One True Thing by Nicole Hayes Page B

keeled over, comatose. All I’m aware of is the aching thump of my heart at the thought of Jake talking about me and the fogginess that’s shrouding my brain. I clear my throat and force down the tasteless morsel, trying not to hurry or seem too interested. The dizziness has passed, but my head feels all floaty and weird. ‘What do you mean?’
    â€˜You, my sweet. You .’ Kessie takes another bite, and I have to wait what seems like ages before she continues. ‘He asked how well I knew you. I said you were like a sister to me, except I actually like you.’ Kessie barely talks to her older sister, Annabelle. I won’t say she hates her, but in the last two years they’ve probably exchanged fewer than twenty-five words. And most of them I wouldn’t repeat in respectable company.
    I don’t care , I tell myself. Jake can say whatever he likes. I just don’t care. I’m about to tell Kessie to find me a glass of water and some Panadol if she really wants to help, when my gaze settles on a mop of dark curls and a set of broad, strong shoulders that could belong to a footballer or a surfer or …
    â€˜Oh yeah,’ Kessie says airily. ‘I forgot to say I told him to come.’
    The broad shoulders turn around and I’m staring directly into the emerald-green eyes of Jake D’Angelo.
    I stand stock-still, my feet cemented in place, with only the rapid pounding of my heart evidence that I’m not, in fact, the living dead.
    So much for not caring.
    â€˜Jesus, girl.’ Kessie’s voice is all echoey, and I have to force myself to look at her to be absolutely sure she’s spoken.
    â€˜What?’ I say.
    She touches her hand to my forehead like my mother does when I’m sick. ‘You feel hot,’ she says, then pulls her hand away, disgusted. ‘And sweaty.’
    â€˜Thanks a lot,’ I snap, embarrassed. I really do feel ill. ‘Something’s not right,’ I say. The headache is dull and persistent, my skin feels cold to touch, and there are goosebumps along my arm even though I’m burning up inside and, yes, I’m sweaty.
    â€˜Are you okay?’
    I look up to see Jake standing beside me, concern etched into his features. I lick my lips but my mouth has gone dry. I can feel it in my gut now, that swirly icky heaviness, and I know that this is not some feverish response to a good-looking guy.
    â€˜Not sure,’ I choke out.
    â€˜Can I get you some water?’ His hand is on my shoulder, and he’s already looking around.
    â€˜I … No.’ I shake my head, then face him. The world starts to spin, and I struggle to focus. ‘Um, maybe. Yeah. Thanks.’
    Jake disappears into the crowd and Kessie tucks her arm in mine. ‘Seriously, Frank. You look like crap.’
    And I feel it. I’m suddenly aware of every muscle I own, every droplet of blood in my veins. Everything is throbbing and beating faster than it should, and somehow louder, too.
    â€˜Sit down.’ Kessie tugs me towards the row of chairs we only recently vacated. This time the plastic seems to mould itself to me rather than dig into my back and thighs.
    Jake returns with a glass of chilled water. Cubes of ice tinkle as I take a long drink. Then I press the glass to my forehead, the cool against my skin a huge relief.
    I tilt my head up, determined to settle the roiling of my stomach. I try to stand, but small black dots dance in front of me, and before I know it the Northwoods Primary School’s ‘Sport in the Suburbs’ catering is making an unwelcome reappearance on their brand-new running track – and all over Jake D’Angelo’s shoes.
    I don’t have to look up to know that someone somewhere is capturing every second of it in glorious, high-res detail.

CHAPTER 8
MEET THE PRESS
    It takes a full twenty-four hours before I run out of food to throw up, and another twenty-four hours before I have the