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“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I hear my mom say before the sun suddenly beams into my room as she tosses my curtains open.
“Mom.” I cover my eyes with my arm. “What are you doing?”
The blanket launches off my body. “First off, I asked you to clean whatever you spilled on the floor; now it’s sticky, and once again, I stepped in it.”
My eyes spring open, and a lump crowds my throat, making it hard to swallow. She stepped into itagain.
“And second, it’s freaking two in the afternoon, you can’t sleep all day.”
I roll onto my side and sit up slowly. My head wobbles a little, and the room spins. I drop back on my pillow. “Argh, Mom, I don’t feel good.”
Her hand slaps across my forehead, and the wrinkle in her forehead deepens. “Well, shit. You feel hot.” She pulls the covers back over me. “Lie back down. I’ll make you some soup.”
I probably feel hot because fucking Mastyx scorched me from the inside out.
Her bare feet swerve around the sticky goop on my floor before disappearing into the hall. My eyes roll back in my head as I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
My dad pops his head in. “Hey, kiddo.”
“You can come in,” I say just above a whisper, my throat feeling scratchy.
He holds up his hand. “Oh, no thanks, you can keep your plague to yourself.”
My mom wedges between him and the doorframe, drops a bottle of cleaner on the floor with a roll of paper towels, and sprays Lysol around the room. I cough continuously as she empties what appears to be the entire can into my room and bathroom.
“Mom, you’re being ridiculous,” I whine, the words choking out of my mouth.
“Can’t have whatever you have spreading.”
“Okay, I get it, but do you have to use so much disinfectant? It looks like a smoke bomb went off in here.” I cover my mouth and nose with my comforter.
She sets the empty canister on my dresser, unlocks my bedroom window, and pulls it open. “There. This will help.”
“Help what? Disinfect the outdoors?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Tessa. You’re ill, and your father and I can’t afford to be sick.” She squeezes the tips of my toes through the blanket. “Soups on the stove. I’ll bring it back when it’s ready.” She stoops down to the floor, sprays a large amount of cleaner on Mastyx’s man juices and scrubs them up with a paper towel, before shooing my dad out of the doorway.
My computer pings from across the room, and I ignore it. Probably spam.
Just as I start to doze off, mom swoops into the room with a tray in hand.
My computer pings again.
“You know,” she says, setting the tray on the nightstand beside me, shifting my lamp out of the way. “That’s been going off all morning. You should probably check it.”
“It has?”
“Yes. Your father and I can hear it all the way downstairs. You know sound carries in this house.” She gestures with her hand. “Come on, sit up. Let’s get some chicken noodle soup in you.”
I sit up and slide back, leaning my head against the headboard. “Will you check for me. I don’t think I have the energy to get up.”
“Of course. As soon as you take a bite of soup.” She holds a full spoon in front of my lips.
“Mom, I’m not a child. I can do it myself.”
She raises her eyebrows at me and widens her eyes, staring at me expectantly. I open my mouth and let her shovel the hot soup inside. It singes the roof of my mouth and burns my esophagus the whole way down. “Mom, it’s freaking hot.”
