I wander to first period without my backpack.
With each passing class, more and more stares find me in the hallway. People talk, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. I don’t see Wallace again, which is some kind of feat considering his size. My body is a teacup and all my organs have been stuffed inside. Must be my allergies. It is spring, after all.
Wallace will have to talk to me at lunch. He wouldn’t sit without me at lunch.
I hang on the fringes of the herd of students surging for the cafeteria and let them pull me through the doors. On the other side I fall away like a leaf flung out on a stray current. I stand for a moment, unsure of the cafeteria’s exact orientation, then stagger toward the lunch lines. If I can get some food and find Wallace, it will be okay.
A body steps in front of me. Tall. Deshawn Johnson. He’s holding something out. A folded paper. My hand reaches out to take it like this is some kind of dream and my body is responding without my permission. I unfold the paper.
It’s my drawing. The one Travis stole in October.
“. . . really sorry,” Deshawn says. “Travis was being an asshole . . . meant to give it back sooner, but never got the chance . . . it’s really cool that you draw Monstrous Sea . . . my brother got me into it—”
I might throw up on his shoes if I stand here any longer, so I stumble past him. Wallace has to be here somewhere. At our table. Obviously. By the windows. I look. He’s not there.
I get in line and stare at the purse of the girl in front of me. I don’t know what I put on my tray until I get to the end, and the lunch lady rings me up for two bowls of tomato soup, a vegetable tray, a handful of mustard packets, and a Drumstick. The Drumstick is for Wallace. Wallace loves Drumsticks.
I wander out of the lines and look at the table again. He’s still not there. I scan the cafeteria. He’s not in any of the lines. Not at the tables near the door, or by the wall. Is he in the courtyard? It’s too cold for that today.
Heads turn. Eyes watch me. So many eyes. I head toward our table. The world tips again. It’s like I’m a mustard packet and some baby’s hand is squeezing all the condiment out of me. Squeezing my heart, my lungs, squeezing my eyes so my vision narrows to a little point in front of me. Hair sticks to my face. One of the bowls of tomato soup falls off my tray and splatters the white tile floor.
Someone calls my name. I think.
They might have said LadyConstellation.
I walk through the soup. Where is he? He should be here.
Have I gotten this week’s Monstrous Sea pages done? I can’t remember. I must have. I’m so ahead.
Mom and Dad really shouldn’t have written that about me in the paper.
It is so hot in here. Why is it so hot?
I am going to die if my lungs don’t get out of this teacup.
Where is Wallace?
I am one hundred percent going to die.
He’s supposed to be here so I can give him this fucking Drumstick.
Jesus, I’m dying.
My tray knocks the edge of the table. Catches it, then catches my stomach. Crunches out of my hands. My legs buckle.
Darkness slams down.
Masterminds :: Submind :: Webcomics
LADYCONSTELLATION REVEALED
Posted at 11:03 a.m. on 05 - 06 - 2017 by BlessedJester
Ladies and gentlemen, on this day of days I bring you information long awaited by internet-goers. The true identity of LadyConstellation, the artist notorious for holding her anonymity, has been revealed by none other than a local news source. Click through to the picture, and be amazed.
ElizaMirk.jpg
+90/-21 | 43 Comments | Reply | Flag
Monstrous Sea Private Message
1:15 p.m. (emmersmacks has joined the message) emmersmacks: E???
emmersmacks: What happened?!?!
1:16 p.m. (Apocalypse_Cow has joined the message) Apocalypse_Cow: she’s not around, is she?
emmersmacks: No
emmersmacks: Shes in school right now emmersmacks: Do you think she knows??
Apocalypse_Cow: no clue.
Apocalypse_Cow: eliza, we’re doing damage control. as much as we can, anyway. but i think this one may be a lost cause . . . masterminds sunk their teeth into it Apocalypse_Cow: and once masterminds gets it, they don’t let go.
CHAPTER 31
My parents put me in swimming lessons when I was younger. A pool of thirty little kids forced to float on their backs and tread water. I’d tripped over my feet in soccer and routinely gotten bowled over in basketball, so I guess they were hoping I’d have more luck as a swimmer.
Back then, I still wanted to please my parents. I wanted to be good at something; I just wasn’t. I didn’t particularly like swimming, but if I was good at it, I would do it.
I wasn’t good at it. When the instructor tried to teach us dead man’s float—a move everyone else picked up on instinct—I snorted water up my nose and flailed until they said I could stop. But I kept trying.
On the last day of class, one of the boys dared me to dive to the bottom of the deep end. I did it. Or I tried. My fingers touched the bottom and I started back up, only to realize I was running out of air. Three quarters of the way to the top, oxygen deprivation made my vision black and my arms and legs thrash against the water around me. When I broke the surface, the relief of breathing was spoiled by the intensity of my inhaling and the pain of cold air needling my insides. A headache beat through my skull.
Waking up after the cafeteria is like surfacing from the deep end of the pool. Throbbing head, cold air. A narrow hospital room comes into focus around me. My eyes squeeze shut against the brightness overhead.
“Annie, turn down the light.”
The lights dim.
“Hey, Eggs. Can you hear me?”
I crack my eyes open again. Dad sits beside the bed. Mom moves back over to him from the light switch on the other side of the room. I swallow against the sandpaper in my mouth.
“Yeah.”
They both smile. Mom passes a hand over her face.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You tripped in the cafeteria at school and hit your head on a table.” Dad motions to my forehead. I don’t have to reach up and touch it to know there’s a bandage there. “Bled all over the place, I guess. How do you feel?”
“Head hurts,” I say. “Obviously.”
“Were you feeling okay when you left the house this morning?” Mom asks. “Did you eat your breakfast?”
I don’t say anything, because the reason I passed out finally comes back to me, and that squeezing hand hovers around me again. It threatens. My lungs seize in anticipation.
They told everyone about LadyConstellation. My whole school knows. The whole township knows.
Wallace knows.
“How long has it been?” I ask.
“Since the cafeteria?” Dad looks at his watch. “Maybe an hour and a half? They didn’t want to take a chance with a head injury, so they got you in an ambulance and rushed you over here. The doctor should be back to check on you any time now.”