Page 82 of Look Again

Ginger is at my side, glaring menacingly at Dexter. It definitely looks like he just punched me in the face with his head. This is not going to help her remember that she likes him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he’s saying. “I’m so sorry.” He tries to peel my hands off my face, but I’m not about to let him discover a bloody mess before I do.

“I’b fide,” I try to say from behind my hands. My nose is throbbing. And now my hands feel wet.

Awesome.

One of the side effects of one of my medications is that it thins my blood. Good for preventing long-term health disasters. Bad for temporary nosebleed situations.

I make eye contact with Ginger and point with my head to the exit. She follows me out the door and says, “What do you need?”

“A towel.”

She looks around, as if there might be a housekeeping cart on the forest path.

“Like a paper towel?” she asks.

I realize that in all my time spent in the old chapel, I’ve never noticed a bathroom. There must be one, right? Codes would require it, right?

“That would be a good start,” I say through my hands, and she runs off.

Meanwhile, I can feel what I can’t see. My hands are not going to be able to contain this mess for long.

Gross.

Oh, so gross. I turn away from the building and step into the trees, bend at the waist, and let go of my face. My hands are fully, disgustingly wet with blood. I stay bent over so gravity is on my side and wipe my hands on a pile of fallen leaves.

Gross, gross, gross.

I hear footsteps and call out to Ginger, “Just toss it over here. Don’t come too close. I’m a monster.”

It is not Ginger’s voice that answers. “Oh, Joey. I’m so sorry.”

I have never heard a sadness so sincere.

Forgetting gravity, forgetting the monstrosity of my own face, I whip around and see Dexter, his arms reaching for me. I shake my head and back up, not wanting to get him bloody. These movements shouldn’t seem like any kind of big deal, but taken together, they manage to reconfigure the flow of blood down my face and all over the front of my sweater.

No, no, no.

And naturally, this is the moment we hear crowds of people arrive at the door on the other side of the building.

Right on time.

I reach down and pull my sweater over my head, noticing Dexter emit a strangled noise. I’m not sure if he’s gagging at the sight of all my blood or worried that he’ll get caught watching me disrobe at a student event.

Either way, we’re not exactly winning here.

Sweater in my hand, I stand against a tree, shivering in the Vermont autumn afternoon, my camisole doing the only job it’s made for. As in, not providing warmth.

I ball my sweater up in my hands and shove it under my nose.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, and I can’t stand hearing it one more time.

If there’s any extra blood in my system at this point, its flooding my brain, feeding my anger sensors. “Sorry isn’t cleaning up this mess, and it’s not opening the show. If you want to help, go inside and be in charge.”

“But you,” he stammers.

I push the sweater harder against my face and yell to be heard through it. “Go. I can manage to bleed here by myself. Go do your job.”