Page 93

“That’s my academic face.”

“That’s your ‘something is wrong and I’m going to make it everyone’s problem by not saying anything’ face,” she says, shaking her head as if I’m an incorrigible toddler.

I make a face at her.

“Maggie.”

I shift my bag higher on my shoulder. “I’m fine.”

Simone slows by half a step.

I keep walking.

Mistake.

The hallway tilts slightly followed by that unpleasant, slow roll in my stomach that has been threatening me since I walked past the cafeteria and smelled eggs.

Eggs. Why do eggs exist with such confidence?

I stop.

Simone stops too. “Maggie?”

“I’m good.”

I am not good. The smell of cafeteria eggs comes back in my memory, somehow stronger than when I actually passed the cafeteria, which feels medically unfair.

My stomach turns once. “Oh,” I say.

Simone’s face changes. “Bathroom?”

I’m already moving. I get through the bathroom door, past two first-years doing lipstick at the mirror, into the nearest stall, and then I throw up with no warning beyond the entire last thirty seconds of my life.

Simone is behind me, one hand gathering my hair away from my face. “Okay,” she says calmly. “You’re okay.”

I am not okay. I am kneeling on a hospital bathroom floor, which is basically a character test no one should have to take.

I cough, spit, and groan.

From somewhere in the back of my brain, Petra’s voice appears. Mild nausea can be expected during this phase. Please maintain hydration and report severe or persistent symptoms.

I make a terrible sound that might be a laugh if it had died halfway out.

Simone looks down at me. “Did you just laugh?”

“No,” I say, then gag again.

“That was a laugh.”

“It was Petra.”

“Who the hell is Petra?”

I close my eyes and rest my forehead against my arm on the toilet seat, which is disgusting, but I have temporarily stopped caring about infection control.

“Strict secretary ghost,” I mumble.

“Okay,” Simone says slowly. “That is not clarifying.”