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One
I’ve heardof hangovers from hell, but waking up to a projectile blood fountain erupting from my mouth the day after my birthday is a whole other dimension. If turning eighteen comes with a side order of blood vomit, then fuck this shit. I’m out. Let’s rewind the clock and try this again.
When it finally ends, I lie back in bed, stunned, staring at the wet, dirty bedclothes. This cannot be normal. Not even for my first night of questionable vodka-related decisions. Okay, so I was out until one in the morning—past my curfew—but this sort of karmic punishment is a little extreme.
Slowly, I lift my fingers to my face, wiping away blood from my mouth. Let’s see if I’m intact.Nose?Check.Lips?Check.Ears?Check.Enormous spot on my chin?Gone?Well, thatisa miracle. But everything else is in order. I still have a face and a body, and I am most definitely alive and well.
I throw back the bloodied covers and place my feet on the floor. It’s still cool in the early-autumn morning. My room smells like pennies and rotten meat. I should be freaking out right now, but despite the now-fading nausea, I feel fine.
Maybe it isn’t even blood. It could be the cola mixer. Maybe it turned into a weird colour in my stomach.Dear God, that’s a disgusting thought.
No,I tell myself. My roomsmellslike blood. I’m not wrong here. Blood erupted from my mouth like a gross, bloody volcano. And now I need to figure out what is going on and whether I’m going to die.
Bundling up the covers, I wonder what Dad’s going to make of this. There’s no way of knowing if he heard me stumble home last night. He raised my curfew from ten to midnight to allow for the fact that it was my birthday—and only midnight because I have school today. Otherwise, I would have had free rein considering I’m all adultified now.
Oh shit. School.
It’s almost eight.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I grab my timetable, quickly scan it, and my heart calms down.Thank you, free period. I do love you.
But… the blood.
Surely, anyone should be dead if they lost this much blood. Yet here I am, carrying soiled bedclothes to the washing machine. I cringe as I shove the load in and stab the buttons on the front. My stepmum, Abby, is always complaining I don’t do enough laundry, but I bet she never considered this as an incentive.
Next, I hop in the shower, extremely eager to wash the remnants of the blood from my face. The water warms quickly. I tip my head back and try to relax. Even though I weirdly feel great—despite being sleep-deprived and hungover—the whole vomit event has me shook.
Shooketh to my core, as Carrie would say. I’ve been illbefore, but I’ve never experienced anything like that.
Well, Kira, you insisted on drinking your body weight in vodka.Just because it’s legal now doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.
But as Carrie said many times last night, I only turn eighteen once. Last night was my one and only chance to embrace the full-on ritual of becoming an adult. In Manchester, that means taking at least one shot and tearfully screaming Taylor Swift lyrics in the back of a taxi to your bestie. Which is not like me, I swear.
Okay, so I’m not exactly Little Miss Goody Two Shoes, but I’m not a crazy party girl. I’m a solid B student who’s just started my A-Level studies, and I write okayish stories. Waking up spewing like Regan fromTheExorcistis not a regular occurrence for me.
I dry and dress myself, or at least, I try to find an outfit. It’s like most of my jeans have shrunk in the wash, as they all refuse to budge past my ankles. One pair oddly reaches mid-calf length. I mumble a curse directed at Abby, who must have put them in the dryer by accident. Maybethatwas her sneaky incentive to get me to do more laundry.
In the end, I settle on a cute red skirt and stripey tee. But the outfit needs something. I grab a belt and a cardigan. Better. No one could call my style minimalist, but I’m happiest with a few additional accessories.
Before I leave my bedroom, I glance at the mirror then lean in.Huh. My eyes seem bluer today. Must be the light.
It takes me less than ten minutes to walk to school when it usually takes fifteen. And I could swear I was strolling, barelyputting any effort in at all. It’s a bright and sunny day, and the air smells like exhaust fumes and fallen leaves. Not that I usually think about the way the air smells while I’m walking to school. I’m not sure why I notice it today. The world is all messed up, like I’m still sleeping or something.
I pinch my arm. “Ow!”
Nope, not asleep.
St James’ Prep is fine, I guess. The building is eighties as hell, but I’ve kind of enjoyed it here up to now. I’m not going to win any popularity contests, and I’m barely featured in the yearbook, but at least I have Carrie, my best friend since primary school. We are a small but mighty team of two. And now I get to be an A-level student, which means no uniform—and all the year sevens get out of my way.
I stride straight through the cafeteria, ignoring the table of popular girls, and see Carrie sitting alone, her head in her hands.
Smiling, I head over to see if she had a crazy morning like me. “Hey,” I say.
She looks up slowly, her eye makeup smudged and her skin a shade of off-white that’s almost green. There’s a bump in her hair from yesterday’s ponytail, and her collar is tucked in at one corner. Carrie is usually the prettier of the two of us, with dark hair that rests on her shoulders and warm chestnut eyes, but if I’m being objective, this isn’t the best she’s ever looked.
“You are a bitch from hell,” Carrie says. “Get away from me.”
