The Ivy League

The Ivy League Part 37

           I groaned and my eyes flew open. I barely had time to register that I was in my bathroom, kneeling on the floor, before my gut twisted and I was puking into the toilet. No description necessary other than this: puking? Not fun.

           Somewhere between the fifth and sixth glass of champagne that was coming out, I noticed someone holding my hair back so that I wouldn’t get it dirty. When the fit subsided and my stomach felt slightly calmer, I slowly turned my head. Rebecca, my uncle’s housekeeper, sat beside me on the floor, bags under her eyes and looking as though she hadn’t slept at all.

           I was pretty sure that I looked much, much worse. For one, my head felt as though someone had inserted a crowbar into one of my ears and was applying pressure, trying to crack my skull open. The nightlight that was glowing beside me sent jagged streaks of pain lancing through my head, and it wasn’t even a bright light at all. My stomach felt like a volcano waiting to erupt, my mouth had a God-awful taste that only puking up stomach acid brings, and I just felt weak and clammy all over.

           “Rebecca,” I croaked out, only it came out sounding more like, “Ecka.”

           “Miss Courtney?” she asked, jumping nearly a foot into the air, clearly not expecting me to be conscious. I felt a spasm of guilt at having made her stay up with me so long.

           “What time is it?” I managed to get out, wincing at how loud my own quiet voice sounded. Oh, another thing to add to the ‘not fun’ list: hangovers.

           “It’s seven forty-five in the morning, miss,” she whispered, noticing my wince at any noise at all. “How are you feeling?” she asked me, concerned.

           I contemplated whether to employ sarcasm or not, but then decided that would be highly ungrateful to Rebecca, and I was in no position to be smart with her.

           So instead, “Awful,” I groaned.

           Rebecca got up, helping me to stand up, too. I swayed dangerously, and it was several moments before I saw one of everything again. Rebecca helped me out of the bathroom and into my bedroom. I collapsed onto my bed, burrowing my face into my comforter to escape the light that was streaming through my enormous windows.

           I heard the sound of the toilet being flushed, something being scrubbed, and then I felt a shadow fall upon me. Bless Rebecca for closing the curtains, I thought, before rolling over onto my back. I froze.

           My uncle stood over me, and his expression was frightening; he looked absolutely furious. I promptly rolled back over onto my stomach, hoping that if I ignored him he would eventually go away.

           No such luck. I felt two strong arms take hold of me and next thing I knew, I was flipped over, on my back again.

Honestly, I felt like a freaking omelette: flip Courtney this way, or that, sunny side up or scrambled.

           “What?” I moaned, bringing one weak hand up to my face to shield my eyes.

           “WHAT?” my uncle shouted, and I winced spectacularly from THAT noise. With all the wincing I was doing, one of these days my face would stay frozen that way and I’d look like an even worse gargoyle than Ellen.

           “THAT’S all you have to say for yourself?” he continued, and I shied away from him. “I come back from a week-long trip to an empty house, none of my housekeepers know where the heck you are, only to have you burst in at an unearthly hour, obviously something wrong, insult my fiancée,” – he was steadily getting redder in the face – “invite all your friends over, who later lie to Julie’s face, and act with every ounce of disrespect you can all possibly muster! And then you leave, LYING about where you’re going, only to come home at three in the morning, drunk, and keeping my head housekeeper up all night, the day before your family comes from Canada! And all you have to say for yourself is ‘WHAT’?” he shouted.