I’m shaking and I throw up for what seems like forever, not just from travel and bad food but from the churning questions inside me, and the chaos and anger of the whole last year:
the jagged separation from Isadora,
the unhealed wound of Luca’s rejection,
the loss of the friends I thought I had,
the isolation,
the jolt of learning about Kingsley.
When the vomiting is finally over, I force myself to breathe slowly.
My face feels coated with oil and sweat. I hold on to the side of the toilet to stop myself from slumping to the floor.
“There’s someone kneeling in there,” comes a voice from outside the stall.
“So, leave them alone to kneel,” says another.
“Are you okay?” comes the first voice, friendly.
“Holland!” The second voice is high and nasal. “People kneeling are people puking. And people puking want to be left the eff alone.”
“Says you, Winnie.”
“Says everyone.”
“Not true. I’d want someone to check on me if I was puking.”
“I’ll remember that the next time you puke.”
“Please do. I want company.”
“All right, but also, ick.”
“I’m okay,” I call out. “I think.”
“Do you want us to get somebody?” asks Holland’s voice. “Like a medic or whatever? Do you need a bottle of water?”
“There’s not an airport medic,” says Winnie. “Not here.”
“It’s a very small airport,” calls Holland through the door. “And I don’t actually know if airport medic is even a real thing. I shouldn’t have offered that.”
I grab the paper dispenser and pull myself up to standing, then open the stall. In front of me are two people my own age. They are prep school and tennis courts, macarons and golf clubs. Shiny with health and money.
“Oh my god,” says Holland, looking at me. She has triple-pierced ears, short blond hair, pinkish white skin, and a wide mouth full of what seems like more teeth than regular people have. She wears basketball shorts, a cashmere sweater, and Birkenstocks.
“She just threw up,” says Winnie. “Don’t say ‘Oh my god.’ ”
“I was just telling you,” says Holland. “Remember? That thing I showed you on my phone.”
“Don’t touch your backpack,” says Winnie to me. “Till you’ve washed your hands.” She’s petite and Black, with long braids andelectric-blue eye makeup. She’s wearing a white cotton sundress and bright yellow sandals. “Just, you know. Ick.”
“I’m Holland,” says Holland. “What’s your name?”
“Have some game,” Winnie tells her.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Holland says to her.
