Carter Ortese is Trouble - completed (The Boys #1)

Chapter 28: Emma

I should skip band. I want to go home. Or rather, I want to go anywhere but home or school. My head is on fire. Small volcanic eruptions blast through my synapses every time I take a step. After last night, I might as well be a walking corpse. I'm a hollowed shell of the person I used to be, and I'm not sure I can justify anything I'm feeling.

Stacy has gone through so much worse, so much more, and I can't stop comparing my petty problems to hers. It makes me feel guilty, like I'm not worthy of having these emotions. I have no right to be upset, not with my life, not after what she's been through.

But regardless of all these conflicting emotions, my brain is still on fire.

Every time one of my teacher's squeaked a dry erase marker across the board, I've winced. I almost collapsed when I had to get up and solve a simple calculus equation. My brain is mush, threatening to flood over the barriers of my skull with each and every step. A small part of me recognizes this isn't normal, but I can manage. I have to. I can't talk to my parents about this. Not now.

I've already taken the maximum dose of migraine medication, and by the time I step into the cafeteria for lunch, the loudness of everything has driven me crazy. I am nothing but the pain inside my head. I stand in the middle of the line for ... What am I doing here? I glance around, trying to make sense out of my fog. Someone behind me fake coughs, that hurry-up sound of an impatient person.

Pasta. I'm in the pasta line, having not packed my own lunch this morning.

I push my tray forward, and the man working behind the counter asks, "Are you okay?" He has a chubby little mustache on his face and white wisps of hair escaping the net stretched across his scalp.

"Yeah, thanks. Headache." I shrug and force a smile, because I probably resemble an ogre who just stepped out from under a very dark bridge. Either that, or someone who has done a lot of drugs. Ironic, how I'm supposed to be the one dating the drug dealer and all, but he's cleaner than my anti-migraine filled body. "Just plain, please."

Thinking of the taste of the acidic marinara makes my stomach feel like it could empty its contents right through my belly button. Split me open like a seam of a dog's abused chew toy.

When I take the tray and swipe my ID at the counter, the lunch lady tells me I have insufficient funds.

"What?" I ask, confused. Her statement doesn't register.

"Says there's no balance. Sorry, dear."

"But my parents—" I shut my eyes. They refill my lunch money once a month, on the first, which was yesterday. Yesterday, when they were drinking and pissed off. Yesterday, when I told them that I was the exact opposite of everything they've always wanted.

"Okay," I say, more because the lady is staring at me with round brown eyes, and I feel obligated to fill the space between us. "Okay. Not a problem, I just need to find some money. How much is it?"

She tells me the total, and I fish around in my backpack. I find some forgotten dimes and quarters, but the coins aren't nearly enough to pay for my meal.

"Are there any exceptions? Just one time?" I ask.

Her pleasant face turns down slightly. "Afraid I've already had my quota for exceptions today."

I can't tell if she's joking, so I gaze at her for a second longer. When she doesn't say anything else, I ask, "How much for an apple then?" Thinking at least something needs to go in my empty, angry stomach, even if it will taste like bitter acid going down.

"Let me," comes a deeper voice behind me. He leans over my shoulder, ready to swipe his card. Carter.

I press my eyes shut out of embarrassment and gratitude.