and Bebe both fell over themselves trying to make me talk. They gossiped and Jenny fell back into watching. It was exhausting to be the one they were trying to impress. JoJo in particular would not shut up, and during class time the teachers were talking on and on about shit that didn't matter. None of it mattered.
Because he'd bitten me. The two scab-marks on my throat, small rough spots under my fingertips when I realized I was touching them, felt hot. Infected.
And I wasn't dead. I wasn't in a ditch with my legs spread and my throat cut.
Trig class gave me some time to think. I doodled aimlessly on my paper, sometimes glancing up at the crucifix over the door as Sister Lucia droned on about the wonders of mathematics. I took notes, too, whenever I could focus enough to hear what she was saying.
I wasn't dead. My throat hurt, a dry sandy pain.
It was near the end of trig when the idea took shape, slowly, under the surface of utter panic. I guess from the outside I looked calm, but everything was whirling inside me. Like the winds, whistling sharply around the corners of the building. The low moan ran under my thoughts, scattering them like the dust particles that had spun through the circles of lamplight last night.
But the thought wouldn't go away, and it finally shouted itself loud enough to be heard over the wind, just as Sister Lucia said my name.
"Are you ill?" Her eyebrows were up, her wrinkled mouth set in a thin line.
"I don't feel good," I croaked. Convincingly, even.
She wrote me out a pass to go visit the nurse. "Lucky," JoJo said softly as I picked up my bag and scooped my book and notepaper together.
I almost replied Bite me, but the words died in my burning throat.
I didn't visit the nurse, either. I got off school grounds the way Chel and I always had when we skipped, flagged down a cab on Charter Street, and went home. Consuela was out shopping, so nobody saw me when I drank two bottles of Evian and went out to the gardening shed. The water sloshed uneasily in my protesting stomach.
I found what I was looking for, and stood staring at it for a long time before getting down to work. I almost ripped one of my fingernails off and a splinter the size of Texas rammed into the meat of my left hand. When I pulled it out, a trickle of blood followed, and I clamped my mouth over it before I could think twice.
I came back to myself on my knees, sucking at my hand, my hips tilting back and forth as I rocked and moaned a little. The metallic tang of blood slid across the dry sand filling my throat, sharpening the thirst. And I surprised myself by bursting into tears. I sniveled until the snot ran down my face while I finished working, then I got back in the house and cleaned up before Consuela got home. I scrubbed at my hands for a long time, the lather building up, and the bubbles went down the drain with a wet chuckling sound.
* * * **
"You look sick, mija." Consuela put her wrist against my forehead. "You go to bed early, ay?" She set the plate down in front of me, and the sight of food made me feel like horking like that bulimic bitch JoJo.
Dad stuck a forkful of steak in his mouth, chewed. His eyes were on me. When he finally swallowed, he set his fork down and took a sip of wine. "You do look pale. Maybe you should go to bed early instead of running around with your friends."
I hung my head and tried to look repentant. "Yeah, I think so. My stomach's messed up."
He stared at me like he knew what I was up to. Consuela shuffled out of the dining room.
The sun was going down. I tried not to stare at the window.
"Eat," Dad said, finally. "You're coming up on your seventeenth birthday, aren't you?"
I nodded. My hair fell forward. I swiped it back, took a drink of milk, and immediately wished I hadn't.
"You've got your permit, and you'll have your license soon. Have you thought about the kind of car you want?" He smiled like it was Christmas, pleased with himself.
I made all