A List of Cages(18)

I moan, stagger-hopping to the wall, and lean against a row of lockers. The underwear’s squeezing my balls, and I’m pretty sure my ankle is broken in ten places. Or at least sprained.

Allison stops laughing. “I think he needs to go to the nurse,” she tells Charlie, sounding all motherly. I want to hug her right now, but that would mean letting go of the lockers. Then, to me, “Come on, Adam, let’s go.”

“I can’t walk.”

Camila stamps her tiny foot and pouts. “You have to finish the dare!”

Charlie squints like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick. Then he apparently decides I’m really hurt, because he yells at me, “How can someone trip over literally nothing? Idiot!” I know this is his way of saying he cares.

Allison pats his back as if he’s the one who needs comforting, then Camila snaps her fingers. “Charlie, Allison, help him.” Sometimes she treats people like they’re her brother, and it can be pretty intimidating. The two of them quickly obey and do this thing where they stretch out my arms and drape them over their tall shoulders. Allison’s five foot ten—my height—but trying to sling an arm around Charlie makes things dangerously lopsided. We briefly consider switching him out for Camila, but that would just tilt us in the other direction.

The bell rings, and we’re officially late to our next class.

“Oh Jesus, just climb on,” Charlie grumbles, squatting low to the ground. Grinning, I hobble over and hop onto his back. He puts his arms under my knees, and we’re on our way, piggyback-style.

“You boys look cute like that.” Camila winks, snapping a picture with her phone. I smile back and nuzzle Charlie’s neck.

“Dude…” His voice is low and threatening and hilarious. “If you don’t quit it, I’m throwing you down, and you can crawl to the nurse’s office.” He drops my legs, and for a second they’re dangling. I hitch them back up and latch on tighter with my arms.

“You make me land on this foot, and I’ll kill you.” But I quit it, because I believe him.

When the four of us file into the nurse’s office, the middle-aged lady’s face instantly sours. “All right, kids.” She puts her fists on her wide hips. “Theatrics I don’t need.”

“Theatrics?” Camila puts her little fists on her own hips.

“He sprained his ankle,” Allison explains as Charlie backs up into a chair and drops me. I really need to get this underwear off. It’s like a weird version of choking.

“It doesn’t take ten kids to bring in one kid,” Grumpy Nurse says. “The rest of you can get to class.”

Camila’s clearly pissed, Allison looks afraid to leave me here, and Charlie is three seconds from imploding.

“It’s fine, guys,” I tell them. “I’ll text you later.” They leave grudgingly while the nurse grabs a thermometer and stuffs it into a thermometer condom. “The problem’s my ank—” She shoves it under my tongue.

“No fever,” she says when she extracts it a minute later.

“It’s my ankle.”

“Hmm.” She lifts my jeans, then presses the bone with her cold fingers.

“Ow. Ow.”

“I don’t see any swelling.”

“It really, really hurts.”

“You’ve been awfully smiley for someone who’s really hurt. Tell me the truth. Do you have a test this period you’re worried about?”

“Ah…I do have a test, but I’m not worried about it.”

She nods like she’s figured me out. “Okay, you go take that test, then if you’re still in pain, we’ll call Mom.”

“But my class is upstairs, on the other side of the school. I don’t think I can make it.” I look around the room. “What about that wheelchair?”

“What about it?”

“Can I borrow it?”

“That’s for someone who is seriously ill. Not for kids looking for a good time.”

“Looking for a…I’m not looking for a good time, I assure you. Just transportation.”

“You go back to class, take your test, then we’ll talk.”

“But—”

“Right. Now.”

She means it. She’s seriously kicking me out. I get up, hobble-limp, then hop on my uninjured foot. So far so good. A few more hops—then I stumble, and every bit of my weight lands full force on my aching ankle. “Fuck!”

The nurse gasps, her hands flying to her chest like she’s been shot. I hobble-limp back to the chair while she stomps in squeaky nurse shoes to her desk. “I’m writing you up,” she announces, jerking out a pad of paper.

“I’m sorry. It was involuntary.”

“And you’re still not doing what I asked.”

“I wish I could.”

She starts writing furiously, reading aloud as she goes. “Refuses…to follow…instructions.”

I’m starting to feel queasy. I landed too hard, and now my foot is freakin throbbing. Sweat beads on my upper lip. “I think I may actually have a fever now. Maybe you could take my temperature again.”

Another shotgun-gasp and she writes even faster.