Heroine(54)

My phone goes off as I pull into the school parking lot with a text from Josie.

Sorry—long weekend

I answer immediately—It’s okay. When she didn’t text me back I assumed she was pissed at me for ditching her Saturday morning, and while I didn’t like how that felt, I disliked even more that I might never hear her idea for keeping us in supply.

Figured something out, she texts. Come over after school?

The question mark hurts my heart. If Josie is really my friend it shouldn’t be there, her concern that I’ll say no again finding an outlet in those few pixels.

Got a game, I shoot back.

The bubble with an ellipsis inside shows up, then disappears. Shows itself again, then vanishes without a message coming through. I imagine Josie with her expensive clothes, perfect hair, and—I’m sure—re-buffed nails trying to find the right response. It’s weird to think of a girl as perfectly put together as her struggling to find words. God, I know how that feels.

Like shit.

It’s a home game today, so I’ll have almost half an hour to kill before we start hauling equipment out to the field.

I can come over before, I text. But only real quick.

The ellipsis shows again, but this time she sends her response.

Real quick is all I need. Later!

My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth by third period. I roll it around, trying to kick up some saliva, but it’s large and heavy, awkward in my mouth. I can feel my lips stretching over my teeth as I do, tender skin ready to start peeling away if I don’t drink something soon. I shift in my seat, ignoring the teacher as my guts take a spin.

At lunch I take a bite of my chicken sandwich, chewing everything into tiny bits so they can slide down my dry throat without choking me. Carolina puts the back of her hand to my forehead.

“You’re not looking so hot,” she says. “But you feel it.”

Lydia exchanges a glance with Bella Center, while Left and Right stare down at their own sandwiches like they might escape if they aren’t paying close attention.

“Just a bug, I think,” I say, making a conscious effort to stop my hand as it reaches for the carton of milk on my tray. Carolina spots the move, but misreads it. She digs into the backpack at her side, plopping a bottle of water in front of me.

“Milk’s not a good call if you’ve got a fever,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, and crack it open. I take a small sip and swish it around my mouth, waiting until the last second to swallow.

“Drink up,” Carolina insists, when I go to cap the bottle. “I can’t have you passing out behind the plate.”

“Nikki wouldn’t mind though,” Bella Right says.

“I’m—”

“Fine,” Lydia, Carolina, and the Bellas all finish for me, in unison.

“Yeah, we know,” Lydia says, pushing her tray away. “Just like you were fine when I found you puking your guts out on the road.”

“Hey,” I protest, reddening. But the other girls don’t look surprised. I guess it was too much to hope that Lydia would keep her mouth shut about that. “Can’t a girl get sick around here?”

“How often?” Carolina asks quietly, and everyone else nods.

“Mickey . . . ,” Lydia begins, “if you need to talk about anything—”

I stand up, snatching my tray so forcefully that a few peas roll off the side. “What I need is for other people to stop talking about me when I’m not around to defend myself.”

I’m thinking of that group message I saw on Carolina’s phone the other night, right after my dad called to tell Mom his new wife thinks I’ve got a problem. I wonder if that text conversation got longer afterward, and what my supposed best friend shared with almost the entire starting lineup.

“Why would you need to defend yourself?” Bella Left asks, eyeing me. “We’re not accusing you of anything.”

I don’t answer, because I sure as hell feel like that’s exactly what just happened. As I dump most of my lunch in the trash along with the nearly full water bottle, Nikki comes up behind me, clapping a hand on my back. It’s not hard, but it’s enough to rattle my shoulder blades, my skin so sensitive it feels like her fingers just went straight through to my spine.

“Don’t touch me,” I say, louder than I intended to, gaining the attention of everyone nearby.

“Whoa, hey . . . ,” Nikki says, stepping back when I spin around. Her eyes roam my face for a moment. I must look about the same as I feel, judging by her reaction. “Mickey . . . are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course she is,” Bella Left says sarcastically as she appears at my side, scraping her own tray into the trash. “She’s Mickey Catalan.”

I speed out of the parking lot after school, anxious to get to Josie’s and back. If I’m late for warm-up, Coach will rip me a new one, and the way my body aches, it might feel literal. I throw a few more Advil back, along with another Imodium. My guts are under control, but I’ve hardly got enough spit for everything to make the journey to my stomach. Spots swim in my vision when I get out of the car at Josie’s, a wave of dizziness washing over me.

I’ve been dehydrated before, and doing it to myself on purpose is straight up idiotic. I’m walking a fine line between passing out because I’m not drinking, or being drenched in sweat because I’m going through withdrawal. Either way, it’s not going to look good to the half of the team that already suspects something, and might make the other half start to wonder. Not to mention Mom.