Two Steps Forward

I bet even the early humans hated Mondays.

I attempt to express this thought aloud, but my mouth only makes accommodations for a heavy groan. Either way Amelia understands the sentiment and pats my back, "I know, I know," she cooes all motherly-like.

She combs through my hair with her fingers with practiced caution. I have the kind of hair that will grab right back at you if you're not careful enough. I wince when she tugs on some strands, struggling to free her fingers from the tangles like a fly caught in a web.

"Sorry, Carls. I knew I shouldn't have worn this stupid ring. It gets caught on everything." The validity of her statement is evidenced by a series of snags in the sleeve of her powder blue sweater.

Part of me hopes that maybe if she pulls hard enough, I'll unravel and disappear forever and that'll be the end of me: Carlie Stetson. No more scooping ice cream at the lousy 31 Flavors, no more choosing sides between mom and dad, no more snobby Raya Stephens or Diane Nagali, and most of all, no more Curry freaking Meyers (my almost first ever boyfriend).

I hold my hands under the faucet and splash my face with lukewarm water. It smells like rotten eggs and metal yet tastes like wood. Gross.

"If I ask nicely, do you think Bloody Mary will take me away from this nightmare?" I croak dryly, looking at Amelia through the mirror embedded above the sink.

I'd say she's just about flawless. Her mixed heritage has given her super beautiful skin that girls our age—any age, really—would kill for. It's a perfect blend of both of her parents' skin: the color of classic cheesecake, free from all blemishes, and only creamy smooth in texture. The solitary mar on her, if you can even call it that, is a tiny crescent moon shaped scar on her right eyebrow. Still, she manages to make it look both stylish and intentional. If I had to describe her appearance in one word, I'd choose "effortless."

My opinion of her looks aside, she still hosts insecurities of her own. Gangly, she would say, but really, she's just on the tall and thin side. Like taller than even some of the senior boys at Foxfort High School. She often compares herself to a flightless bird, such as an Ostrich, but I think she's more graceful than that, practically model-like. I try to convince her all the time to go for the runway once high school is finished but she would much rather be stuck in a hair salon for ten hours, taming a head of hair like mine.

"At this point, I think Bloody Mary would be scared of you," she jokes. "Anyway, you feeling any better? Are the antacids helping?"

"I don't know," I rub my tummy and groan for the thousandth time, "I still feel pretty sick."

About twenty minutes ago—literally 60 seconds before the lunch bell—I sprinted out of math class and puked up all my breakfast in the toilet. I never pay attention during Geometry and after a certain point in the school year, Ms. Belshire just stopped calling on me—and placing expectations on me in general. So, when I suddenly shot up and ran out without a hall pass, she didn't even flinch. She only raised her voice to recalibrate everyone's attention and kept scribbling equations on the smartboard.

I can't say the same for Amelia though, because I heard Ms. Belshire call out to her when she followed me out. "Sorry," Amelia said and then she was right behind me, the wood plank in her hand that doubled as a ruler and class's hall pass.

Anyway, Amelia followed after me and kept my hair out of the way while rubbing my back. Last time we were in this position our roles were switched, Amelia pointed that out with a reminiscent smile.

"Wanna go to the nurse?" She suggests.

"Nah. I'm good. Water?"

She shakes her head, and her tight curls bounce in sync, "Our bags are still in Belshire's room. I'll go get them," she pats my back one final time before leaving me alone in the bathroom. The door opens with a loud squeak. It's one of those weird doors that open swiftly but takes forever to close on its own.

As I watch Amelia disappear out the door, Curry Meyers' face appears between the open space. He's standing on the far side of the hallway, facing my way, leaning against a locker, and looking right at me through the gap in the door. The door crack grows smaller ever so painstakingly slow, closing in on him like a spotlight. Of course, of all people he has to be the one standing right there at this exact second in that exact spot.

His beautiful face, kind amber-green gaze and gentle smile, that once filled me with maximum giddiness and pure bliss now makes me want to disappear. It only serves to remind me how I messed everything up between us, how I ruined what we could have been. What we were once meant to be. God, what is wrong with me? Sometimes I feel like a passenger in my own body, like someone else makes me do and say the dumbest, most awkward things. I wonder if there's a priest in town that specializes in exorcisms for the socially awkward and anxious. I need him ASAP.

Curry is still there, standing statue still, his face as blank as my class notes for Geometry, one arm in his pocket and the other one held by a sling. It's like he doesn't know what to think of me anymore. My gut churns, burbling and boiling like a witch's brew, the butterflies in my stomach are dissolved by the bile and...And something's coming up. A violent gag seizes my body and right before Curry's eyes—a spray of vomit shoots out of my mouth in homage to The Exorcist.

Oh my God!

Someone...Anyone, please get the priest on speed dial. I can't deal!