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James sits at the desk, staring down at somebody else’s scrawled ink drawings and wishing for the hour to pass quickly. It’s a classics class, so it almost never does. He pulls a stack of books out of his bag, hoping that at least one of them is applicable to the day’s lesson. For all the attention he’s been paying, it could very well be algebra instead of Aristophanes.
He feels off. Something’s wrong he can’t quite put his finger on, like the air conditioning clicked two points too low or the guy in the next seat over wearing the wrong cologne. It pushes his hackles up, even though it’s probably something completely innocuous.
The instructor steps up to the board and begins to scribble something. The sound of chalk scraping across the surface practically makes his ears bleed. James tries his hardest not to cringe. He settles for leaning as far back in his seat as he can without tipping the thing over.
“Today we’re continuing our discussion on The Birds…” the TA starts in a monotonous drone.
So Aristophanes it is. James considers putting away his extraneous texts, but something about bending over to open his backpack feels like a bad idea. He chooses to stay upright with his prosthetic arm balanced atop his real one in his lap.
“Who can tell me three things…”
The rest of the question dissolves into a buzzing in James’s ears. His hearing hasn’t been great since he came back from the desert, but this isn’t just his tinnitus. It feels like his entire head is vibrating. He blinks hard and swallows, but all that does is bring an awareness of the sour taste in the back of his throat. Nausea tumbles down from the top of his head and lands clunkily in his chest.
“Huh.” James gives a breathy exhale, and the girl in front of him looks over her shoulder. Please not now, he thinks as his stomach roils. Panic constricts his throat as he realizes he’s going to be sick, and soon.
The queasiness has barely started; there has to be time to move, to get to the bathroom. James struggles to remember where they are in this building. It’s hard to think when the lower half of his face feels like it’s going to fall off. His mouth waters ominously, and he pushes his lips together as hard as he can.
James gets as far as leaning forward in his seat when the floodgates burst open. A gust of air rises in a sick belch that seems to force itself out of both his mouth and nose. Half the class stares his direction, and the sound of the teacher’s chalk comes to a halt. A mixture of prayer and curse words flash through what’s left of his working brain. Time seems to stand still for a moment, with everyone gazing awkwardly at him. Then suddenly he gags before his body’s quite ready to reconcile the consequences.
Vomit floods the surface of the desk, soaking James’s book and spilling off the edges onto the floor. James tucks his chin in instinctual embarrassment, sending the next torrent down the front of his shirt and into his lap. “Oh, fuck,” he croaks, belatedly slapping a trembling hand over his mouth with a wet squelch.
The class starts to panic, groaning in disgust and shuffling uncomfortably in their seats. James wants to run, if only to spare them his continued presence, but he isn’t sure his legs will support his weight. He has to try, though. He still feels dangerously sick, and the only thing worse than puking in class would be puking in class for a third time.
“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, inhaling flecks of spit and bile as he reaches frantically for his bag. James uses the sticky desktop to shove himself to his feet. He slips in the mess and nearly falls, flailing his arms to stay on his feet as he sprints for the door.
“It’s fine,” he hears the TA say softly as he pushes into the hall. James paws at the wall for support as he helplessly throws up again.
“Ah, shit.” He spits and clears his throat, giving up on decorum entirely. A wave of dizziness assaults him, and he rests his forehead against the cold whitewashed cinderblock. If his face wasn’t ashen, he’s sure it would be bright red with embarrassment. It’s something little kids do, vomiting all over the floor at school. By the middle grades they learn to make it to the nurse or dash into the bathroom before anything makes a reappearance, And by college it’s not supposed to happen at all. Kids with hangovers usually have the good sense to take the morning off.
Not that James has a hangover. For all he knows, he isn’t even sick. Or at least, he wasn’t. A dribble of icy sweat trails down his back, making him shiver. He lifts sweaty hair off his forehead in an attempt to feel his temperature, but his skin just feels clammy and wet.
He has to get out of here, James thinks. He isn’t sure he’ll be able to drive, let alone make it out of the building. His clothes stick heavily to him, stinking of bile and undigested breakfast. He swears again and wipes his hands on the back of his shirt.
James starts down the hall. He intends to head to the bathroom, but he finds the exit first. He pushes outside, only to find himself at the top of a flight of concrete stairs. His vision doubles and crosses before settling back to normal. He shakes his head and swallows something thick and hot.
James leans heavily on the railing at the top of the staircase and wrestles his phone from his pocket. He needs help, as much as he hates to admit it. He scrolls through his contacts, blinking against the pressure of mortified tears. Steve would probably be happy to come rescue him, but it would take time for him to make it to campus and locate him. Classes would change before he’d get there, and James doesn’t want to think what will happen if a few hundred students suddenly want to use the steps.
The next number in his recent contacts belongs to Tasha. James cringes at the thought of explaining himself to her. She’ll probably laugh, he thinks, but she doesn’t judge. Besides, he’s helped her out of enough sticky spots before that neither of them have much in the way of shame.
James presses the green call button and holds the phone to his ear. “Hey, Tash?” he croaks as soon as she answers.
“Yeah?” she says. “That you, Jamie?”
“Yeah,” James replies. “Um…” He clears his throat. “I, um. Threw up?”
“You what?”
“I…” He can’t repeat himself. His mouth waters horribly, his body threatening to do it again.
“Like, in class?” A short laugh, as expected.
James gives his head a quick shake and tries a different tact. “You still have your apartment on campus, right? Mind if I crash there?”
“Yeah. I’ll open the door for you. Where are you right now?”
“Uh, humanities?” James guesses. “Why aren’t you in class?”
“Only you would worry about me in a time like this,” Tasha sighs. “It was cancelled.”
James can’t tell if she’s telling the truth or not. He chooses not to care, though; he’s just grateful she’s nearby. “Oh. Well, good, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Tasha agress. “Just shut up and sit down. I’ll be there in a minute.”
James bends his weak knees and sits heavily on the top stair. “Ok.” He pulls the phone down a few inches, ready to hang up, but he reconsiders and lifts it up again. “Thank you,” he says quickly.
“Sure,” Tasha says. “For you, anything.”