Bookish and the Beast (Once Upon a Con #3)(35)

“Do you want me to look at your foot or not?”

“Not would be preferable.”

“I should at least take a look at the swelling,” I say.

She hesitates again, and then she squares her shoulders and gives a single nod.

I gently lift her foot to my lap. “Elias taught me,” I say before she can ask. “Said if I wanted to do my own stunts, might as well learn how to treat myself, too. He went to school for nursing. Said it wasn’t his calling—not enough pain-in-the-ass rich white kids.”

“I can’t believe he gave up nursing to be your babysit—ah!” she gasps as I feel the underside of her foot, and bites her bottom lip hard enough to leave a white bloodless indentation.

“Well, good news,” I say after a moment, running my fingers gently along her ankle. “I think it’s fatal.”

She gives me a withering look. “You’re the worst.”

“So I’m always reminded. I think it’s only sprained, but when Elias comes back we can take you to the emergency room.”

She looks away, frowning. “I think it’ll be fine.”

“It might not be.”

To that she huffs, but she doesn’t rebuke me again. I gently wrap her ankle with an Ace bandage and prop it up on the coffee table, and go rifling into the first-aid box. “Want some pain relievers? Are you allergic to anything?”

“You.”

I offer her a bottle of ibuprofen and the ice pack. “Who isn’t?”

She frowns, shifting uncomfortably again, though I can’t tell whether it’s from her ankle or something else. “…Are you okay?” she finally asks.

That surprises me. “Oh. Yeah. Of course I am.”

The garage door opens, and Elias comes in, laden with two bags of groceries. “Is that Rosie’s car still out front?” He rounds into the kitchen when he sees us on the couch in the living room. Then he notices the ice on her ankle, and the first-aid box, and drops the groceries on the ground. He turns an accusing eye to me. “What did you do?”

I give him a withering look.

Honestly, not everything is my fault.

Except for, maybe, this.





THE POLITE (AND INCREDIBLY HOT) ER NURSE said that my ankle was sprained, so he gave me crutches and told me not to lean on my foot too much over the next few days. Which meant that I would go from uncool to super uncool, especially when my dad insisted on taking me to school, which was mortifying enough when your dad is the Super Hot Dad that everyone thirsts over (the last time he graced the halls was for an open house, and the theater kids nearly erected a shrine in his honor), but because I picked Quinn and Annie up every morning, he also offered to take them to school, too.

I want to die.

“Space Dad taking us to school is a blessing in disguise,” Annie says with a sigh, pressing her hands together in prayer. “My crops are watered and my skin is clear.”

I wish I could hobble faster into the school, but alas, crutches only have one speed—painstakingly slow. In the carpool lane, Dad pokes his head out of the window and yells, “Make good choices! Bye, Rosebud!”

I try to ignore him, but Quinn and Annie wave back with, “Bye, Space Dad!”

Traitors.

As Dad pulls away—earning a few looks from some of my classmates in the drop-off area—Quinn and Annie catch up to me. A part of me wonders if I can just toss the crutches and deal with the pain, but as soon as I try to stand on my foot, a sharp jab shoots up my ankle. Nope—no. Bad idea, abort mission.

Quinn holds the breezeway door open for me as I navigate my crutches inside, Annie bringing up the rear. “Hey, maybe Space Dad can do a PSA for me and I can get it aired on the morning announcement,” they say.

Annie gasps. “That’s an excellent idea!”

“No, it’s not,” I deadpan, but neither of them listens to me as they slowly meander with me to my and Annie’s lockers. “Y’all—aaahh—” My nose tickles, and I let out a sneeze that almost tips me over my crutches.

“Whoa there,” Annie says, steadying me. “You aren’t getting sick, are you?”

I sniff and rub my nose. “The ER was crawling with snot-year-olds last night.”

Quinn makes a crossing motion with their fingers toward me. “Don’t give it to me! I have to go on the announcements tomorrow morning for a Homecoming thing, and the Space Dad PSA was a joke.”

“Oh, so I can’t snot all over you?”

“Negatory, Bob—oh, that reminds me.” They fish something out of their backpack and hold it up to me triumphantly. “Here, take this. My mom swears by it. Remember when I got that cold this summer? I took this and—”

“It kicked the demons right out,” Annie fills in.

“Something like that,” Quinn agrees. “It works.”

I flip over to the back of the packet and read the ingredients. “This is basically orange sugar water.”

“Don’t spill it on a white shirt,” they advise. “You can also dye things with it.”

“And you want me to drink it?”

“Well, if you don’t want it, give it back.”

“I never said that.” I slip it into my back pocket. I’m not opposed to some questionable medicines, honestly, even if it is just glorified Kool-Aid. “Too bad it can’t heal my ankle.”