11 : Wednesday

Step Eleven: Take care of your body! If this includes a spot of concealer to hide that one annoying pimple you can't get rid of, then so be it! Do whatever it takes to show your best self, and don't try to make yourself worse to fit a boy's standards. Only improve!

"You hear that, Felix? Only improve!"

"Blake, will you just shut up?" I plead, placing a bowl of soup down on his nightstand. It's four in the morning; I can't deal with him. Apparently, he got extremely sick yesterday. I think just being near him is going to get me ill, and then a tragedy will occur, and I will have to miss school. Oh, no.

Russell is sick, too. He must've caught something while talking to Blake yesterday, after telling him to check his texts. Or maybe the sickness was spread through mouth-to-mouth contact. Ya never know, right? Maybe Blake needed CPR. Maybe he wanted a lollipop and thought Russell was sufficient. Maybe he turned his head at the same time as Russell. Maybe they like each other and kissed, because that's what most people who have mutual attraction do.

I wouldn't know. Blake didn't share any further details since that faithful day in the lounge (which is very unlike him) and it's not like anyone that I've had a crush on has ever liked me back, since I've only seriously liked one person ever.

"This could be your last time seeing me. I might die," Blake informs me. I'm about to take the bowl of soup and dump it on his squishy, pale, unwashed face. He really looks like a zombie squirrel.

Russell should feel lucky that he doesn't have it as bad as Blake. Speaking of Russell, why isn't he here yet?

Oh, yeah. It's four in the morning. Most sick people aren't awake.

Most people, in general, aren't awake.

It's just my rotten luck that Blake vomited on his phone and his phone called me while it was glitching, so I ran over in a panic. Then, Blake decided to take advantage of my being here, so now I'm placing a bowl of my staple "dormmade" soup on his nightstand, pouring all my willpower into the prevention of the soup ending up on his face.

Yay.

He finally "dismisses" me by saying that it's better if I don't get sick. On my way out of his room, I sneeze.

Bless you, I tell myself.

Gee, thanks, I respond.

No problem.

Oh, please. I can't be the only person who's always said Bless you to themself when no one was around to say it. Or, even more depressing, when people noticed that they sneezed but didn't say anything. That's, like, worse than stubbing one's toe.

Nothing is worse than a stubbed toe.

So that's saying something.

As I close the door to my room, I hear a weird noise out in the hallway. I sigh. Outside, Russell is throwing up in a very unladylike fashion into the stairwell. Why is he in the stairwell? I ask myself a moment later. I glance over at the elevator and see a sign informing me of its out-of-service-ness. Lovely. Everyone on my floor and above has to pass through the puddle of Russell-puke, and everyone leaving their room today has to smell it.

Russell looks up guiltily at me upon hearing my gag of dissatisfaction and disgust. "Sor-ry," he croaks. "How is Blake?" he asks, so I shake my head and help him into Blake's apartment, where Patient Zero is currently fast asleep with half a bowl of uneaten broth spilled on his chest.

I resist the urge to laugh and instead lay Russell down on the couch.

I remember what the book said. Take care of yourself. I take that as an omen and stay far away from Russell as I give him some of Blake's still-in-the-bowl broth. He grunts as a thank you and closes his eyes when he's done eating.

And, because I am a genius, I dial Jason's number on my phone. Jason is the guy who was grumpy, for no particular reason, yesterday.

"What?" he snaps. "Who is this?"

"Uh, it is I, ThatOneGuyFromYourLocalFrenchClass."

"Oh. What do you want, Felix?" It might be wishful thinking, but his voice seems less on-edge now that I've revealed my true identity.

"Well, Blake is sick. And, um, Russell is also sick. And I don't think either can take care of them both, so I can't call either of them in sick for school. I should probably stay with them. So, can you call the three of us in sick? When school, uh, when school starts, I mean."

Jason is silent for a minute. "Felix, it's four-thirteen in the morning. School doesn't start for another three and a half hours More, actually. Three hours and forty-seven minutes."

"Um."

"Furthermore," he says, pulling out the big-boy words, "I cannot, in fact, call you in sick. I'm sick, too. Plus, there is always the option of sending an email to the office or leaving a note for the dorms attendant."

"Um."

"So, yeah."

"Um."

There's me, on one end of the line. Jason is on the other end. There's white noise, confusion, and awkwardness. Radio silence. Static.

"Do you want to come here?" I ask. "I can take care of you, Russell, and Blake all at once." My voice cracks at "take care of you," but I choose to ignore it.

I can practically hear him think.

"I am coming to your room to get you," I decide. Hopefully, Russell and Blake don't die while I'm gone.

"Okay." He coughs.

I check the time. 4:19. Nice. My favorite time of day to be chaperoning sick people.

But hey, it's Jason. I would do anything for Jason, not that he knows it or cares. I think of the book again. Take care of yourself, it reminds me. Eh. I can modify it. Here's the new step eleven, written by me:

Step Eleven: Take care of him! Oh em gee, make sure he knows you care!! It's totally okay if you get hurt or sick in the process, as long as stereotypes are fulfilled and he's okay!!!!

~~~~~~~~

"Thanks," Jason says when we get back to Blake's dorm room.

"Ngh." Not exactly showing my best version of myself to Jason, I groan.

It's 4:22 in the morning, for crying out loud. But I don't cry out loud. I just cry in my head, because my sleep schedule is dying and there's no way for me to save it.

Heh.

"I called Amanda," he says. Since when does he have Amanda's number? "She'll call the four of us in sick."

I gather enough energy to smile and make a joke. "How will Mr. Martin feel? His FROG lesson will be screwed up." Jason laughs for a few seconds, then the sweet laughter turns into morbid hacking and wheezing. He croaks out an apology, and I can't help myself from making another bad joke. "Looks like the FROG hopped into your throat, no?"

His coughing fit starts back up. Jeez, my joke can't be that bad, can it? He motions for me to keep walking. I hesitate, letting his lungs remember that they're trying to keep Jason alive, but eventually continue.

By the time he can breathe normally, we've walked up two flights of stairs "What's that smell?" Jason asks, and I grimace, realizing that I forgot to warn him about the Russell-vomit.

"Russell was feeling territorial, but his bladder was empty. So his stomach fulfilled the duty," my brain causes my mouth to blurt. My brain then immediately regrets what it did, and decides to punish itself by forcing my left ear and my right ring finger to go insane, twitch, and spasm all over the place.

"You okay?"

"Uh, yeah. I think. My body is having a civil war, and I'm not sure who is going to win."

Jason looks at me in an amused way and turns his head to face away from me. Probably to hide his eyes' rolling. I don't think about the way his ears turn a little red. It's probably secondhand embarrassment, to be completely honest. And, if you think about it, that's really sad. That's why I don't think about it. Nope, not at all.

We skip over the yellowish puddle of yesterday's dinner when we reach my floor and I open the door to Blake's room, not bothering to use a key because I know I forgot to lock it on my way out.

"I've never been in your room," Jason muses. "Or Blake's."

I shush him and point to where Russell is drooling in his sleep. "At least you're capable of movement and speech. Also, my natural habitat is a mirror of Blake's."

"'Natural habitat?'" he echoes. I pretend not to hear. As I turn to leave, he asks, "Should I come?"

"You can stay," I say.

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I'm gonna come back with some microwaved soup... or... something."

~~~~~~~~

Yeah, okay, there's no more soup. I am on a search mission, but there aren't any ingredients to make more soup in Blake's kitchenette. Also, I don't want to go back to my own room and make some for fear that someone's going to make more yellowish puddles of yesterday's dinner while I'm gone.

By now it's 6:52. If two and a half hours felt that long, who knows what a whole day will feel like?

And then, it hits me.

No, literally.

Blake's giant, metal kettle falls out of one of the cupboards I opened and hits me square in the middle of the forehead. I cry out and fall on my butt.

So, when Jason comes hobbling into the kitchenette (like a cute old lady checking on her grandchildren [why did I think that?]), he sees me, surrounded by a tea kettle, pain, and suffering. I'm rubbing a spot in my forehead that's definitely going to have a nice, big, painful, multicolored bruise on it.

But it's all in good fun. The "kettle" loosely rhymes with "metal," and I'll just show my pride with the rainbow bruise.

I sigh.

"What happened?" Jason asks, seeming genuinely concerned.

"I, uh, had a bright idea. And instead of a lightbulb appearing over my head, a, um, a tea kettle did. But, unlike lightbulbs, this tea kettle was informed of gravity's existence." What? Why is my brain out to get me? I don't even understand what I just said.

"O-okay, I think."

I sob internally; everything I say just provides more reasons for my chances of a relationship with Jason to disappear more and more.

Oops, I forgot. In order for chances to disappear, they have to exist in the first place.

"Do you want help?"

Mental? Yes, please, sir.

I shake my head. "Get to bed, Jason. I'll be back soon." He gives me a doubtful look but goes back to his room.

I look at the kettle as an idea forms in my head. When the idea is completely thought through, I hastily put my hands over my head in case another tea kettle really does appear there. Fortunately, none does.

I don't think I need to explain how I made tea for the three sick boys. Most people have made tea before, and those who haven't can search for an online tutorial on it. I'm sure they're fantastic. Or even better—I can make one. I've always been big on helping those in distress. Maybe this will be my calling.

But maybe there's already a book for it. How to Brew Tea 101.

I bring the tea to Jason first.

He looks up. "Maybe a kettle appeared over your head because you were destined to make tea."

I grin back at him. "Actually, I couldn't find enough ingredients to make real soup. And tea is pretty much dessert soup, right?"

He laughs, his voice sounding a bit better than earlier.

"What kind of tea?"

"Green tea. Blake is kind of addicted."

"Who isn't?"

He has a point.

I pat the bulge under the blankets where his feet should be, then I set the mug down beside the bed. "'Gotta stay with the PRIDE?'" Jason asks, reading what the mug says. There's a picture of a group of rainbow lions (because a group of lions is called a pride) with those words written above. I cringe; that mug was supposed to go to Blake. I must've mixed them up. Darn.

"Uh, you can have another one. I got Blake that for his birthday." I offer him a black mug that says IT'S A GOOD DAY TO BE GAY. A little less flashy, but Blake doesn't have any mugs that don't relate to his sexuality.

Jason nods his head in the direction of the third mug. "What does that one read?"

I cringe. That's the most politically incorrect one of the three, the one I was going to give to Russell. Blake bought it for me, but I pretended to have it already. He kept it, and I kept my nonexistent dignity.

"Um. It says, 'I'm the boy version of a straight girl.'"

Jason laughs and clutches the steaming rainbow PRIDE mug against his chest. "I'll keep this one," he says. "Want to stay for a minute before you go back to Blake's room?"

Hell yeah, I do. If I could, I'd make this moment last forever. Well, actually, I wouldn't want Jason to be sick forever. But, in all seriousness, this setting is perfect.

Cue the lights!

Cue the romantic music!

Cue the matcha-flavored tea!

Our two protagonists are talking about cringey pride mugs, and one of them is madly in love!

Ha.

"Sorry, but Russell and Blake need their soup dessert, too."

"Aw, shucks," he says, a light pout bringing out the dimples in his cheeks. Cute. I reluctantly head out of my dorm room, cross over to Blake's room, where he and Russell are in the same bed.

Not that I'm suspicious or anything, but Blake's hair is ruffled, and Russell's face looks flushed in a way that doesn't hint at needing to puke again. They're both fully clothed—thank goodness—but there's obviously been something going on.

I awkwardly put the mugs down next to the half-full bowl of soup. Or half-empty, depending on who you ask. Doesn't matter. "Don't make each other even more sick," I tease before leaving.

The rest of the day passes quietly. Because I don't want to get sick too, I spend most of the day reading in my kitchenette. Yes, I read. I read Blake's book, How to Read Facial Expressions 101, which I swiped from his desk. It's a dumb book. Very repetitive, but if it works, it works.

Exhibit A: Blake and Russell are in the same bed. Jason and I are not.

In the afternoon, Amanda sends Jason all the notes Russell and I missed, courtesy of Zoe, who we have the same classes as but not at the same time. Blake's notes come from Zoe, and Jason's come from Amanda herself. Also, Amanda created a group chat with everyone in our FROG group. Well, not everyone. Mr. Martin isn't in the chat. It's called ribbit ribbit, and it's supposed to be only in case of emergencies. Ha, like that's going to happen. As soon as Blake feels better, he'll send memes all day long.

Jason and I head back to Blake's room, where I prepare the four of us an "in-dorm" dinner, which consists of super-healthy fried rice and apple juice from a questionably squishy cardboard box.

They also spend the night. And, wink wink, Jason joins me in my dorm room. Russell and Blake, the sickest people, seem to have misinterpreted the school nurse's instructions about quarantine, and insist they should quarantine together. Jason's fever, at its highest, was 101°F. Despite my upbringing in Australia, a country that's sensible about its measurement units—ahem, not like a certain other country I've spent part of my pubescent years in—I measure it in Fahrenheit, and I'm really proud to be able to identify 101 degrees as a fever. I don't even have to use a calculator for the conversion; the power of my incredible brain is more than enough to span not one, but two measurement systems. If I wanted to be extra fancy, I'd whip out my third-grade Christmas present. A Kelvin thermometer. That bad boy scared me once—I thought I was a literal pile of lava, thanks to the temperature it claimed I was. I guess I'm just that hot.

On a more relevant note, Jason doesn't seem sick anymore. His temperature went back down to normal ten minutes after it spiked, and it's been constant since then. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he faked sick to get out of school. Or maybe he's just that hot, too.

The only failed part of his plan was having to spend the day and the night with me.