The Speed of Light: A Novel(32)

“Maybe . . . I have heard more angsty, dramatic sighs than usual coming from his office lately.” I shoot Nikki a look and she chuckles. “Look, I know you like Stan—and it’s not that I don’t like him—but at some point he needs to actually be held accountable for his mistakes.”

I sigh. “I know. But, I mean, we both agree that Stan is better than Chet, right? Chet kind of gives me the creeps.”

“Ugh, yes, he’s a sexist prick. But I say they are both equal when it comes to being entitled old white guys.”

I laugh. “Well, either way, this means we need to go to the blood drive now. Somebody needs to take some pictures for Facebook.”

Nikki groans. “Fine, but they are not sticking a fucking needle in my arm.”

I smirk. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”



The squeak of the glossy wooden floor greets us as we step into the auxiliary gym, which today is set up with tables and chairs, white curtained partitions, and big red donation signs. At least two dozen students and staff members sit waiting in the folding chairs.

“Not a bad crowd, this soon after winter break,” I say.

“Poor fools,” Nikki grumbles.

I chuckle, then snap an overall shot with my phone and tweet out a reminder about the event: #StudentsSavingLives.

We make our way closer, and the woman at the registration desk looks up with a smile. “Are you two going to donate blood today?”

Nikki raises her camera and keeps clicking, walking away as if she hasn’t heard the question. Clever. I turn back toward the woman’s expectant face, and you know what—why not? “Sure. I haven’t donated in a while—been meaning to set up an appointment.”

“Excellent.” She signs me in, then points me to the waiting area, which has already dwindled—they’re moving folks along.

“Bunch of bloodsuckers.” I jump at the creepy whisper in my ear, then elbow Nikki. One traumatic experience getting an IV put in when her appendix burst and now she nearly drives a stake through the heart of anyone coming near her with a needle. “I’m out. Can’t stand this shit.”

As Nikki walks away, an unfamiliar burn nags at my chest, an ugly thought forming unbidden. Like anybody loves needles. Some of us don’t have a choice.

I put a hand to my mouth as if I’ve said it out loud. To my right, a white curtain whooshes open. A woman in dark-blue scrubs leans her head out. “Next.”

I jump up and step around the curtain, and the woman smiles up at me, her round face a friendly beacon in this packed room. “Welcome.” She nudges her trendy, black-framed glasses into place. “Have a seat.”

I smile, my shoulders relaxing as I sit in the chair opposite her. She’s young, with a purple-tipped cropped cut, and she oozes friendliness. “Have you donated with us before?”

“Yes. I’m Simone Archer.”

“Thanks for coming in today, Simone.” She keeps her smile but doesn’t look up from the laptop as she clicks away at the keyboard. “Ah, here you are—yes, it’s been long enough since your last donation. Your registration should be a breeze, then. As long as there are no changes since last time?”

Her words fly as fast as her fingers on the keyboard. I blink, registering. “Uh, what?”

She turns to me, still smiling, and I notice her name tag says Lucy. “Medically, I mean. No changes?”

My stomach drops. “Well, actually, no. I mean, yes, there’s one change, but it probably doesn’t matter.” I clear my throat. “I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis last month.”

Shock flashes across her face, then a glimmer of confusion, and it’s like I read her mind. But you look fine. Lucy recovers quickly, though, and gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, fiddle with my necklace.

She leans in, lowers her voice. “Do you drink diet pop?”

My shoulders tense. “Um, no, I don’t. Why?”

She lowers her chin, her look pointed. “My cousin read online that the effects of drinking too much aspartame can mimic MS. Might want to check into that.”

I slouch forward. Oh God, she’s one of those.

Hot, churning liquid boils within my chest, and I want to flip out a sarcastic Well, I think I’ll stick with the actual medical science of neurology, thank you very much.

But Lucy is still smiling. She’s nice, dammit—she’s trying to help. Plus, I’m at work, so I need to at least be polite and professional. I force a smile. “Hmm, okay, thanks. But I suppose that’s not really something that matters anyway? It’s not like I’m contagious or anything.” My laugh falls flat and her smile fades.

“Honestly, I don’t know . . . this is my first week on the job.” She turns back to her computer and squints at the screen. Her eyes flick to mine, and I catch a hint of guilt. “Just a second, okay, Simone? I’m going to check with my coworker real quick.”

Lucy walks into the next booth, and I wait, heat creeping into my face and neck. My fingers squeeze around my necklace until they hurt as Lucy and her coworker begin to talk, their voices too low for me to catch their conversation. Finally, Lucy returns. She sighs as she sits back down and doesn’t meet my eyes as she thrusts a pamphlet forward. “I’m sorry, but you can’t donate today.”