Don't puke.
Don't puke.
Don't puke.
Like a mantra, Michael repeated this ridiculous phrase in his head for minutes on end. Of course, this had no effect on the fact that he was blowing chunks every few seconds. He was grateful that the hall bathroom was nowhere near where his parents slept, or they would have heard him for sure. And on top of feeling like garbage, he had walked in on them sucking face about a week ago, though it still felt like an hour ago.
'Gross. Maybe that's why I feel so sick…'
He had been feeling ill for days at this point, though he just chalked it up to being a stomach bug. He already acted irritated at school anyways, so the change in behavior went unnoticed. He didn't look sick, either. Michael's plan; wait for it to go away. He had already survived a week, what was a few more days?
The next day, Michael didn't feel any better. In fact, he felt infinitely worse. His throat felt like he had just swallowed Iron Wool, and his stomach was churning like the Atlantic Ocean. He wanted to do anything but go to school, but even that was a better alternative than staying home with his family, treating him like a toddler with a cold.
It was a particularly warm late September day, the last hurrah of summer before autumn rolled in. Warm breezes caressed Michael's face, but that did little to help his shivering. He was shaking like a wet leaf, boiling on the outside, and freezing on the inside, like a human Hot Pocket. The leaves on the trees were just beginning to turn brown, and a few were already decorating the cracked sidewalk. Every step felt as though he was carrying a large boulder while walking through sand.
On the bright side, it was a beautiful day.
A half-hour of 'Oh god, I'm dying,' and Michael reached P.S./I.S. 905, unsure of whether or not the nausea was part of being sick or simply looking at his school. He decided that it was a bit of both, as he reluctantly trudged into the building. A wave of sickness hit him as he stepped into the frigid lobby, which was most likely below 65 degrees. This didn't help the constant chills that kept going down Michael's spine. He had left the apartment earlier than usual, to avoid detection from his parents, so the school was practically empty, save for a few teachers and the occasional janitor. Mrs. Zadeh was one such teacher, making her way to the nearest staircase to get to the eighth grade math classroom, the subject she taught. Michael made a beeline in the opposite direction, desperately hoping she wouldn't see him. Much to his disappointment, just as he was about to turn a corner, he heard a soft voice behind him, laced with concern.
"Michael, are you alright?"
As Michael felt a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck, he surprised himself with his seemingly composed response; "Of course! We're going over something we learned last year, right? Are we almost done, so we can start studying for the Algebra Regents? I know I'm not supposed to be worried about it so early in the year, but," Michael took a deep breath to continue, feeling his stomach churn sickeningly. "My class is the most advanced, after all, and I want to make sure that we're prepared for the test. The Regents are supposed to be really tough and I want to make sure we're all ready and-"
"Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"You're scaring me quite a bit. Do you want to go to the nurse, or…?" Mrs. Zadeh readjusted the supplies in her arms, clasping her hands and leaning forward to see Michael more clearly. He was quick to exclaim,
"No! No, I'm fine, I have a history test that I haven't studied for, so I'm a little stressed over that. I'd better go study for it while I have the time, bye!"
Michael dashed down the hall, leaving Mrs. Zadeh baffled and concerned. He knew that he had classes with her later in the day, but the only thing he could think about was not blowing chunks all over the lockers. Every step he took echoed down the empty, cold hallway, amplified in his head to sound as though he were walking through a giant canyon. Posters advertising the upcoming book fair decorated the walls, adorned with stock images of cartoon novels and comic sans fonts. The faint scent of cleaning product hung in the air, burning Michael's nose and making him feel even worse. His head had begun to pound, and his mouth was as dry as a desert. He managed to make it down the length of the hallway before he felt the urge to vomit, prompting him to immediately turn around and sprint towards the nearest boys bathroom. The next few seconds were a blur, but Michael remembered the slamming of a door, papers rustling as his bookbag was haphazardly thrown to the floor, and lots of gross retching. His stomach seemed determined to turn itself inside out, and Michael wasn't sure how he was going to get through an entire day of school while his whole body was going on strike.
Despite their own odd quirks, Michael was really grateful for Hazel and Peter. Throughout the first half of the day, they practically dragged him from class to class. Hazel, being her usual self, kept trying to convince Michael to go to the nurse, while Peter made fun of how gross he looked. He felt like total garbage, but at least he knew his idiot friends were there for him.
The only period that he was dreading was Algebra, the class he had after lunch. He was a tutor for 8RF, and he really didn't want to deal with Stan that day.
He felt sick enough as it was.
Thankfully, his nausea had subsided for the time being, so, feeling normal for the first time that day, he trudged into the Algebra classroom. Mrs. Zadeh was sitting at her desk, typing vigorously on her laptop. Once the door closed behind Michael, she lifted her head, and almost instantly, her look turned from friendly to concerned.
"Michael, you look horrible!"
Michael smirked. "Thanks, I try."
"Sweetheart, I'm serious, you look much worse than this morning, you need to see the nurse!"
"I know you're my teacher, but I would respectfully disagree with you on that."
During this exchange, the door opened behind Michael, and a familiar, grating voice attacked his eardrums.
"Miss, are you proud of me? I'm early today!" Stan yelled, dropping his book bag near the whiteboard. Michael then saw Stan out of the corner of his eye, looking bewildered.
"Okay, you look weird all the time, but you look sick today."
Wow. If he notices I'm sick, then I must really look awful.
"It's because Michael is actually sick, Stanley."
"No, I'm not!"
Without saying a word, Stan held something in his hands under Michael's nose. As it turns out, said something was what they had for lunch that day, chicken nuggets. Normally, Michael wouldn't care about the smell of their lunch, as it wasn't anything to write home about. But somehow, those pieces of chicken prompted him to turn away in disgust. Not a second later, a wave of nausea came over him again, the most powerful one yet. Michael didn't have to say anything before Mrs. Zadeh swept up the trash can under her desk and held it under his chin. As he emptied the contents of his stomach, he heard Stan yell in disgust.
"You better not get any puke on my bag!"
"Stanley, I need you to take Michael to the nurse." said Mrs. Zadeh.
Immediately, both of them protested.
"I said I'm fine!"
"The first time I'm not late to math, and I have to be a babysitter?!"
Fed up, Mrs. Zadeh silenced both boys. "That's quite enough! Mr. Anderson, you're clearly not well enough to remain in school. Mr. Greene, I'm happy that you got here early, and I would be even happier if you would think of your fellow classmate and help him!"
Stan grumbled, and asked, "Can I leave my backpack here?"
"Yes, I'll have it behind my desk so no one can mess with it."
"...Fine. Come on, Captain Brain."
Michael hadn't heard that nickname in a while, not so affectionately coined by Stan a few days into sixth grade. But, Michael was too sick to care about names at that point. However, he was not sick enough to ignore the fact that, as soon as they got into the hallway, Stan kept trying to grab his arms.
"Would you quit it?! I already feel like crap as it is!"
"Hey shit-for-brains, I'm trying to help you! You keep swaying like you're gonna fall, and I don't feel like getting in trouble just because you're a stubborn dick!"
Michael shot daggers at the blond boy, who was glaring right back at him. "Alright, fine!" Michael thrust his arm at Stan. As much as it pained him, he really did need help walking, he just really didn't want it to be from Stan. As Stan took hold of the arm that Michael offered, Michael stumbled, feeling as though the world had been flipped upside down.
Black spots.
Then nothing.
The first thing he remembered feeling was a hand roughly shaking him, jolting him around like a dead fish. He groaned.
"Jesus Christ, what's the matter with you? Are you really that much of an asshole that you want me to drag you to the nurse?"
As Michael's vision cleared up, he could see the silhouette of a large, unpleasant head against bright ceiling lights.
"I didn't do it on purpose!" He sat up with a hiss. "Maybe I really do need to go to the nurse."
"No shit, Sherlock!"
"Oh my god, will you shut the fuck up for one second? I mean, it's bad enough talking without a brain, but do you have to do it all the time?"
Stan yanked Michael off of his feet, and Michael thought he was finally going to get that ass-beating that had been threatened since day one of middle school. Much to his surprise, Stan put an arm around him and continued down the hallway, practically carrying him.
"Better to be stupid than to be an asshole…"
"You know, I kinda have to be! Everyone treats me weird, and they all avoid me like the plague!" Michael exclaimed.
"You think you're better than everyone, you always bitch when you're put in group assignments, and you treat your friends like sidekicks!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Michael stumbled once again, and Stan stopped to let him regain his footing.
"Why can't you just be happy for that girl you're friends with? Heather, right?"
"Hazel."
"Close enough." The pair stopped at the elevator and waited. "She always wins the science fair, and instead of being happy for her, you get jealous!"
Michael rolled his eyes. "That's how we got to be friends in the first place. I like how she challenges me to think outside of the box, she forces me to do better."
"Then how come you never act happy for her when she wins?"
"She knows I'm happy for her. Plus, she doesn't need my validation to feel good about herself. Despite you and your friends always making fun of her, she's never changed who she is."
Silence. After a few seconds, Michael continued,
"And I can't help it when I act 'better than everyone'. Most of the time, I don't realize I'm doing it. I hate working in groups because I end up having to do all the work."
Stan snorted. "How can you not notice how much of an asshole you are? Are you that pretentious?"
"Please, can you just be quiet?! My head hurts like a bitch, and you're not helping!"
"No! I'm sick of people telling me to shut up, just because I'm stupid! Tell me what the hell is wrong with you!"
"I have Asperger's, OKAY?!"
Nothing was said after this. The silence was only broken by the 'Ding' of the elevator arriving.
Nothing was said on the ride to the first floor.
Nothing was said while walking to the Nurse's Office.
Nothing was said when Stan knocked on the door.
The door to the Nurse's Office swung open to reveal a remarkably short, plump woman. She was one of the most beloved people in the school, and had been working there for over twenty years.
"Stanley! Michael!" Miss O. exclaimed. "Naima called and told me to expect you two!"
"Naima?" asked Stanley.
"Your Algebra teacher?" Miss O. smiled warmly and chuckled. "Now, Michael," She took Michael's arm and helped him over to the bed on the opposite side of the room. "Your teacher tells me that you vomited before class."
Michael, after a bit of struggling, got up on the bed, the scratchy paper crinkling noisily underneath him. "Yeah, I've been feeling sick for a week now."
"A week?" Miss O. raised her eyebrows so high, they disappeared under her bangs. "You poor thing, you've been to school all week feeling ill?"
"It's really not that serious…"
Always one to voice his opinion, Stan loudly proclaimed; "Dude, you passed out upstairs!"
"Michael, you lost consciousness?"
"I mean, yeah, but…"
Miss O. interrupted him. "I don't want to hear any more. I'm calling your parents to pick you up."
"Both of them are working."
"Alright, I'll have to look at your emergency contacts, then, I'll just be a minute. Stanley, stay with Michael, and yell if he gets sick again."
With that, Miss O. tottered out of the room, shaking her head. This left Michael and Stan alone once again. Stan shifted awkwardly, and Michael did the same, further wrinkling the paper beneath him. He flinched at the harsh sound.
"Hey, uh, I'm sorry… About before?" Stanley said, sheepishly looking up at Michael. "I don't really know what 'Aspergers' is, but it sounds like it sucks. You feel like shit and I made it worse."
"Well, you did make me feel worse, but you didn't do it on purpose… Did you?"
Stan was quick to protest. "No, no! I still think you're an ass, but I should've given you a pass today, with you being sick."
"I'm honored, really. But, how about you just leave me alone, altogether?"
Before Stan could answer, Miss O. returned to the office, holding a file full of papers in one hand, and a flashcard in another.
"Okay, Michael, you have two emergency contacts. Brittany and Santana Pierce-Lopez. It says here that they're your aunts?"
"Yes, they are."
"Are either of them available to take you home?" Miss O. took another look at Michael. "Or maybe to the hospital?"
"I think my Aunt Brittany is teaching a dance class right now, but I'm pretty sure my Aunt Santana is off work today."
"Do you want to call her, or do you want me to call her?"
"No, I can call her!" Michael was quick to clarify. He really didn't want his aunt getting a call from his school nurse. "I just need to get my phone… Oh shit!"
"Language!"
Stan snickered. "He left his bag upstairs."
Miss O. sighed. "You can use my phone, then. I just need to go and get it."
Again, she tottered out of the room. Stan turned to look at Michael curiously.
"What do you think is wrong with you?"
"It's just a stomach bug."
"You said you've been sick for a week."
Michael furrowed his brows, feeling his head begin to ache again. "Yeah, and?"
Stan rose from the chair he had sat in and walked over to the bed. "I promise I'm not trying to hurt you on purpose, I just want to see something…"
After a few seconds of Michael dodging Stan's arm, Stan finally managed to touch him, slightly pressing on the sick boy's lower right side.
Michael immediately recoiled with a strangled yell. "What the fuck, Stan?!" The spot that was touched was aching as though he was just punched, and Michael wrapped his arms around himself in pain. Miss O. came back into the room with her phone and a worried expression on her face.
"What's wrong? Michael, are you going to be sick again? Are you hurt?"
Before Michael could answer, Stan piped up, "I think something's wrong with his appendix!"
Michael turned to glare at Stan. "How the hell would you know that?"
"I felt like this back in fourth grade, and I had to go to the hospital."
Miss O. approached Michael on the bed. "Arms down, sweetheart."
Reluctantly, Michael did as he was told, grumbling. She lifted up his shirt and pressed gently on his lower right side.
"Aaaaaahpleasestopdoingthaaat."
"What?"
"Please stop touching me, that really hurts…"
Miss O. removed her hand. "I think Stanley is right, this seems like a textbook case of appendicitis." She opened her phone and continued. "Since this will most likely require a hospital visit, I would feel much safer contacting your parents, rather than your aunt. You're clearly not well enough to call them yourself, so I will." She put a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Lie down and try to relax sweetheart. I can't do much right now, but I can get you water. Do you want a heating pad?
As Michael struggled to lay down, he said, "It's okay, I just want to close my eyes and try to sleep before I have to go to the hospital."
"Alright, then." Miss O. turned towards Stan. "Stanley, you can go back to class now."
"Um, can I stay here? I want to make sure that Michael will be okay?" Stan sat back down, smiling innocently at the nurse.
Miss O. put a hand over her heart. "It warms my heart to see students looking out for each other, or course you can stay. Now, if you two will excuse me, I have calls to make."
For the third time, Miss O. tottered out of the room. Michael rested his head so it was facing Stan and raised an eyebrow.
"I know you're trying to get out of Algebra."
"Well, yeah, but you do seem really sick. I know how bad having your appendix out is, and I wanted to make sure you weren't alone…"
"...Thanks, I guess,"
Michael was stumped. He couldn't figure out why Stan was being friendly with him all of a sudden. He decided to chalk it up to pity, which is why strangers were usually friendly to him. Still, it was Stan, so he was thankful nonetheless.
The only sound heard in the next minute was Miss O. speaking over the phone in the next room. Michael closed his eyes, trying his best to sleep, but to no avail, as the lights in the office were far too bright. He couldn't recall how long his eyes had been closed, but eventually, Miss O. came back into the office, seemingly more relaxed.
"Both of your parents are on their way to pick you up."
Michael tried to sit up, but the nurse put her hand on his shoulder, her iron grip keeping him down. He rested his head on the pillow again, and expressed his concern.
"Both of them? Only one of them is required to pick me up, though?"
"Michael, it's very likely you'll need to have an appendectomy, I thought it was appropriate to inform them both of that fact."
"Oh… Okay."
Miss O. gazed sympathetically at Michael. "Just stay in bed, for now. The last thing I want you doing is moving around. I'll go get you a blanket. Stanley," Miss O. turned her head. "You need to go back to class. It was thoughtful of you to stay here on Michael's behalf, but I can't have you missing a lesson."
Stan grumbled, unwillingly rising from his chair. "Okay. Feel better." He shifted nervously as he waved goodbye, which Michael returned. With that, Stan left, door slamming behind him.
Miss O. disappeared back into her office, finally giving Michael some peace for the first time that day. His abdomen still hurt like hell, but at least he had some peace and quiet. He knew that Blaine's theatre troupe was closer to his school, but Kurt had the car that day, so it was expected that he wouldn't be getting picked up for another hour. Kurt was coming from Manhattan, after all.
Once again, Michael closed his eyes, trying to stifle the pounding in his brain. He heard the clock as every second passed by.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
All Michael could do now was wait.