“Holmesy,” Daisy said. I looked up at her. “We’re almost through lunch and you haven’t even mentioned my hair.”
She shook out her hair, with so-red-they-were-pink highlights. Right. She’d dyed her hair.
I swum up out of the depths and said, “It’s bold.” “I know, right?
It says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen and also people who do not identify as ladies or gentlemen,
Daisy Ramirez won’t break her promises, but she will break your heart.”
Daisy’s self-proclaimed life motto was “Break Hearts, Not Promises.” She kept threatening to get it tattooed on her ankle when she turned eighteen.
Daisy turned back to Mychal, and I to my thoughts. The stomach grumbling had grown, if anything, louder.
I felt like I might vomit. For someone who actively dislikes bodily fluids, I throw up quite a lot.
“Holmesy, you okay?” Daisy asked. I nodded. Sometimes I wondered why she liked me, or at least tolerated me.
Why any of them did. Even I found myself annoying. I could feel sweat sprouting from my forehead, and once I begin to sweat, it’s impossible to stop.
I’ll keep sweating for hours, and not just my face or my armpits. My neck sweats. My boobs sweat. My calves sweat. Maybe I did have a fever.
Beneath the table, I slid the old Band-Aid into my pocket and, without looking, pulled out a new one, unwrapped it,
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