“Pretending it didn’t happen makes it worse,” I blurt.

He lets out a big sigh. “I just . . . I didn’t even know what to say when it happened, and I feel like I should have said something or done something more than—”

“Well, to be fair, you were covered in puke.”

He gives me a half smile. “Honestly, my brothers have covered me in grosser things.”

“That’s comforting,” I say. “Today is going to be the worst. I already know it.”

He holds an arm out in front of me like Mom does when she slams on the brakes. “Your human shield! I solemnly swear to be your human shield.”

And he really follows through.

There are a few snickers, and a couple of boys make gagging noises as I walk past them, but other than that and Kiera holding her nose as I walk to my desk, the school day is off to an okay start. During lunch, even Greg avoids making eye contact with me.

In the afternoon, there’s a knock on our door, and Miss Horton pokes her head in. “Kiera Bryant? I’ve got a message for you from your mother.”

A few students, Oscar included, let out a dramatic oooooooo.

Kiera tucks her hair behind her ears and takes the note from Miss Horton. After taking a moment to read it, she says, “Mrs. Young, may I be excused to the restroom?” Her voice is lacking that normal bounce I’ve come to be so annoyed by.

Mrs. Young doesn’t even look up from her lesson plan. “Be sure to take the girls’ bathroom pass and be quick about it.”

Kiera stands, and her long braids swing forward so I can’t see her face. She takes the girls’ pass, a laminated golden ticket, from the hook by the door.

We have ten minutes of free reading left, and I do my best to concentrate on A Wrinkle in Time, but then it hits me.

I have to pee.

I try to remember all the mental tricks my dad has ever tried to teach me during a road trip, but every time I close my eyes all I see is running water. Faucets. Streams. Waterfalls. Waves. If it’s got water, it’s stuck in my head. Pools. Hot tubs.

No, come on, Sweet Pea. Hold it.

Deserts. Sand dunes. Sandy deserts. Desert oasis.

Nope. I gotta go. Now.

Mrs. Young is so strict with her bathroom passes. She wasn’t always this way, but when Trevor Watkins got caught lighting one of his dad’s cigars in the boys’ bathroom last December, every teacher cracked down on bathroom passes.

My hand shoots up in the air. I might be Sweet Pea the Puker, but I’m not about to become Sweet Pee the Puker.

Mrs. Young doesn’t see me, and I begin to squirm in my seat and wave my hand in the air, like I’m drowning in the deep end. I smack my forehead with my free hand. Oh great. Another water reference.