Slide. Jill Hathaway

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      I’m slumped at my desk, fighting to keep my eyes open. A drop of sweat meanders down my back. It’s got to be eighty-five degrees in here, though it’s only October. When we complained, Mrs. Winger mumbled something about waiting for a custodian to come fix the thermostat.

      Beside me, hunched over his desk, Icky Ferris stumbles over the words in Julius Caesar. We’re supposed to be reading in partners—but his monotonous tone, paired with the unintelligible Shakespearean language that gets English teachers all hot and bothered, makes me feel unbearably sleepy.

      Heat is one of my major triggers—and, apparently, so is Shakespeare. Warmth crawls up my spine like a centipede. It reminds me of the time I was sitting in my dad’s car in August with the seat warmer accidentally on.

      All the words in my book mush into blurry gray lines, and I know it won’t be long before I lose consciousness. The room starts to turn inside out, the seams pulling apart. I pick something in the room to focus on and end up staring at an inspirational poster with a picture of a kitten hanging off of a tree branch. The caption reads: HANG IN THERE, BABY! As I watch, the kitten’s face starts to melt off. I slip down in my chair.

      There are certain signs I’m about to pass out: drooping eyelids, muscles gone slack like spaghetti, a blank look on my face. My classmates have seen it happen enough times to be able to tell what’s happening.

      “Sylvia,” Icky hisses, and then he claps in front of my face. “Snap out of it.” I blink and focus on him. Icky has a mullet and an unhealthy obsession with firearms, but I like him. He certainly shows more compassion than most of the kids at my school. “You okay?”

      By now, everyone’s staring. It’s not really a big deal anymore, me passing out in the middle of class, but it is something to break up this boring October day. There hasn’t been any new gossip since the drug dogs found a bag of weed in Jimmy Pine’s locker—and that was two weeks ago. I’d like to avoid losing myself completely in front of these vultures if at all possible.

      I hoist myself out of the chair and approach Mrs. Winger, my English teacher. She’s totally engrossed in something on her computer—probably solitaire. She’s the only one who didn’t notice me almost pass out. Her big desk is tucked in the very back of the room so she can ignore us. Pair by pair, my classmates’ eyes drop away from me and go back to their reading.

      “Can I go to the bathroom?” I make my words small and humble.

      She doesn’t bother to remove her eyes from the computer screen. If she did, she might see that it’s me, Sylvia Bell with the narcolepsy issue, and remember she’s been asked to let me leave the classroom whenever I need to.

      Come on. Just let me go. LEMME GO.

      The room spins and my knees start to buckle.

      “Can’t it wait until class is over?” Mrs. Winger’s voice is snippy, cutting me into tiny pieces she can easily brush into the trash. She moves a stack of cards with her mouse.

      “Can’t your game wait until class is over?” I push a lock of pink hair behind my ear. I know it’s a bitchy thing to say, but screw it. It’s the only way to get her attention.

      She finally looks my way, irritation deepening the lines around her eyes. “Fine. Go. Five minutes.”

      I don’t respond because I’m already out the door. I should go to the nurse, but she’s required to notify my father of any episodes, and I don’t feel like dealing with the questions. Not today. I’m so tired. Sleep might stalk me throughout the day, but it evades me at night. Last night, I might’ve gotten a total of four hours of sleep.

      On my way to the bathroom, I pray it’s empty. No such luck—when I push open the door, I see a girl on her knees in the last stall, alternately sobbing and retching. I recognize the silver flip-flops. It’s Sophie Jacobs, the only one of my little sister’s friends I can stand. At least she won’t tell anyone about my episode. She has her own secrets to keep, anyway, like the breakfast she was probably just getting rid of.

      I lean against the wall and search the pockets of my hoodie for the little orange bottle—the one that’s labeled Provigil. My doctor prescribed it to keep me awake, but in actuality it doesn’t do СКАЧАТЬ