He hands me his pen, and it slips out of my hand. He’s sweating too. He’s nervous.
I hold the pad of paper with my left hand and bend over to pick up the pen. I step toward Amber. She’s breathing fast, but her body’s placid.
“Here’s a chair.” Cole places it right behind me, and I take a seat.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Oh, wait. Are there any pencils?” I ask Bill, who’s leaning against the doorframe, looking as perplexed as the rest of us.
“Yes, I’m sure of it. I’ll be right back,” he says.
While I wait for Bill, I steal another look at Amber. Her sharp nose and narrow face look the same, but different, like years have passed since I last saw her, instead of months. Her coloring is tinted the yellow of a sunflower.
I touch her forearm. It’s cool and dry. Taking a closer look at the mark on her arm, I try to figure out what causes the black ring. It can’t be dried blood under her skin, and I’m not sure, but I doubt it’s a hematoma. My mom had one once after she fell down the stairs of our High Society apartment. She was heavily medicated and slipped, causing her leg to turn variations of black, purple, and blue. It took weeks of rest and lots of ice for it to finally go away. But this doesn’t remind me of that. It’s too perfectly round to be anything unintentional. I wonder if it’s safe to touch. I want to see if it changed the texture of her skin in any way, but I pull my arm back and decide it’s smarter to wait and see what Roméo has to say.
“I even found colored pencils. How lucky is that?” Bill asks as he enters the room.
“Maybe if I was drawing a rainbow.”
Bruno chuckles, and it’s a welcome sound.
“Hey, maybe not right now, but you might want to later, so I figured you should have them.”
“Thanks, Bill. That was nice of you.”
“No problem.”
Holding a pencil in my hand feels so familiar that it comforts me. I place the tip down on the paper and get to work. I look up frequently and study the area before working on the next piece, shading in the area and making sure it’s precise. The ring is about the size of a silver dollar. I look from my drawing to Amber’s skin and compare the two over and over. I decide it’s perfect when I can’t tell which one is real.
“Okay, I’m done.” I hand the pad and pen back to Roméo, who inspects my rendition, lips pursed.
“Remarkable. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you.”
“She’s about to throw up,” Grace says.
“Grab a bucket or something—anything—towels,” I say.
We’re too late. Amber sits up and proceeds to vomit all over the sheet in front of her. Instantly, the smell reaches my nose, and I smash my hand over my face to prevent myself from getting sick as well.
Bill rushes in with a bucket and shoves it under Amber’s face. She wraps her arms around it and continues to heave. I’ve never seen anyone throw up so much at one time. She’s not even coming up for air, for breaks. Her face remains in the bucket, and I glance at Roméo, who’s writing away in his notebook.
“I’m out of here,” Cole says. “Your puke is one thing, hers is not.”
“Go, I’ve got this.” I stand and move from beside Amber so I can take Cole into a hug.
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Please be careful around her. We don’t know if what she has is contagious or not.”
“I will.” I pause, thinking about Amber possibly being contagious. “Do you think you can find something to change her into? I want to get rid of these vomit-soaked clothes.”
“Okay.” He touches my cheek and kisses my lips quickly, and I want nothing more than to curl up in his arms and sleep.
He breathes deep and lets me go. Cole motions to Bruno, and they both take off. Grace stays behind looking putrid herself.
When Cole’s out of sight, I focus on Roméo. Amber’s still throwing up, although I’m pretty sure she’s just dry heaving at this point. I’m so grateful her fever’s gone, enabling her to sit up on her own, because I don’t want to get any closer to her. The copper tips of her hair look like they’ve been dipped in vomit. She tries to wipe her face but succumbs to another round of heaving. Her shoulder blades pop forward each time. They look so thin and frail, devoid of the liveliness she used to possess.
“Why … won’t … this … stop?” she asks between heaving. I glance at Roméo, who drops his head and stares at the floor. His pad dangles at his side, and his fingers are clenched white around it.
“Amber, it’s Lexi.”
“I hate you,” she says, pulling her head out of the bucket and turning toward me.
I raise an eyebrow. “What else is new?”
“Get away from me,” she says. She sounds like she’s been smoking for fifty years.
“Excuse me, Miss Pissy,” Bill says, “but Lusty saved your life. So show some respect.”
Our mouths fall open as we all turn toward Bill. He shrugs.