Summer on the Short Bus (10 page)

“My ass?”
I lean to the side and give my butt a smack. “It doesnint look drunk ta me. But it looks damn goooood in these jeans.”

“I just might kill her,” Fantine says.

“Whoa! Whoawhoawhoawhoa, whoa.” I stare at her. Them. “Now you lisssen here. I . . . oh, God . . .”

“What's wrong with you?” she says.

“I don't . . . feel so good.”

“Oh hell. Are you gonna puke?”

Both Fantines are blurry now, and there's a bad taste welling up in my throat. This is bad. “I . . . oh God. I think so. Yeah”—hiccup—“I need thuh bathroom. Now.”

“That sucks about her dad.”

“Sounds like a jerk.”

“Maybe that's why she's such a bitch. Daddy issues . . .”

As much as I try, I can only make out bits and pieces of the conversation going on around me. Everything is jumbled, like my brain is in a blender. My skin feels cold and clammy and my throat burns every time I swallow. “Coldplay blows,” I mumble hoarsely. At least I think that's me.

“What'd she say?” comes a voice from the front seat.

“I thought she was asleep,” says another voice.

“She's out of it, but I think it had something to do with Fantine's sucky DJ skills.”

“Up yours, pretty boy.”

The radio clicks off, and for a moment everything seems okay. I try to open my eyes, but the world starts spinning again. “What happened . . .”

“Ssshh.” A warm hand touches my cheek, before settling into a divine rhythm of stroking my hair behind my ear. “Just close your eyes and go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning.”

“But . . .”

“It's okay. Just go to sleep, Cricket.”

My eyes flutter open and for a moment I see the most beautiful pools of blue staring down at me. If I weren't so out of it, I'd totally jump in. “Okay,” I say. And my eyes close.

TEN

“R
ise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”

I try to open my eyes, but I'm pretty sure someone has glued them shut. “What do you want?” I grumble. “What's going on?”

“It's time for lunch. You gotta get up.”

“Why are you yelling at me?”

I hear Fantine chuckle under her breath as the foot of my bed sags beneath her weight. “Cricket, do you remember anything about last night?”

Last night. Last night . . . Hillbillies, mullets, whiskey . . . “Oh God.” I slowly pry my eyes open, and am greeted by a blurry Fantine and a pain in my head like nothing I've ever felt. “Last night was bad,” I say, wincing at the ache in my throat.

“Yes, it was. It was kind of funny, too. But probably not for you.”

I try to glare at her but that makes my face hurt, so I just close my eyes again and say, “Screw you.”

“You wish. Now sit up, I brought you some Motrin.”

“I don't think I can,” I say. My tongue feels like sandpaper as it
scrapes against the roof of my mouth. “I don't think I can ever sit up again. I'm going to die right here.”

“Well, you don't have much choice. Haven't you ever had a hangover?”

“Not like this. I feel like crap.”

“Which is pretty much how you look.”

“I hate you so much right now,” I say, doing my best to glare at her.

I hear her snort. “Likewise.”

I sip from the plastic cup she's now holding in front of me and take the pills she drops in my hand. It's the best water I've ever tasted. “Give me more,” I say, when the pills are safely down my throat. “Please, I'm so thirsty.”

“Just chill. You'll start puking again if you drink too much right away.”

“Again?”

“Uh, yeah. You threw up last night. Don't you remember?”

“Vaguely,” I say, flopping my head back against the pillow.

“What'd you eat, anyway? I've never seen hot pink puke before. It was all over the bathroom.”

I shake my head slowly, regretting last night's brilliant decision to cover up the whiskey smell with a handful of peppermints.

“I know it sucks,” she says, “but it's actually a good thing you threw up. It saved our asses.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Rainbow. We told her you must've had a bad reaction to the shrimp like Robyn did and that's why you were so out of it when we got home last night. Had she known you were trashed, we'd all have gotten busted and you'd be back in Chicago by now.”

Chicago. Home.

Oh God . . .
No!

I try and sit up, as if sudden movements will rewind time and I can have a do-over on my attempted escape, but the world is spinning way too fast for me to keep up. Instead, I collapse back against my pillow, ready to cry.

“Ah shit,” she says, her voice taking on a slightly softer tone. “I was hoping you weren't still upset about it.”

“About what exactly?”

She holds my gaze for a moment before heaving a deep breath. “I know why you took off for the bathroom last night.”

“You do?” I ask nervously.

“It's all my fault. I never should have nagged you about your mom. You obviously didn't want to talk about it and . . . well, I'm sorry.”

If my face wasn't already drained of its color, it would be now. “Uh . . . it's okay,” I say, trying to quickly piece together a response. “I know you were just . . . curious because of my dad and the camp and everything. But it's fine. Really, I'm good now.”

“Yeah?”

I nod. “Yeah. I'm fine.”

“Well, good,” she says. And by the sudden upturn in her voice I can tell that her relief is genuine. She stands up and looks down at me. “I know you don't wanna hear this right now, but Robyn recovered from her food poisoning in a matter of hours, which means your excuse has officially expired. You've got about twenty minutes until lunch, so I suggest you get yourself cleaned up and down to the mess hall before Rainbow starts getting suspicious.”

I may hate the idea of this newly hatched plan, but I'm not about to throw Fantine and the boys under the bus because I can't hold my liquor.

“Okay,” I say. “I'll get it together.”

With a nod of approval, she disappears through the tiny doorway and I'm left alone to wallow in the steaming turd pile that has become my life.

“Idiot!” I scream into the safety of my faux down pillow.

All I had to do was drink enough to get kicked out, but instead I went completely Charlie Sheen and blew my one opportunity to get fired.

I pity-party for a solid five minutes before I determine that lying around smelling like a Porta-Potty isn't going to improve my situation. What I need is a new escape plan. And a shower.

Somehow I manage to make it to the bathroom. I'm not sure how much time passes, but when I emerge my hair smells more of
mangos than peppermint-laced puke. And thanks to a hearty tooth brushing, it no longer feels like a cat slept in my mouth. The one downside to cleaning up is that I have to change out of the T-shirt I woke up in. Which, if my fuzzy memory serves, was the same T-shirt Quinn wore when we went out last night. Swapping out my puked-on top for his clean one wasn't exactly how I envisioned our first clothes-free activity to go down, but at least chivalry isn't completely dead.

As I make my way through the camp grounds and toward the mess hall, my Cavalli lenses are about as effective as a piece of Saran wrap against the midday sun. How on earth am I going to get through an entire lunch without heaving? I pause at the bottom of the steps to catch my breath, when from the top of the stairs I hear, “How are you feeling today, Cricket?”

Squinting against the blinding sun, I look up to find Rainbow looking down at me. “Uh, okay I guess.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I was worried. I had no idea you were allergic to shellfish.”

I have an overwhelming urge to scream,
I'm not allergic to shellfish and why the hell would you know if I was?
—but I resist. Screaming feels like a whole lot of work right now.

“I guess we'll ask Sam to skip the lobster bisque he had planned for next week, huh? I don't want to run the risk of you and Robyn getting sick again.” She laughs like she thinks she is funny, but I fail to see the humor. “We're having bean and cheese burritos today,”
she adds, her smile showing a hint of concern. “But I can ask Sam to make you something a little lighter. Maybe some toast or soup?”

“No,” I say quickly. “A burrito actually sounds good.” Like
freaking
good. “I'm sure that will be fine.”

“Well, great. I think Claire saved you a seat—go help yourself.”

I hobble my way up the remaining stairs, blowing by Rainbow with the most convincing smile I can muster, and stumble into the mess hall. My sudden need for grease overrides my irritation with life. I hardly flinch when I see Claire waving me down like an airliner.

“Chirp! Chirp!” she says. I take the empty seat between her and a boy who is wearing a duck-shaped oven mitt on his hand. “Do you like Mexican food? I love Mexican food!”

“I do today.” Wasting no time digging into the basket of tortilla chips and bowl of salsa sitting in the center of the table.

“You smell like candy,” says Oven Mitt.

“Good to know,” I say, stuffing another salsa-drenched chip into my mouth.

I quickly polish off the entire basket of chips before I notice Quinn looking at me from the next table over.

“Hungry?” he says.

My initial instinct is to flee, but as my headache eases with each gram of sodium that enters my blood stream, I realize there's no point in being embarrassed. If puking on myself didn't turn him off, going Miss Piggy probably won't, either.

“You have no idea,” I answer back.

The rest of lunch carries on in about the same fashion as it has every day since I've been here. Claire rambles on to no one in particular about the
American Idol
concert she's going to next month, and Meredith is using her fork as a microphone to perform Pink songs while Oven Mitt plays the drums with his spoon. I continue to stuff my face with more food than that Kardashian chick did during her pregnancy. All in all, I'm doing pretty well considering how my day started.