Page 49 of Hilarina and the Ogre

Hilary was in a very good mood on the second-to-last day of classes. They’d have nearly two glorious weeks for their winter break, and his mind was already swimming with plans. As was the custom, Trenton didn’t turn in his exam until he had also finished, so they left the classroom together.

They stopped at the restroom, as usual. For such a large guy, Trenton had a small bladder. Either that, or he just drank too much water. Maybe that was why his skin was so nice. Dewy, like in one of those skincare commercials. Hilary waited for him just outside the bathroom. Trenton’s bladder was a little shy. It was why the boy always used the stalls instead of the urinal and was just one of a very long list of things Trenton did that were really just too cute for words. Or maybe Hilary thought so because he was a lovesick idiot.

It was nice not having to pretend his feelings didn’t exist, and thanks to Trenton’s influence, he was even learning to embrace the embarrassment. He’d likely never be as shameless as his friend, but he certainly was saying a lot more idiotic things than he had just a few short months ago. It was a nice change. They all seemed to be nice changes. He was scribbling a little poem about it in his notepad when the kid in the hoodie came racing out of the bathroom. Hilary hadn’t noticed him going in but was certainly noticing him coming out. The kid had a mask on, and even gloves—but what struck him most was the smell that hit when the door swung open, like a solid wall of rotting fart juice. It was by far the worst thing his poor olfactory bulbs had ever been forced to endure. So bad it took him several seconds to register the coughing and who it belonged to—Trenton.

Hilary burst into the bathroom before he could think of just how much he didn’t want to be inside. “Trent!”

He could taste it even breathing through his mouth. Actually, he was trying not to breathe at all—but the smell was an assault, and so much more potent within than it had been out in the hall. His eyes were tearing as he fought his way to where Trenton was clutching at the stall door, hacking up his lungs.

The smell was worst there, and when his foot connected with the small bottle he knew why. He grabbed it up with some toilet paper and read the label. Liquid Ass. Hilary had heard about the stuff—a sort of urban legend—but hadn’t thought he’d ever come into contact with the real thing. The spray top had been ripped off and the entire contents of the bottle poured directly onto Trenton’s head, presumably from over the stall door by the kid in the mask—the fucking terrorist.

Hilary retched, the smell so foul even the taste of his vomit was an improvement. Trenton tried to push at him, the meaning clear even when the boy couldn’t make his throat form the words amidst all the coughing: Go. Save yourself. As if that was even an option.

He shoved Trenton’s head into the sink and turned the water on full blast. The sinks weren’t deep enough to submerge the boy’s head, but it was better than nothing, and anyway, they couldn’t stay long; the surrounding air was too toxic. He made Trenton leave his shirt behind in the bathroom. Along with his hair and face, the shirt had gotten the worst of the exposure. It was on his pants too—on everything really, but he couldn’t strip him down to nothing. Not at school, anyway.

Hilary paused only long enough to scoop up their backpacks. He’d left them out in the hall when he heard the coughing, and that was the only thing that saved them. If he’d brought them into the bathroom, they’d have been irradiated too. Well, they still were—at least a little. Everything was. It was shocking just how much of the fart smell had already permeated the school. It had been only a couple of minutes, and already people were pouring out of the way, racing for the doors. One poor girl wasn’t just retching, but full-on vomiting. Given her location, he assumed she’d been in the girl’s bathroom when it happened and had come out into the hall at about the time the bomb had gone off—her soul rest in peace. Well, it wasn’t like he was thinking of her. All his fears were focused on Trenton. The boy’s eyes were bloodshot, and with how the coughing still wasn’t subsiding, he had to wonder if his friend had aspirated some of the foul fluid into his lungs.

Aspen caught up with them halfway across the parking lot. (The legs of the track team’s ace player were really something.) She had one of those giant hydro flasks in hand, and she offered it up like a lifesaving potion. “Clear his airway,” she demanded, urgency making her sharp. “His eyes and nose too.”

Hilary tried to follow as best as he could, though it made Trenton splutter and cough even more—adding waterboarding to the torture he was undergoing.

Aspen shoved what remained of the hydro flask into the car with them. “Should I call an ambulance? Poison control?”

But Trenton was shaking his head. “I’m fine,” he gasped. And it was true that the coughing was beginning to recede—the winter wind and air good for something, at least. “No hospital.”

Hilary wasn’t sure he agreed, but he helped Trenton out of his pants and stuffed those into one of the garbage bags he kept in the trunk. “Keep drinking,” he told the boy as he climbed into the driver’s seat. It was unusual to see Trenton as the passenger, though Hilary was surprised the thought even registered given everything else going on. He flicked the turn signal on as they left the parking lot, but Trenton vetoed that too. “Not your place. It’ll turn the house into a gas chamber.”

Hilary was glad to hear the boy had improved enough to be speaking in sentences, though he still didn’t sound well enough to be joking around about it. “Shut up. It’s either home or the hospital.”

“My place is closer.”

It was Hilary’s first time hearing the words out of Trenton’s mouth. The first real hint that the place existed at all, actually. For all he knew, all those times his friend had ‘gone home’ had simply been his dear ogre camping out in the forest with a group of fairy creatures. “Is it?”

“Turn left here.”

Trenton was right that it wasn’t far. Less than five minutes, and most of that was waiting at the ass-long light at Madison.

“I’m sorry, girl,” Trenton said to the Shitheap as they pulled up to the curb.

“Don’t be. She’s been through worse. Any frostbite?”

They’d been forced to drive with the windows open, and Trenton was wet and most of the way naked.

“Don’t think so.”

They kicked off their shoes, leaving them out on the steps as they unlocked the door and dropped what remained of their clothes in the entrance, Trenton having assured him that no one else was home to see it.

If it had been summer, Hilary would have suggested they just wash outside with the hose, but because it wasn’t, he offered up a silent apology to the house (and the bathroom in particular) as they pushed right into the shower. The soap didn’t do much about the smell, though. A quick Google search suggested vinegar and baking soda, so that was how Hilary found himself squatting in the kitchen, mixing up an ungodly soup of the stuff in a bucket, when the front door opened.

She looked a bit like Trenton. Not enough to call striking, but it was there if you were looking for it. From her age, and the house she was in, Hilary made the only obvious conclusion—this was Trenton’s mother.

He nearly kicked over the bucket in his hurry to stand. “Hello, ma’am,” He could only thank the universe he’d thought to pull on one of Trenton’s big t-shirts when he’d come out of the shower, though that was hardly decent. His bits were barely covered, and if he bent over his whole ass would be on display. “I’m Trenton’s friend. There was an accident. A prank at school. I know it reeks. I’m so sorry. I promise we’ll—”

“A friend,” the woman repeated. “He doesn’t have friends.”

Hilary wasn’t composed enough to analyze that, but even so, it struck him as strange. Her words. Her tone. The fact she hadn’t used her son’s name. It all rang extraordinarily wrong to him.

“He has me,” he said, unsure what kind of tone to take himself. He certainly didn’t want to leave a bad impression, but he could feel his hackles rising, his inner weenie telling him to go on the defensive.