She’s freaking HUGE!
PEE ON THE STICK!
“Eew.” And they go on and on. No one believes a word. I glance to the invisible watch on my wrist. “Would you look at that? I’ve got an American history study group in five. All in a day’s work. I’ll be back. Stay beautiful!” I slap my laptop shut and look to the bathroom in fear.