Page 94
One of the first-years near the sinks goes quiet.
Simone turns her head. “We’re fine.”
The girl nods quickly. “Totally.”
The bathroom door opens. Someone else walks in, sees my shoes under the stall, hears my soul attempting to exit through my mouth, and immediately walks back out.
Good. At least someone here has survival instincts.
Simone crouches beside me when I finally stop. “Food poisoning?” she asks.
“No.”
“Virus?”
“No.”
“Did you eat vending machine tuna again?”
“That was Marco.”
“I don’t care whose sin it was. Did you participate?”
“No.”
She’s quiet for one second too long. I know that quiet. That is the quiet of Simone adding things together. My exhaustion. My weird schedule. The appointments I keep vaguely referring to. The way I stopped drinking coffee last week and claimed I was “experimenting with moral growth.” The fact that I almost cried when someone opened a boiled egg in the student lounge.
“Maggie,” she says.
I reach for toilet paper and wipe my mouth. “I need to tell you something.”
Her face softens immediately, which is somehow worse than suspicion. “Okay.”
The bathroom door opens again. Two students enter mid-conversation. “…and then he said creatinine like that explained his personality—”
They stop when they see Simone crouched outside my stall.
“Sorry,” one says.
“It’s fine,” Simone says, standing. “Give us a minute.”
They exchange a look, wash their hands in record time, and leave.
I flush the toilet and sit back on my heels. “I was going to tell you,” I say.
Simone’s eyebrows lift. “That is never a comforting opening.”
“I know.”
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Are you in trouble?”
I hesitate.
Her eyes narrow.
