[Status: Incomplete. Expected word count: 75,000. Publisher: Still looking.]

Excerpt

Somewhere between Hamlet telling Ophelia to get herself to a nunnery and Hamlet stabbing Ophelia’s father through a curtain—pretty messed up stuff, by the way—I feel it. You know when you’re about to throw up and your mouth gets watery, so you swallow and swallow your spit to keep it down? Yeah, it’s not working. When my stomach rolls again, self-preservation tells me I’m not even going to make it to the restroom. Slamming my heavy Norton Anthology of English Literature shut, I slide out of my desk and dash for the hallway.

“Ms. Howard!” Mrs. Douglas calls after me, but I can’t stop.

Halfway between my English class and the girls’ restroom is a large metal trashcan. I stick my head in and let loose, emptying my stomach of the orange juice and cherry-flavored Pop Tart that I had for breakfast. Mr. Jennings, the algebra teacher I had in the tenth grade, pokes his head out of his classroom to check out the noise, sees me, frowns, and closes the door. I grip the sides of the trashcan and vomit some more.

Throwing up is the worst thing in the world. I don’t know anybody who actually enjoys it—though there are a couple of girls on the squad who routinely stick their fingers down their throat after lunch—and if you do, more power to you. Freak.. The burning sensation in your nose, the smell of it, and oh yeah, the whole expelling-the- contents-of-your-stomach thing. It is disgusting.

I am so caught up in my own misery that I almost don’t notice someone reaching out to pull my hair back when I stick my head in the trashcan again. But I can’t care enough to see who it is. I am too busy hacking and spitting. Lovely, isn’t it?

“Here, wash your mouth out with this,” says a deep voice I don’t immediately recognize.

A bottle of water appears before my face and I look up to see a white hand holding it. Well, not white-white—it has some tan to it—but the owner of the hand is definitely a white person. And male. And his other hand is still holding my hair back.

I slowly straighten so I’m not hovering over the trashcan anymore and he releases my thick, wavy hair, allowing it to cascade over my shoulders. He is standing too close. I narrow my eyes at him. He doesn’t move.

“Here.” He tilts the bottle toward me in offering. His mouth is curled in a worried frown, dark brown brows knotted over olive-green eyes.

He has some kind of accent. East Coast, I think. It takes me a minute to place him—excuse me, but I was just vomiting my guts out. Bastien Something, the new kid from New York, who sits behind me in Chemistry and Government. He tried out for varsity football over the summer and Coach Kellerman said he has a pretty good throwing arm. Not that he’s going to get any action because 1) my boyfriend, Deshawn is the current quarterback and already has scouts from all over the country drooling all over him, and 2) did I mention my boyfriend Deshawn?

He is tall—but then again, everyone is tall compared to my five-four—three or four inches above six feet, at least, and has shoulders so wide I have to wonder if he has to go sideways when going through a door. His dark hair is shaggy and thick, almost touching the collar of his navy-blue shirt and he needs a shave.

He uncaps the bottle for me and holds it out again. Reluctantly, I take it from him and pour the room temperature water into my mouth. Keeping my eyes trained on him, I swish it around my mouth. The corners of his lips quirk up in a half-smile and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his baggy brown cords. I turn my head and spit out the contents of my mouth as delicately as I can into the trashcan.

“Here. Use this.”

I look back at him and in his hand is a neatly folded paisley handkerchief. I raise my eyebrows. What planet did this guy come from? Who the hell carries handkerchiefs in their pockets anymore but old guys who play chess with each other in the park? I shrug and take it from his hand, dabbing my lips with it. It smells like April Fresh Tide. He is still standing too close. I take a step back from him and my shoulder blades hit the cold metal of the row of lockers behind me.

“Your name is Grace, right?” I nod. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too hot.” I tilt the water bottle to my lips and take a mouthful. I swallow carefully as I wonder what he wants from me. We’ve never even spoken before today. My stomach rolls a moment later and I whirl towards the trashcan, but thankfully, nothing comes out.

“Girl, there you are!”

My best friend Keisha Williams walks up to me, but her perfume reaches me before she does. Normally, I adore her scent—Dolly Girl by Anna Sui, thirty-five dollars an ounce. This time, the mixture of fruit and cinnamon smells makes my head swim and engages my gag reflex. I grip the edges of the trashcan and vomit until there is nothing left but air. As I hover miserably over the trashcan, I feel somebody pull my hair back and something tells me it is not Keisha. I shut my eyes in embarrassment even as I feel a hand begin to rub soothing circles on my back.

“You’re going to be fine,” Bastien Something reassures me.

He helps me straighten up and I wipe my mouth with his handkerchief. Keisha is staring at Bastien suspiciously, one perfectly tweezed eyebrow arched and her arms folded tightly across her chest. Reflexively, I shove Bastien away even though the loss of his support almost makes me topple over on my butt. He grabs my elbow to steady me, but I quickly pull it out of his grasp.

“Mrs. Douglas sent me to check on you,” she says, keeping her hazel gaze steady on Bastien. “You all right, baby girl?”

Keisha is wearing a pink angora sweater, a dove-gray mini skirt, and four-inch espadrilles that match her skirt. Her black braids are pulled into a bun on top of her head and she has tasteful diamond studs on her ears. I know she’s my best friend and all, but with her looking so clean and pretty and me with drying vomit around my mouth, she is soooo the last person I want to see.

She takes a step toward me and grabs my arm. “Come on, Grace.” She slides a challenging look at Bastien. “Let me take you to the nurse’s office.”

Her perfume assails my nose again and my eyes begin to water. I stagger away from her, clamping my hand over my mouth and nose, and ducking behind Bastien whose Ivory soap and laundry detergent smell don’t offend.

Keisha props her hands on her hips and glares at us. “Um, what’s going on? Dude, what have you gone and done to my friend?”

“I’m just helping her out. I don’t mean her any harm.”

Keisha is not convinced. She is looking at Bastien like he just admitted to slipping a mickey in my drink. Have I mentioned how super-protective she is of me? She once got in a hair-pulling fight with this hoodrat named Stacey because Stacey was talking smack behind my back. Keisha may have grown up in an exclusive suburb in La Jolla, but she can throw down like a girl from the projects.

“What are you doing out of class? Were you waiting for her to come or something? Are you stalking her?” she demands.

“Uh, okay, can the Gestapo act, all right? I was on my way to the bathroom when I saw her puking her guts out. I was just being a good Samaritan.”

Bastien remains cool when another guy would have gotten defensive at being called a stalker. I have to give him props for it.

Keisha narrows her eyes at him. “Uh huh, then why are you all up on her grill like you want get to know her soul? She’s got a man, you know. He’s a lot bigger than you.”

As sick as I am, I can feel the redness of a blush edging out the green of my nausea. “Leave him alone, Keisha,” I say. “I’m feeling really woozy and your perfume is not helping. Just go back to class and I’ll hook up with you later.”

Don’t I have to stick up for the guy who gave me his own handkerchief to wipe up my vomit?

“Oh, so it’s my perfume, is it? I see where you’re at, girl.” She throws me a dirty look that’s been known to freeze mere freshmen in their tracks. “We’re not done here. You have a lot of explaining to do.” And with that, she stalks off, her heels clicking like staccato beats on the floor.

“Your friend… she’s intense, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it.” He sweeps a lock of my hair out of my face and I suddenly begin to feel self-conscious. The boy has seen me puking my guts out and here I am acting like we’re on a date and he’s about to kiss me goodnight or something. I cover my mouth with my hand so he doesn’t get a whiff of my vomit breath. “You can go back to class now, you know. I can walk to the nurse’s office on my own. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

A dimple pops up on his left cheek. “Are you kidding? I live for trouble. Trouble is my middle name. Bastien Trouble Jenner.”

I give him a droll look. Look at me, acting all flirty when I’m a minute away from barfing again. And oh, Deshawn would so kick his ass if he sees me flirting with him. What are you doing, Grace? Stop it. Stop it right now. “Trouble? Really? Your parents must be awful people.”

His green eyes sparkle with humor. “You’re a funny girl.”

His smile does funny things to my stomach. I manage to smile back before I have to stick my head in the trashcan and vomit again.