Something shifted in Andrew’s pocket and he nearly missed the next serve. His pocket had been empty when he dressed, but maybe it was a note from Thomas—he often smuggled drawings to Andrew and Dove, and they’d find them during a tedious class and end up smiling. Maybe it was forgiveness in charcoal and ink.
But then Andrew’s pocket shifted again, pressing against histhigh in a way that felt less like a folded note and more like an earthy clump of—
A shudder barreled down Andrew’s spine and his body twitched. His pocket feltwrong. Warm and soft and doughy and—
The ball hit him right in the face.
Andrew felt it in his teeth. Pain exploded across his face, air punched from his lungs as he went blind in a white, hot blaze. His racket slipped from nerveless fingers. He bent double as he cupped his nose and let blood pour between his fingers.
“Holy shit!” Feet running. Bryce’s shadow loomed over him. “That was an accident. Why’d you stop swinging, you idiot? Coach!”
Andrew thought about punching Bryce so hard he ate the tennis court. Instead, he dragged one bloody hand from his face and reached into his pocket.
His fingers dug into something spongy. He squinted through his tears at the mess in his hand.
“What the hell…?” Bryce said. “Why are there mushrooms in your pocket?”
The fungi crumbled between Andrew’s fingers. His mouth opened in confusion, blood running across his lips. He yanked out another handful, but his pocket still bulged with the fleshy, rotting mess, the smell of foul forest everywhere. This didn’t make sense. How could he have dressed without feeling it? He dug out another handful and threw it on the ground.
He wiped his hand on his shorts, but the mess didn’t come off.
The coach ran over, rattling off French expletives as he tilted Andrew’s face up. “Not broken. But you shall go to the nurse.”
“I’m fine.” Andrew swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Everything throbbed.
“The bathroom, then. Go clean up.” The coach whirled on Bryce. “What was that?”
Andrew escaped while Bryce received his deserved scolding. Andrew found no joy in it, though, because his skin was crawling.
Had Thomas put rotten mushroom in Andrew’s pocket?
The indoor pool building held the locker rooms—of course Wickwood had a private pool—and the bathrooms were always crowded this time of the afternoon. But when Andrew stumbled inside, perfect silence swathed the boys’ bathroom. His tennis shoes squeaked on the white tiles, and blood dripped in a perfect line behind him, each drop as round as a marble.
He stumbled to the sinks, already grabbing at his pocket again. His shorts felt dragged half down his hips from the weight of it. But he’d emptied—
His pocket was full again, bursting at the seams.
The mushrooms were growing.
He dug out more fleshy muck and threw it in the trash. Then more. Andmore. His heart crawled into his throat and he began to shake. He couldn’t find a way this made sense.
He had to calm down. He was breathing too fast.
Stop,stop, and breathe. It had to be some weird super fungus. Gross, but explainable. He looked at his hands, stained brown, and tried to wipe it off. It clung to his skin, blooming there as it traced up the blue lines of his veins.
“Please, please, stop doing this.” His voice fractured, and he didn’t even know who he was talking to.
The lights flicked off, then on, and Andrew flinched. He snatched paper towels and scrubbed at his fingertips. Shit,shit. It didn’t come off. He threw the towels aside and started scratching and then peeling at the mushroom on his fingers. It came off like a sucking mouth that left behind red welts. He flung the shed mess on the floor with a moan and stumbled back.
People should be in here. Where was the swim team? He needed witnesses. He needed Thomas to see this so he knew he wasn’t going insane.
The air felt wrong. Alive.Breathing.
It felt like the first day back at school, the thing in the foyer with lips and fevered tongue against his neck.
pleasure
Horror.
