“Now I just want everyone to know that absolutely NO LATE WORK IS ACCEPTED THIS QUARTER. I cannot stress that enough, although I know the majority of you are responsible,” I always admired my English teacher’s sarcastic tone. I admired it for being the simplest defense mechanism from negative judgement, it brought him more profound character, and overall it was just plain funny.
Today, however, differed. The man was performing an entire dramatic monologue for the aim of getting a single rule across. I know there’s no late work accepted, you’ve told us this a million times. First period–sleep deprived, moody, hungered–drove up my tolerance level to the boiling point. The silver bar handle pushed in and out as student upon student of teacher aids entered through the door to deliver paper. The wooden door’s hinges creaked loud then soft as late classmates filled in vacant seats. For an odd reason, my stomach begins to churn and twist. A vein above my left temple begins to drum.
“Hey Nick! How was your break?” a delightful friend asks whilst taking a seat.
“Uh,” my body was telling me to keep my mouth shut, throat tight, and just sit down–but, I don’t want to come off rude, “it was pretty good. Yours?”
I was not paying attention to a single word this kid was saying. His words were as minuscule to my attention as the thumping vein by my temple. All I could think about was my stomach and even now I hold the faintest recollection of his spring break.
“That’s nice,” I lied, “Man, I don’t feel so good.”
“Oh that sucks,” his words were twice as loud today, “because I feel fantastic.”
I moan and sigh in a depressed prosody. My body demands rest and puts my head down on the cold desk.
“Well, I feel great! I got this new soap called Irish Winter and it’s incredible!”
He mocked me. He mocked me without even knowing it. Every phrase he spoke, every word he uttered, every syllable he sent was like a projectile missile…
“So remember kids, NO LATE WORK IS ACCEPTED FROM NOW ON.”
My body demanded relief, a quick fix, something! Glands within my palms begin excreting a cold sweat, my back cringes, arching my body around my stomach cushioning my organ within my seat, oxygen stubbornly enters into my lungs and my eyes tear up. I knew I needed to evacuate the classroom–quickly–into the restroom, hidden from the harsh behaviors and immature eyes of a high school teenager. What I was about to do could have left a new nickname for me the rest of my high school career. I thank God I am not a freshmen.
Suddenly the agony reaches the peak of its bodily possession and like a marionette enslaved to the strings of natural reflex my body twists to the perfectly organized choreography of illness. The palatine uvula dips to the rhythm of my friend’s spring break sonnet. The stomach implodes to the harmony of Mr. Whorton’s adagio speech. And my sweaty palms slap quickly to my mouth, sealing the lips from projecting the mixture solution to high school embarrassment.
My mouth fills up instantly with a burning liquid and I feel every single taste bud nestled on my tongue flair up to the profound sour flavor. Swiftly the liquid arose from my throat filling up my mouth to capacity–I thought of swallowing the combination whole, but at this point it was impossible. With a loud “urggggg” I exude my Honey Bunches of Oats with milk and turn to my friend in shock.
He looked at me dead in the eye; his Irish Winter story falls silent. I briskly examine the rest of my peers for their reaction and was delivered one of the tiniest and rarest blessings: no one noticed. They were all transfixed by my teacher’s sarcastic monologue about late work, all bide to their own cold interpersonal worlds and–best of all–completely oblivious to the action of me throwing up in the pubic classroom.
I sat there, jarred and ignorant to the next step in my Doxycycline side-effect epic was; my friend gathered his shock and gave me the answer:
“I’d go to the bathroom if I were you.”
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