Before Sunday

Three

9:36 AM

Professor Calhoun is well known on campus for his coma inducing lectures celebrating the study of Old English and its various dialects. As if the topic itself isn't mind-numbing enough, the incessant drone of his voice has a similar effect to a sleeping pill. But not today. Today, the monotonous way which he speaks effortlessly combines the sound of a power drill and nails scrapping along chalkboard.

It's making me cringe and squirm in my seat.

My head is pounding, quite literally throbbing in what could be the worst hangover I've ever experienced. All I can think about is how much I wish I'd told Xavier no to both his devil whiskey last night and going to the party tonight. It's bound to be a disaster. I'm performing a mental run through of the various excuses I can provide for ditching him later: homework, volunteer hours, family emergency, my time of the month, the bubonic plague. The thing is, short of me actually hosting the plague or fund-raising for stray puppies, Xavier won't buy any of them. That boy will not take no for an answer. This leaves me with a single option to bow out of my obligation to party with him——good old fashioned begging. As I debate if my pride can take such a catastrophic hit, Madeline Mason, who has said a total of two words to me in my entire life, ups the count to four.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Fine." I lie.

"You sure?"

Why the hell is she talking to me? Her voice is only marginally better than Calhoun's. I put my fingers to my temples and apply pressure. "I'm fine, thanks. Just not feeling great."

"Headache?"

I nod. Talking to Madeline only makes it worse.

She reaches into a large leather messenger bag adorned with colorful scarves. When I see the object in her hand, I'm sure she's lost her mind because it's a vial. Then she twists the small plastic cap off of the top and the smell assaults me.

Eau de Tori times ten.

I tug the sleeve of my sweater over my hand and bring it to my face to act as a barrier between myself and the flower garden that died in Madeline's glass jar, but to my complete horror, she begins to wave the thing in front of me. I make a face and mumble in protest but it's useless; she sees and hears nothing.

She continues, slowing down long enough under my nose to make my eyes water and my throat burn.

"Move your hand silly," she says. "It's lavender oil. You need to breathe it in. It'll get rid of that headache."

I uncover my face enough to speak. "By making me vomit?"

"Trust me, Lola. It works."

Wow. I had no idea Madeline Mason even knew my name. At this point, I'm considering shooting myself in the foot so I can focus on something other than my dizzying headache. So I do as she says and inhale the putrid smelling oil as she moves it from one side of my face to the other.

"So are you going to the party tonight?"

Fair enough that she's trying to make polite conversation but let's be real, the party is vague. We're on a college campus. The party could be one of many and I didn't press Xavier for details so I just nod. "Yeah, I guess, if this headache takes a hike."

"It will," she says confidently. "Lavender is a miracle. Super strong."

Got that. Thanks.

"Thanks." I cross my arms on the desk and rest my head on them. Still another 35 minutes until I will no longer be subjected to Calhoun's voice or Madeline's lavender-infused interest in being chummy with me. The hands on that clock cannot move fast enough.