Heartsick

Chapter 3

My eyes pop open as the scream shudders out of our bathroom. Sunlight smacks against the shadows in the collage on the ceiling above my bed. I flop off my mattress, tripping over sheets to get to Mandy.

"What's wrong?"

She clasps both sides of the sink and leans close to the mirror. Her nose kisses the glass.

"You okay?" I ask again. I step forward and put my hand on her shoulder. Her head droops and she stares at the drain in our sink. She turns to me.

"My eyes," she says. "What happened to my eyes?"

Purple. Her eyes are purple. It's not a trick of the light like I thought last night. Full-fledged brilliant violet irises are surrounded by crinkled, worried skin.

"Are you wearing contacts?" It's a dumb question. If she had purchased and put purple cosmetic contacts in, she'd probably remember.

"No." She clutches her hair. She doesn't call out my stupid question, which is not like her. Maybe she had even asked herself the same thing. When you have no idea what's happening, even inane questions deserve their place.

I cup Mandy's chin so that I can get a better look at those irises while trying to tame my own wild heartbeat.

I take care of Mandy because she takes care of me. Like the time someone snuck tequila in the sangria and I ended up with my knees on our puffy pink bathmat, praying to the porcelain god as Mandy rubbed my back and ordered me to drink water.

When that jerk Jason broke up with me over a blush brush (I left it in his dorm, accidentally, so obviously I was purposefully encroaching on his space), she was also there for me. She blared one of my favorite country songs, stood on my bed and played an air banjo.

I took care of her when she lost the sophomore class presidency. She curled up in a ball at the foot of my bed, raw, bare teeth skidding against the ground as tears slid over her lips. I lay on the bed, my chin over the edge, just listening and tossing down the occasional tissue. When she was ready, I blasted some old-school Snoop Dogg and, in my baggiest clothes, did a beep-bop hip-hop thing that I can assure you was actually pretty slammin', considering I'm a rich white girl.

But I don't think my rapping talents will save her now. "Well, how do you feel? Do your eyes hurt?"

"They felt weird last night," she says. "But they're fine now. I feel completely fine!" Her exasperated tone doesn't match the sentence.

Finally, after staring into the violet streaks surrounding her pupil, I render my verdict. "You should go to the doctor." I say it like a pin prick. Zip. Bang. Done.

Mandy pinches her nose and sighs. "Thanks, that's a big help."

I cross my arms. "We could look it up , but that's weird. I'd go to the clinic."

"They aren't going to be able to fix this," Mandy snaps. The air between us crackles. I sigh and reach my arms out. Mandy's head lolls around. "Will you come with me?" Her voice slips and slides with a fear I didn't realize she could possess.

"Of course," I say.

We pull on some clothes and head to the little college clinic. First we have to get by Jared. He's this creepy religious guy with sandy white hair who thinks it's his job to tell everyone how awful they are. This morning, he stands in front of the clinic holding up a poster of what I think is a bloody fetus (I don't look long enough to confirm) as he blesses us and tells us to make the right decision. I don't even think they perform abortions at the clinic. He's just assuming since we're college girls with a health problem we must be preggers.