The next two weeks flew by in a similar fashion – lessons before school with a man who was taking up my thoughts at an exponentially increasing rate, school, and home again, where I was beginning to drown in my college applications. The end of September was fast approaching, and with it, my doom – I mean, auditions. But honestly, what's the difference? After a too-short weekend of doing not much more than sleeping, I woke up Monday morning. Sick.
Everything ached. My arms, my legs, my chest, my head; I felt like I had been run over by a truck. On top of that, my voice was almost gone, and I was sniffling like a faucet had been opened behind my sinuses.
"If you're not suffering, you're not doing it right…" I muttered to myself, before rolling out of bed and grabbing my towel. After a brief shower, I threw on a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater, too fatigued to be bother with effort. I forwent makeup for the day and allowed my hair to curl as it desired, unwilling to straighten it for the day. It would just have to do.
Charlie had already left by the time I made it downstairs, so I simply poured myself a travel mug of coffee, grabbed my bag and case, and left for school. I beat Mr. Cullen to lessons, a tradition fast in the making, and assumed my usual position of lying comatose in one of the desks. He blustered in a few minutes later, arms full of papers and hair a tousled mess. For such a happy person, he was incredibly disorganized.
"Morning sunshine!" He greeted me cheerfully, and I simply groaned in response, barely lifting my head. It throbbed every time I did.
"Come on, you can do it, I know it's early…" he coaxed, unaware of the infernal virus killing me slowly as we spoke. Grumbling, I stood and began to assemble my saxophone. He dragged two chairs into the center of the room, and I walked towards the one closest to me.
"Are you okay kiddo?" Mr. Cullen asked, concerned, when I swayed on my feet. I didn't answer – everything was tipping sideways, and blurring together. I vaguely remember falling, but after that the first thing I can recall is laying on the floor, with strong arms supporting my torso. I took a slow breath, and my senses were immediately assuaged with the heavenly scent of his cologne, causing another wave of lightheadedness to hit me.
"Easy there hun, take it easy. You can't be coming to school like this! Did you drive here?" I was afraid that I would be unable to form a coherent sentence, so I gave him a weak thumbs-up.
"Well, you're not driving home like this. Come on, I'm taking you home. Did you really think you'd make it through the whole day like this?" I shrugged, my shoulder bumping against his torso. He sighed, actually sounding annoyed, and gently propped me up.
"Can you stand?" He asked. I tried to push myself up, but was immediately overcome with dizziness again, and fell back. With another small sigh, he knelt down and scooped me up as if I weighed no more than a backpack. I made a small noise of protest, and he shot me a dirty look. I had never seen this side of my cheerful teacher. He carried me to his car, a small, silver Volvo parked in the teacher's lot, and gingerly placed me in the passenger side seat. I moaned as my body jolted, and he placed his hand on my shoulder comfortingly.
"You really need to take better care of yourself…" he prodded, gently buckling my comatose form into the car. He sat down parallel to me, and turned the car on, pulling slowly away from the school.
"Left," I instructed, before he could ask. He nodded, and took a left. The rest of the short drive progressed in the same fashion: him driving silently, and me supplying directions when needed. When he pulled into my driveway, I moved to unbuckle myself, but he rushed from the car, opened my door, and did it for me. Then he scooped me up, and carried me up the steps to the front door.
"Mr. Cullen, really, you don't have to. I'm sure I can make it from here…" He rolled his eyes.
"Bella, stop. You can barely stand on your own two feet." I pulled my key from my pocket, and unlocked the door, at which point he carried me into the front hall. I pointed in the direction of the couch, and he deposited me there moments later. Mr. Cullen left the room, and I could hear him bustling around in the kitchen, and then the hum of the microwave. After about a minute, he retuned with a dose of Tylenol, tissues, and a cup of tea.
"How did you…?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"I know my way around a kitchen," was his only response. He dragged the coffee table closer to me, and draped a nearby blanket over my legs. Then he deposited the tea and tissues on the table, and watched as I ingested the medication. With that, he leaned down, ran his hand over my forehead, and made to leave.
"Feel better, Bella." He said softly as he left. I could only stare.