Before I can respond, he sways on his feet. I catch him just as his knees buckle.
"Whoa, buddy. Okay, let's sit you down." I guide him to a chair, pressing my hand to his forehead. He's burning up.
I check my watch. 1:45 PM.
I have fifteen minutes.
"Alex, does your stomach hurt? Your head?"
"Both." He's shaking now, his skin clammy. "And I'm really dizzy."
This isn't something I can ignore. I pull out my phone, call the school nurse.
"I need you in Room 204. Student with fever, dizziness, possibly vomiting."
I keep Alex steady and try to cover my worry when nurse Patterson arrives within a few minutes. She takes one look at Alex and shakes her head. "We need to contact his mother immediately. He needs to go home or to urgent care."
I try calling Alex's mom. Straight to voicemail. I try again. Nothing.
"She works at the warehouse," I tell nurse Patterson. "Sometimes she can't have her phone on her."
"Then we keep trying. And someone needs to stay with him until we reach her." She looks at me meaningfully as we both keep Alex and move him to her room.
I have no idea how much time passes. Thirty minutes? Maybe even forty-five.
Alex is lying on the nurse's cot, shivering under a blanket, looking so small and scared. His mother's phone goes to voicemail six more times and I’m out of my mind with worry because I can imagine what he feels like—wanting his mother and feeling sick.
I can't leave him. He's seven years old, sick, and terrified. I was him once—alone, scared, needing an adult who would stay.
By the time his mother finally calls back, frantic and apologetic, promising she's on her way, it's 2:47.
I'm forty-seven minutes late, but honestly, I couldn’t care less after the scare I had.
My phone has six missed calls from Tony. Three texts from Dante, each one progressively shorter and more furious.
2:15 PM:Where are you?
2:30 PM:Tony says you're still at school.
2:45 PM:You have five minutes to get in that car.
Shit.
I grab my bag, say goodbye to Alex and his newly arrived mother, and run to the parking lot.
Tony's waiting, his expression carefully neutral. "Miss Mancini."
"I know. I'm sorry. It couldn't be helped?—"
"You should tell Mr. Vitale that." He opens the door. "Not me."
The drive back feels like going to my execution.
I try to text Dante an explanation, but my hands are shaking too badly to type coherently. Delete. Retype. Delete again.
Finally, I just send:I'm sorry. There was an emergency with a student.
No response.
