One (One Universe)

weaker. “Does this happen every month?”
    Oh. She thinks it’s that.
    “Um. Not usually this bad.”
    I turn my head to the side, closing my eyes, indicating that I want to rest. She pats my arm. “Well, if you have the flu, too, I guess… You’ll feel better in a day or so.”
    Great. Mom’s bonding with me over girl stuff. Or thinks she is, at least.
     
    Later that morning, I manage to sit up, even though my body still feels heavy against the pillow. By eleven o’clock, I really, really have to go to the bathroom, and I walk so slowly it feels like it takes me a week to get there, even though it’s only a door away.
    When I get back in bed, I feel like I’ve just run a marathon. I stay there the rest of the day, drifting in correspondence with the waves of pain, in and out of sleep.
    I dream of the air rushing all around me, of punching Merrin-shaped holes through the white cumulus clouds against a brilliant blue sky. Every dream ends with me plummeting, suddenly, through the sky, but I don’t hit the ground. Elias is always there to catch me.
     
    I want to read, but I can’t open my eyes or concentrate long enough to make any sense of the words on my reader. I manage to get my ear buds into my ears and listen to some hard, pounding tracks. I imagine they’re beating the pain out of my body. Maybe it works or maybe the pain actually leaves, but I feel better by the time Mom gets home.
    I realize now that I’m sweating, soaking the sheets. Gross.
    Mom does the concerned face again, and I guess this doesn’t fit with her normal experience of monthly pain. I hear her and Dad talking about something in the hall outside my room, but I don’t pick up much — just the verdict: “Tylenol. Check on her a couple times tonight.”
    Mom comes in and asks me if I want to eat. My stomach feels empty. It doesn’t growl, but I don’t feel sick either, so I say, “yes.” She brings back chicken noodle soup, and I eat all the noodles, one by one — my jaw feels like it’s been wired shut — but leave the broth, weird cubed chicken, and carrots.
    Her voice is much clearer than it was this morning — almost too clear now, her words rattling around in my brain long after she’s let them out of her mouth. She asks, “Feeling better, honey?”
    I nod my head and realize that the range of motion is much better than what I had this morning. I’m not sweating nearly as much either.
    “Is there anything I can get you?”
    There are two things I want: to talk to Elias and to feel better. In that order. Maybe he has a clue as to why I have a freaking full-body flying hangover.
    My heart sinks when I realize that I don’t have Elias’s number. I don’t have anyone’s number, actually, besides Mom’s and Dad’s.
    I click open my reader instead, but before I can look at what’s on the screen, my eyelids push themselves down and I am caught in a swirling, black sleep.
     
    The next day, I shake and tremble whenever I move, but at least I can move without too much extra effort. At least that heaviness is gone. Progress is good, especially if it means that flying won’t kill me. Mom’s left a note on my bedside table.
    Didn’t want to wake you. Your fever seems to have broken. Water, Tylenol, snacks on your nightstand. Call if you need anything. Love, Mom.
    I roll my eyes at Mom’s assumption that I wouldn’t realize my own fever had broken but smile when I see what she left me. Cupcakes and brownies and some licorice. She must be worried if she’s leaving me all the stuff she normally bristles at me eating. I see that she left some protein bars for good measure. My cheeks feel like they’ll crack when I grin at that.
    I manage to scoot my body out of bed and get to the bathroom. Then I come back and lie down right in the middle of my bed, where the sun shines so brightly that it warms my whole body, and sleep more.
     
    Sometime in the late afternoon of the third day, Mom comes and sits on the edge of my bed again. I manage a small smile and say, “Hey.” I’m surprised that my voice sounds clear and strong, and from the look on Mom’s face, she is, too.
    “I got an email from Professor Fitzsimmons just now,” Mom says.
    “Who?”
    “Your science class coordinator. Honestly, Merrin, you could bother to learn her name.”
    Oh. That must be the freaking holo-teacher in my sorry excuse for a science class. “Why? With a thousand students, there’s no way she knows mine.”
    Mom sighs. “Well,