Free Bad Taste in Boys by Carrie Harris Page B

want to embarrass this woman by drawing attention to her disability, so I leaned closer and said, “Ma’am? Could you please move your hand?”
    When she opened her mouth, a trickle of black gunk spilled out. There wasn’t a lot, so the stench wasn’t totally overwhelming, but I could smell it if I concentrated. Not like I was trying to smell it, because I wasn’t that masochistic.
    She said, “Uuuuuh.”
    Oh bleep. It was spreading.
    This woman might have been grilling her hand on my griddle, but the reality hadn’t quite hit me yet. I calmly scraped her skin off the hot metal with my spatula. Good thing I was so meticulous with the cooking spray; it came off without leaving much flesh behind.
    Still. Ewww.
    She kept staring at me. I held my spatula in what I imagined was a defensive posture, but she just held out her empty plate. The gesture was strangely reassuring. No way she could be a zombie, not if she wanted pancakes. Row four was torched by now, so I gave her some from row two. She shambled off peacefully.
    My heart started hammering. It was one thing to know that a bunch of far-off military guys had the mystery disease, but watching it spread right in front of you was something completely different. I knew I was only hours away from some lab results, but in the meantime? I was a cardiovascular incident waiting to happen.
    I was so busy obsessing about the possibility of a heart attack that I completely disregarded the possibility of a seizure. My epileptic episodes weren’t usually linked to my blood pressure, but there’s a first time for everything. I felt pretty sheepish when I came to a couple of minutes later with my head crooked uncomfortably against the wall and my feet sprawled halfway to the juice station.
    “Oh my god, Kate, can you hear me?” Kiki crouched over me, her hair tickling my nose.
    I sneezed. “I’m okay.” I flailed around in an uncoordinated attempt to stand up. I had to get the rest of the pancakes off the griddle before someone got a nice helping of hand flambé. “It’s just a seizure. I used to have them all the time, remember?”
    “Yeah, but they’re still freaky.” She took my arm and helped meup. I looked around, trying to get my bearings. Everyone in the room stared at me like they expected me to grow fangs and sparkle.
    “I’m okay.” I shook Kiki’s arm free.
    “Please sit down, Kate. You’re overdue for a break, and the line’s slowing anyway.”
    “But …” There were still about ten people in line. I couldn’t let them eat anything cooked on that griddle. But there was no way for me to explain why without sounding like a total wack job.
    I could only think of one way to stop the grill from being used again. I flung my arm out, knocking over the last jug of batter in the building.
    It fell in a slow-motion arc, or at least that was what it felt like. “Nooooo!” Kiki yelled, and leapt for it with her arms outstretched. But she was too late. The jug hit the floor with a tremendous
sploosh
. Within seconds, we stood in a sea of batter dotted with a bunch of dust-bunny floaters.
    Kiki shot me a stricken glance. So I weaved a little on my feet to illustrate how shaky the seizure had left me. Her expression instantly changed from exasperation to concern, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty for manipulating her like this, even if it was for the greater good.
    “Come sit down,” she said, taking my arm. “Don’t worry about the pancakes. If anybody wants seconds, they can eat toast and sausages. Let me get you some juice.”
    She parked me in a corner with a glass of oj. It did nothing toget the image of the frying hand out of my head, but at least now I wasn’t dehydrated and freaked out. I was just freaked out. It was a minor improvement, but I’d take what I could get.
    “Okay,” Kiki said, patting my leg. “You stay here while the girls take down the griddle.”
    “I can help.”
    I started to stand, but she pushed me back into my