“Right,” Zach the Anarchist said. “You’re not dumb. But then how . . .”
“What’s going on?” It was Sam Huang, standing at the screen door and looking perplexed. “I heard yelling.”
“We’ve got to get her to the hospital,” Zach the Anarchist called back. “Go get Nattie’s EpiPen. It should be in her backpack. And call her parents.”
“Thanks,” I gasped.
“Don’t worry about it,” Zach the Anarchist said. “Let’s get you in my car. The hospital’s only five minutes away.”
He yanked me to my feet. Sam Huang remerged with my EpiPen, which Zach the Anarchist uncapped.
“Close your eyes,” he said. “This is going to hurt, and you don’t want to see—”
“Holy shit,” Sebastian said, “you’re going to stab her with that?”
Zach the Anarchist gave him a dirty look.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” I said. “Less talking, more stabb—ow!”
It did hurt. And as soon as I was adrenalined, my heart started beating in quintuple time.
“You okay?” Zach asked. I barely had time to nod before he shoved me into the backseat of the Volvo. And before I could shut the door, he shoved Sebastian in, too.
“Keep an eye on her until we get to the hospital,” Zach said, and flew to the driver’s seat. “Do you think you can manage that?”
“Hospital?” Sebastian blinked. “Is this, like . . . serious?”
“That’s why they call them life-threatening allergies,” I said through chattering teeth. “Idiot.”
“You’re allergic to something?”
In unison, Zach and I both turned to Sebastian.
“What?” said Sebastian.
“What’s in your pocket?” I said. “What were you eating?”
Sebastian frowned, but produced the crumpled something he’d stuffed in there: the wrapper for a Pop-Tart. Strawberry.
My dizziness got even dizzier.
“Are you serious?” Zach yelled as he threw the car into reverse. “That’s like the one thing you need to know about Nattie.”
I had never heard Zach the Anarchist raise his voice like that. Maybe it was the epinephrine talking, but it was kind of exciting to hear.
Sebastian looked paler than his pastel T-shirt.
“Wow,” he said. “You’re, uh . . . you’re going to be okay, right?”
“If we get to the hospital in time,” I said. Which, considering that Zach the Anarchist had just taken an illegal U-turn to run a red light, we probably would.
Sebastian gripped the edge of the seat. “I . . . wow. I’m sorry?”
“Of course you’re sorry,” said Zach the Anarchist from the front seat. “Think of how bad it’ll look if you killed the girl you wrote a song about.”
Houses and stores careened past the windows at a Tilt-A-Whirl clip, and I couldn’t tell if I was nauseous from Zach’s emergency driving or because my body was violently rejecting the genuine strawberry filling of a breakfast product. We spun into the Emergency entrance for Wister General Hospital so hard that I slammed straight into Sebastian’s chest. Two weeks ago—okay, maybe even two hours ago—I would’ve freaked out from being that close to him. Now, though, I just wanted him out of the way.
Zach the Anarchist spun out of the driver’s seat, leaving the Volvo idling crosswise in the driveway loop, and pulled me out of the car. With Sebastian loping behind, we tumbled through the automatic doors.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Emergency!”
Instantly, a nurse was at our side.
“Please don’t shout, sir,” she said, and looked at me. “What’s happened?”
“Strawberry reaction,” Zach the Anarchist said.
“First kiss,” I gasped.
“Disaster?” Sebastian offered.
The nurse gave us all a look.
“Right this way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Apparently, going through triage for a severe allergic reaction involves getting whisked away on a rolling bed with little oxygen tubes stuck up your nose so a doctor can poke you with enough needles to make a Nattie pincushion.
“Just so you know, I’m not a doctor, I’m a nurse,” said the not-doctor man, who was poking around the crook of my arm with purple-gloved fingers for a suitable vein to skewer. “And yes, men can be nurses, and I am going to take excellent care of you. I’m Brett.”
“Oh,” I said. I got the sense that he gave that little speech a lot. The IV needle in his hand was very big. My forehead went clammy.
“This’ll get you steroids and an antihistamine,” Nurse Brett said. “You might want to look away.”
I not only looked away, I scrunched my eyes shut for good measure.
“Agh!”
I winced and tried my very hardest not to flail out of the crispy-sheeted bed they’d put me on when they’d yanked me away from Zach the Anarchist and Sebastian. I’d at least gotten my own private recovery room, probably because it would be traumatizing to give someone a roommate who could choke to death on her own swollen throat tissue at any moment. It smelled like Listerine and barf.
“All done.” Nurse Brett straightened and gave my shoulder a little pat, which should’ve felt patronizing but actually reassured me, like I was still a sentient being in a body, not yet dead, even if I was covered in fist-sized red blotches. “Are you in pain? Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” I said, and rearranged my face to look as pleasant as I could, given the circumstances. Out there, somewhere, beyond the mouthwash-and-vomit-scented hallway, were one of my best friends on the planet and the lead singer of a moderately successful indie-rock band. What were they doing? Sitting on plastic waiting-room chairs? Reading old issues of Town & Country? Watching the dumb CCTV thing about eating low-fat foods to prevent heart disease?
Another nurse jogged in with a clipboard, which Nurse Brett took.
“Okay”—he glanced at my chart—“Natalie. That’s a beautiful name. How are you—”
“Actually,” I said. “It’s Nattie. If you don’t mind.”
Nurse Brett grinned. “Not at all. Nattie, how are you breathing? Are you feeling nauseated? Dizzy?”
I took a slow, steady test breath. Then another.
“I think I can breathe,” I said. “I think.”
“Good.” He lowered the clipboard. “The steroids ought to help you look less like a lobster, and the Benadryl will bring down the swelling, okay? We’re going to let you hang out here for a while and see how those are working.”
I nodded. Nurse Brett glanced out the door, to the hallway.
“Do you want me to get your boyfriend?”
“Uh,” I mumbled, too medicated to explain the intricacies of my waiting-room situation. “Sure.”
Nurse Brett smiled and disappeared, only to return a minute later.
“Uh . . . which one is your boyfriend?”
“Neither?” I shook my head and sat up on the scratchy pillows, desperately trying to well up enough spit for a longer answer. “Uh, both, I guess? It’s kind of . . . complicated.”
Nurse Brett winked. “I’ll get them both.”
I settled uneasily back onto my pillows and prayed that if I was going to die from this allergic reaction, that it happen in the next thirty seconds so I did not have to face Zach and Sebastian together again.
“Nattie?”
My eyes flew open. Zach the Anarchist was hovering at the door, looking pale.
“I, uh, got you some ice chips,” he said, and held out a cup. “The nurse guy said you can’t have anything to drink yet.”
“Cool,” I croaked. “You can come in, if you want.”
“I thought I’d just throw the ice at you from here.”
I laughed, which kind of hurt my throat, and Zach came to my bedside with the cup. When he was standing next to me, I couldn’t smell the barf smell. Just Zach.
“Here. I . . . oh.” He drew the cup back when he saw the pulse monitor clipped to o
ne hand and the blood oxygen monitor clipped to the other. “Can you open your mouth?”
I swallowed. Painfully. “Sure.”
Zach rooted around in the cup and dug out an ice chip with his long fingers. I opened my mouth, and he touched it to my lips, where it was deliciously cool and gone in an instant.
“Thanks,” I said, wondering if it was possible to blush underneath hives. Zach’s face was brilliantly pink.
“You’re welcome.” Zach looked at the floor. His now-ice-free hand was inches from mine on the nubbly hospital blanket. “Nattie, I—”
“What’s going on? Is she okay?”
Sebastian swung into the room, nose wrinkled against the barf smell, and widened his eyes when he saw me.
“Shit,” he said, his face sagging under his man-bun. “She doesn’t look okay.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly. Zach retracted his hand and stared hard out the window, a strangely murderous look in his eye. “Also, I’m right here.”
“Right, yeah.” Sebastian shook his head and sank into a chair. “Are you okay? I didn’t . . . kill you?”
Zach the Anarchist put down the cup of ice chips. “Why are you even still here?”
“Yo, chill out, man.” Sebastian leaned back in the chair, palms up. “I just wanted to make sure she—”
“I’m not your man, dude.” Zach got up and actually almost got in Sebastian’s face. “You’re bothering her. Leave.”
“Hey, come on, I’m just trying to—”
“Everything okay here?” Nurse Brett popped his head back in.
Zach looked at Sebastian. Sebastian looked at me. I lay back across my pillows and pretended I’d fallen into a catatonic state.
“Nattie!”
My eyes flew back open.
“Mom?”
It was Mom, frantic and dressed in a sweatshirt and polar-bear pajama pants that were her standard on-a-deadline outfit. She vaulted to my bedside and flung her arms around me. “Oh my God, Nattie! We thought you were dead!”
“She’s not dead, ma’am,” said Nurse Brett, a firm hand on her shoulder, “but she has suffered a minor anaphylactic reaction. You’re going to have to give her a little space.”
“Right. Right. Of course.” Mom backed away, but I could see that there were tears in her eyes. Tears that dried up as soon as she laid eyes on Sebastian.
“Excuse me. I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said coolly, and stuck out a hand. “Anne McCullough. Nattie’s mother.”
“Oh.” Sebastian didn’t get up from his chair. “Yeah.”
Mom waited barely half a second. “And you are?”
“Hey,” said Sebastian, as if that were enough of an explanation. “I’m friends with Natalie.”
“Mom,” I started. “The thing is—”
“Man, I’ll tell you, trying to validate parking here is—Nattie G!”
Dad rushed to my bedside, with Sam Huang trailing. “Hey, kiddo.” He planted a kiss on my forehead, stood up, and realized that no one else in the room was moving. “What’s going on?”
“Um, hey, guys,” I said weakly, and gave a tiny wave with my pulse-monitored hand. “I . . . am in the hospital.”
“What happened?” Dad asked.
“Do you need more ice chips?” Zach asked.
“Who is he?” Mom looked less concerned with the fact that I was lying, blotchy, in a hospital bed, and more with the slouchy hipster leaning next to a Pepto-Bismol-colored curtain.
“I . . . hi? Uh, Sebastian, I . . .” Sebastian raised a hand, but stuck it out too high for Mom to shake, and she didn’t look at all like she wanted to shake hands anymore, so he deflected and went to his pocket for his phone, which he started nervously locking and unlocking.
There was a tense silence. Silence except for all the beeping machines and the click, click of Sebastian unlocking his phone.
“I’ll give you all a moment,” Nurse Brett said, and sidestepped gracefully out of the room.
“I think,” Dad said loudly, “I think we could all stand to hear what’s going on. Right, Nattie?”
I nodded as vigorously as I could, although the combined effects of Benadryl, steroids, and an intramuscular shot of adrenaline were making me feel seriously zonked. “Well, I’m fine. And I’m sorry, everybody.”
“Sweetheart.” Mom fell back to my side and ran her fingers through my hair, which I now realized was both unwashed and severely overrun with split ends. Dad gathered us both in an awkward bed hug that lasted about three seconds. “What on earth happened to you? How did you end up in the hospital? And what . . . else is going on?”
She glanced over at Sebastian, who had gone practically bug-eyed in addition to looking pale.
“Please tell me it’s not drugs, Nattie Gann,” Dad said. “You’re too smart for that, right?”
“It’s not drugs, Dad,” I said. “I just, um, had an allergic reaction, and—”
“An allergic reaction to what?” Mom interruped. “You didn’t just eat a strawberry, did you?”
Across the room, Zach’s murdery glance flicked to Sebastian. Sebastian, looking chastened, unlocked his phone again and ducked into the hall.
“Right,” I said. “About that. The thing is, um—” I coughed and glanced at my cup, which was now full of melted water. “Can I have some more ice chips, please?”
My throat was still recovering from being swollen practically shut, and I also wanted to take every opportunity to stall.
“Sure thing, NG.” Dad saluted and started for the door, but Zach the Anarchist was already off and down the hall, in the opposite direction of Sebastian.
“Thanks.” I lay back on my pillows and tried to look forlorn. “So, the thing is, I didn’t exactly eat a strawberry, but, um—” I faked a cough. “God, almost dying takes a lot out of you, let me tell you.”
“That’s not funny,” Mom said, but Dad was smiling.
“Nattie, I swear, if you hadn’t almost died, I would kill you.”
“Did someone say Nattie?” A female voice rang out in the hallway. “I think I heard someone say Nattie.”
“Maybe they were talking about the beer,” said another voice. A boy.
“Tall Zach, this is a hospital.”
“No place for drinking,” said a third voice, another boy’s. “Or jokes.”
“No place f—OH MY GOD.”
Tess’s blond head popped in from the hallway and screamed.
“She’s alive!”
Tess launched herself at the bed and wrapped herself around my neck.
“God damn it, Nattie! We thought you were—oh my God.” When she pulled back, I could see that she was crying, too.
“Hi,” I said. “Um, we?”
Tess looked back at the door, where Tall Zach, Endsignal, and Zach the Anarchist were hovering—Tall Zach in his running shorts, Endsignal looking a little confused as to why he was there, and Zach the Anarchist smiling, just a bit.
“Hey,” I said, and gave a little wave. Somehow, only Zach the Anarchist knew to wave back.
“Hey,” he said. “I found them wandering around, and—”
“Hey!” Tall Zach bounded over and gave me a kiss on the forehead. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Nattie’s Parents, it’s lovely to see you again. I’m very glad your daughter is alive, and I am going to go raid the vending machines, and does anyone have any requests?”
“Peanut M&M’s,” said Mom.
“Triscuits,” said Dad. “Ooh, no, Wheat Thins.”
“Vodka,” Tess said. “Just kidding.”
“Ice chips,” I said.
Zach the Anarchist pushed through my sudden crowd of bedside visitors bearing a small, cold, deliciously wet paper cup.
“Thank you,” I said, and awkwardly dumped them into my mouth as Tall Zach took off down the hall with Endsignal in tow.
Six pairs of eyes watched as I carefully clicked the ice around with my tongue until it had melted. No sooner had I swallowed than Mom launched back in.
; “Okay,” she said. “Explain. Strawberry.”
“One second.” I went to put the cup down, but Zach the Anarchist took it for me. Our fingers brushed a little.
“Um, actually, if it’s okay?” I licked my lips and looked at Tess. “What are you doing here?”
Tess looked at Sam Huang, then at me. “I got an emergency Jamba alert from your brother here.”
“Sam?” I croaked. Sam Huang blushed.
“Thank you,” I said.
“He told me you were dying or something, and that it had something to do with, uh, Sebastian,” Tess went on. “And I freaked out, because I thought maybe he’d kidnapped you or something—”
“Kidnapped?” Mom pressed a hand to her forehead and sank into the chair formerly occupied by Sebastian.
“So then,” Tess said, irritated at being interrupted, “I alerted the team and borrowed the BMW to drive over here, because it was an emergency, fully expecting to find your corpse in a gutter along the way or something.”
I smiled weakly. “Well, I’m alive now. Alive and kind of tired. I think I might try to slee—”
“Natalie McCullough-Schwartz,” Mom thundered from her chair. “You owe us an explanation five minutes ago.”
I swallowed.
“You’re way too smart to eat strawberries, NG,” Dad said. “Was someone trying to poison you?”
Mom glared. Sam Huang looked alarmed. Tess squeezed my shoulder. I took a deep breath, which I would never again take for granted in my life, and went for it.
“I didn’t eat a strawberry. I . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I may have”—the word felt lodged in my throat—“kissed someone who had strawberry Pop-Tart in his spit.”
“What?” said more or less everyone at the same time.
“Ugh.” I buried my face in my hands, which was kind of tricky given the oxygen tubes in my nose and the plastic pulse monitor clamped on my right index finger. “This is all so stupid.”
“Nothing you ever do could be stupid, Nattie Gann,” Dad’s voice said.
“You know you can tell us anything,” added Mom’s voice.
I lifted my head and took a shaky breath.
“Mom. Dad. For the past two months, your daughter has been the subject of America’s number-twenty-three alternative-rock single.”
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