The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(52)

I don’t need her to tell me twice. Having a couple more hours of sleep before I need to be at the post office to sort mail sounds like a dream. So I hurry home and then fall into bed without checking my phone again. It’ll still be there in the morning.

At three-forty my alarm goes off. When I push up into a sitting position, I nearly pass out from dizziness. The contents of last night’s hastily gulped supper at the club threaten to make a reappearance.

I close my eyes and take several deep breaths. Once I feel like I can stand without throwing up all over my feet, I bend over to grab my phone.

Which is a huge mistake.

My stomach revolts. Vomit is in my mouth before I can make it to the bathroom, and I’m already throwing up before I can snap the toilet lid up. I drop to my knees as everything I’d eaten for what seems like the last week comes out and dumps into the porcelain bowl.

Oh God. I feel awful.

I heave until there’s nothing but pale watery bile. Still on my knees, I reach for a towel and wipe my face off. I’m sweating, I realize. Shaking, sweating, and sick as a dog. Weakly, I flush the toilet twice before dragging myself upright.

At the sink, I swish my mouth out with water and then stare at my pale reflection. I have to go to work. During every holiday season, there’s a shortage of workers and the full-time employees receive time and a half. I can’t afford to stay home.

I totter back to my bedroom only to stop at my door. Uh-oh. The water I swallowed isn’t sitting well. Sweat breaks out across my forehead, forcing me back to the toilet.

As I flush the mess away, I come to the realization.

I’m going to have to call in sick. There’s no way I can go in.

The clock beside my bed says it’s five past four. I’m already late. I pick up the phone and dial. My supervisor, Kam, answers right away.

“Kam, it’s Sabrina. I’ve been throwing up—”

“Do you have a doctor’s note?” he demands.

“No, but—”

“Sorry, Sabrina, you need to come in. It’s all hands on deck. You asked for these shifts.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts. Sorry.”

“I’ve been puking all—”

“Look, I have to go, but as a favor I’ll go punch your time card so you aren’t docked or written up for being late. But you need to get in here. We’ve got so many frickin’ boxes to sort, I can’t even see the other side of the room. Doesn’t anyone shop at the mall anymore?”

It’s a rhetorical question, apparently, because he hangs up immediately after.

I stare at my phone and then push to my feet. I’m going to work, I guess.

“You look terrible,” one of the temporary workers comments when I stumble in twenty minutes later. “Don’t stand by me. I don’t want to get sick.”

I squint at her through narrowed eyes and am tempted to barf all over her starchy uniform. “Me neither,” I say shortly.

Kam arrives with a frown and his iPad. “Get over into bay four and start sorting. We’re so freaking behind it’s not even funny.”

I resist the urge to salute. I agree with him, though—there’s nothing funny about this situation. I feel terrible.

The whole morning drags on. I feel like I’m covered in tar, each movement of my body requiring so much effort. I must’ve gotten a flu bug. I’m worn down, just like Hope had warned, due to the two jobs, the full load, the worry about Harvard. I pushed myself too much this semester and now I’m paying for it.

When the shift is over, I barely have the energy to pour myself into the car and drive out of the parking lot. I make it home, but the minute I hit the kitchen, another wave of nausea strikes. I slap a hand over my mouth and rush to the bathroom.

“What’s wrong with the two of you?” grumbles Ray, who’s standing at the open door. He’s wearing one of his stained white tank tops untucked over a pair of gray sweatpants. In one hand is a beer.

You. You’re what’s wrong with us.

Then the meaning of his words sinks in. “What do you mean the two of us? Is Nana sick?”

“So she says. She didn’t finish making my breakfast. She got sick and had to go pass out in the bedroom.” He jerks his head toward Nana’s room.

I drag myself to my feet and stumble into her room. “Nana, you sick?” I ask.

The room’s dark and she’s lying on the bed with an eye mask on her face. “Yeah. I think I came down with the flu.”

“Shit. I’ve got it too.”

“I heard you puking this morning.”

“Sorry.”

She pats the bed. “Come over here and lay next to me, baby. You done with work?”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yeah, I’m off until tomorrow morning. No club tonight.”

“That’s good. You work too hard.”

I crawl onto the space that she’s made for me. Back when I was little, I used to sleep with Nana. I’d get scared and she’d find me huddled under my blankets, crying into my pillow. Mom was off with Ray or one of the many men she had before Ray. Nana would carry me into her room and tell me that the monsters weren’t going to get me as long as we held on to each other.

I find my grandmother’s hand and twine my fingers through hers. “It’s only for a few more months.”