Scarlett Fever

“Me neither,” he said.

 

The cab stopped at a red light. The driver handed back a pile of napkins, indicating that he would like his backseat cleaned up a little. Spencer took them and mopped up the space around him. Scarlett blotted her shirt. Mostly it just smeared the dots and made it worse. Her hand shook a little.

 

Scarlett called Dakota to request the shirt, and Dakota was waiting at the curb when they arrived. She was unable to contain her shock at the view inside the cab.

 

“Breakfast,” Spencer said. “I’m a really messy eater.”

 

“We never give him soup,” Scarlett added.

 

Spencer nodded gravely, waved good-bye, and the cab pulled off.

 

“What. Was. That?” Dakota said. “Tell. Me. Now. What. Was. That?”

 

“There was an incident,” Scarlett said.

 

She explained the morning’s events as they walked up the three flights to Dakota’s apartment, where Dakota had already laid out a selection of new T-shirts on her bed. Scarlett picked through them and selected a basic white one, similar to the one that she had on.

 

“Can you bring your jam-covered brother to my house every morning?” Dakota asked. “Why doesn’t he need to take off his shirt? He totally needed a new shirt.”

 

Many moons ago, in sixth grade, Dakota developed a crush on Spencer. It was an obsession that had long faded into a ritual joke that was important for them to perform every once in a while. Or, it was important to Dakota to perform and for Scarlett to nervously tolerate because she loved her friend and sometimes friends do these sorts of things…because sometimes friends think they are joking when they are not joking at all.

 

“How much do you think he would charge to take off his shirt?” she went on, to Scarlett’s dismay. “I know he’s famous and everything now, but everyone has a price.”

 

“I don’t know,” Scarlett said. “A quarter?”

 

“Really? I like how cheap he is.”

 

While Scarlett changed, Dakota fell back on her bed, imagining something Scarlett would undoubtedly find horrible.

 

“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Your brother just killed Sonny Lavinski.”

 

“Do? I don’t do anything. No one knows he’s my brother except for you guys. And he’s just going to be on the show for a while.”

 

“But you guys got attacked,” Dakota said.

 

“Yeah, well, it was just some freak,” Scarlett said. “I don’t think we’re going to have any more problems like that. And who’s even going to know?”

 

“Dissection,” Ms. Fitzweld was shouting in eighth period, “is not the same as slicing to bits. You are not cutting up a pork chop.”

 

Actually, she wasn’t shouting. Ms. Fitzweld just happened to have one of those natural speaking voices that was sharp and pointy and overly loud—like she could see someone off in the distance ramming her car repeatedly with a shopping cart and could do nothing about it except take it out on sophomore Biology students.

 

“You do as little cutting as possible!” she raged on. “Do you understand me? Now, one person from each station come over here and get your fetal pig. Bring your dissection tray.”

 

Scarlett put on her plastic apron and a pair of goggles and made her way toward the barrel, tray in hand. She winced as her classmates walked past with their little plastic-bagged pigs on trays. The formaldehyde was overwhelming. It smelled like a sterilized headache.

 

“I see Slax is skipping today,” Dakota said, coming up beside her.

 

True enough, Max’s seat was still empty.

 

“That’s sad,” Scarlett said. “I feel all dead inside when he’s not here.”

 

The pig supply had run low. There were two left, at the very bottom of the barrel. Scarlett adjusted her ill-fitting plastic glove and leaned in, her nose almost touching the rim. She tried to lift a pig by the corner of the bag, but it was too heavy.

 

“Stop being squeamish,” Ms. Fitzweld said. “Pick it up.”

 

Even through two layers of plastic, the heavy wetness of the pig was palpable. Scarlett grabbed it and plopped it on the tray. Back at her seat, she read through the instructions. Task one: sex the pig. She was glad Max wasn’t around for this. She quickly examined hers and found it was a boy.

 

“Sorry, piggy boy,” she said quietly. “I really am.”

 

The classroom door opened, and Max sauntered in. Today, he was wearing a striped tie loose around his neck. Scarlett fondly remembered all the ways you could choke someone with a tie.

 

“Where have you been?” Ms. Fitzweld snapped.

 

“The bathroom,” Max said with a smile.

 

“Thank you for sharing. Do it again and I’m docking you half a grade on the next exam. Get over to your station.”

 

“Actually, I was reading the Internet,” Max said, sitting down and pulling on his gloves. “But I thought saying I was in the bathroom sounded cooler. Guess what I found out. Someone was throwing doughnuts at your brother this morning.”

 

Scarlett stopped what she was doing.

 

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