“I’ll be coming around with a dropper of water to prepare your cards, so please don’t start until I get to you.…” She began at McKayla’s table again, carefully putting one drop of water in each of the four squares of McKayla’s card.

“Then I want you to carefully prick your finger with the lancet.…” She grabbed McKayla’s hand and jabbed the spike into the tip of McKayla’s middle finger.

“Ouch,” McKayla complained.

Clammy moisture broke out across my forehead and my ears began a faint ringing.

“Put a small drop of blood on each of the prongs.…” Mrs. Banner demonstrated as she instructed, squeezing McKayla’s finger till the blood flowed. I swallowed convulsively, and my stomach heaved.

“And then apply it to the card,” she finished, holding up the dripping red card for us to see. I closed my eyes, trying to hear through the humming in my ears.

“The Red Cross is having a blood drive in Port Angeles next weekend, so I thought you should all know your blood type.” She sounded proud of herself. “Those of you who aren’t eighteen yet will need a parent’s permission—I have slips at my desk.”

She continued through the room with her water dropper. I put my cheek against the cool, black tabletop and tried to hold on as everything seemed to get farther away, slithering down a dark tunnel. The squeals, complaints, and giggles as my classmates skewered their fingers all sounded far off in the distance. I breathed slowly in and out through my mouth.

“Beau, are you all right?” Mrs. Banner asked. Her voice was close to my head, but still far away, and it sounded alarmed.

“I already know my blood type, Mrs. Banner. I’m O negative.”

I couldn’t open my eyes.

“Are you feeling faint?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I muttered, wishing I could kick myself for not ditching when I had the chance.

“Can someone walk Beau to the nurse, please?” she called.

“I will.” Even though it was far away, I recognized McKayla’s voice.

“Can you walk?” Mrs. Banner asked me.

“Yes,” I whispered. Just let me get out of here, I thought. I’ll crawl.

I felt McKayla grab my hand—I was sure it was all sweaty and gross but I couldn’t care about that yet—and I worked to get my eyes open while she tugged me up. I just had to get out of this room before it went full dark. I stumbled toward the door while McKayla put her arm around my waist, trying to steady me. I put my arm over her shoulders, but she was too short to help my balance much. I tried to carry my own weight as much as possible.

McKayla and I lumbered slowly across campus. When we were around the edge of the cafeteria, out of sight of building four in case Mrs. Banner was watching, I stopped fighting.

“Just let me sit for a minute, please?” I asked.

McKayla breathed out a sigh of relief as I settled clumsily on the edge of the walk.

“And whatever you do, keep your hand in your pocket,” I said. Everything seemed to be swirling dizzily, even when I closed my eyes. I slumped over to one side, putting my cheek against the freezing, damp cement of the sidewalk. That helped.

“Wow, you’re green, Beau,” McKayla said nervously.

“Just gimme… a minute…”

“Beau?” a different voice called from the distance.

Oh, please no. Not this, too. Let me just be imagining that horribly familiar voice.

“What’s wrong? Is he hurt?” The voice was closer now, and it sounded strangely fierce. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to die. Or, at the very least, not to throw up.

McKayla sounded stressed. “I think he fainted. I don’t know what happened, he didn’t even stick his finger.”

“Beau, can you hear me?” Edythe’s voice was right by my head now, and she sounded relieved.

“No,” I groaned.

She laughed.

“I was trying to help him to the nurse,” McKayla explained, defensive. “But he wouldn’t go any farther.”

“I’ll take him,” Edythe said, the smile still in her voice. “You can go back to class.”

“What? No, I’m supposed to…”

And then a thin, strong arm was under both of mine, and I was on my feet without realizing how I got there. The strong arm, cold like the sidewalk, held me tight against a slim body, almost like a crutch. My eyes flipped open in surprise, but all I could see was her tangled bronze hair against my chest. She started moving forward, and my feet fumbled trying to catch up. I expected to fall, but she somehow kept me upright. She didn’t so much as stagger when my full weight tugged us both forward.

Then again, I didn’t weigh as much as a van.

“I’m good, I swear,” I mumbled. Please, please let me not vomit on her.

“Hey,” McKayla called after us, already ten paces behind.

Edythe ignored her. “You look simply awful,” she told me. I could hear the grin.

“Just put me back on the sidewalk,” I groaned. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

She propelled us quickly forward while I tried to make my feet move in the right pattern to match her speed. A few times I could swear that my feet were actually dragging across the ground, but then, I couldn’t feel them very well, so I wasn’t sure.

“So you faint at the sight of blood?” she asked. Apparently, this was hilarious.

I didn’t answer. I closed my eyes again and fought the nausea, lips clamped together. The most important thing was that I not vomit on her. I could survive everything else.

“And not even your own blood!” She laughed. It was like the sound of a bell ringing.

“I have a weak vasovagal system,” I muttered. “It’s just a neurally mediated syncope.”

She laughed again. Apparently, the big words I’d memorized to explain these situations did not impress her the way they were supposed to.

I wasn’t sure how she got the door open while dragging me, but suddenly it was warm—everywhere except where her body pressed against me. I wished I felt normal so that I could appreciate that more—her body touching mine. I knew that under normal circumstances I would be enjoying this.

“Oh my,” a male voice gasped.

“He’s having a neurally mediated syncope,” Edythe explained brightly.

I opened my eyes. I was in the office, and Edythe was dragging me past the front counter toward the door at the back of the room. Mr. Cope, the balding receptionist, ran ahead of her to hold it open. He faltered when he heard the dire-sounding diagnosis.

“Should I call nine-one-one?” he gasped.

“It’s just a fainting spell,” I mumbled.

A grandfatherly old man—the school medic—looked up from a novel, shocked, as Edythe hauled me into the room. Did he notice that when she leaned me against the cot, she half-lifted me into place? The crackly paper complained as she pushed me down with one hand against my chest, then turned and swung my feet up onto the vinyl mattress.

This reminded me of the time she’d swung my feet out of the way of the van, and the memory made me dizzy.

“They’re blood typing in Biology,” Edythe explained to the nurse.

I watched the old man nod sagely. “There’s always one.”

Edythe covered her mouth and pretended her laugh was a cough. She’d gone to stand across the room from me. Her eyes were bright, excited.

“Just lie down for a minute, son,” the old nurse told me. “It’ll pass.”

“I know,” I muttered. In fact, the dizziness was already beginning to fade. Soon the tunnel would shorten and things would sound normal again.

“Does this happen a lot?” he asked.

I sighed. “I have a weak vasovagal system.”

The nurse looked confused.

“Sometimes,” I told him.

Edythe laughed again, not bothering to disguise it.

“You can go back to class now,” the nurse said to her.

“I’m supposed to stay with him,” Edythe answered. She said it with such confidence that—even though he pursed his lips—the nurse didn’t argue it further.

“I’ll get you some ice for your head,” he said to me, and then he shuffled out of the room.