Chex Mix

Oh, Jesus. I’m gonna puke. Dear God, please don’t let me puke. I can’t miss class.

Please don’t puke, please don’t puke, please don’t puke…

“Hey,” someone hisses from behind me. “Ananda. Can I see your notes?”

Oh, here it comes.

I stand up in middle of Mrs. Hess’s AP US History class and head up to the front of the classroom, feeling the cold sweat on my neck and the gross, thin saliva building up under my tongue. “Mrs. Hess, I’m not feeling so well, can I go to the office—“

“Amanda, sit back down. It can wait.”

“Mrs. Hess, I’m going to puke,” I insist.

“Amanda, sit back down.”

“That’s not even my—“ It’s coming up.

I spot Mrs. Hess’s trash can right by my feet. And then I projectile vomit into it.

I hate Arby’s.



“I really hate Arby’s,” I tell the nurse who’s taking my temperature.

Why do they always do that? Is food poisoning not a viable sickness? Only a fever can send you home?

“Well, there’s a bug going around,” says the nurse.

“No. It was Arby’s,” I mumble.

“Hm… No fever. Maybe it was food poisoning.” And then she walks off.

I told you it was Arby’s.

I’m sitting on the floor next to the door to the little bathroom where I’ve barfed exactly two and a half times already. And it hasn’t even been ten minutes.

I despise Arby’s. I loathe Arby’s. I detest Arby’s. I abhor Arby’s.

Another girl walks, trembling into the room with another student who looks very indifferent considering he’s escorting a hyperventilating girl. She sits down on one of the cots, her face pale rather than the usual crying-red with her dark hair sticking to her face. Even with the sorry state I’m in, it feels as though she has it worse than me. And then when the other student leaves her without saying anything at all, I want to go and sit by her and ask her what’s wrong and maybe tell her it’ll be okay or something—but I have to puke again.

I crawl quickly to the toilet and heave into the bowl, feeling my eyes squirt out some moisture from the effort.

When I come back up for air, through the veil of hair I can see little particles of stuff that looks like oatmeal.

“Ugh, there’s puke in my hair!” I moan.

I HATE ARBY’S.