I am melting.
I am melting and dying.
I am melting and dying, and I hate this place. I don’t know why I ever thought putting on a giant hot dog costume that smells vaguely of last year’s throw up—sure, it only happened once, but yeah, it’s that hard to get the smell out—and dancing around the food court surrounded by cranky children under the hot summer sun for barely above minimum wage was a good idea.
I hate this place. I. Hate. This. Place.
“Hot dog! Hot dog!” a little kid screams, tugging his mother over to me.
“Can I get a picture?” she asks, and I say sure in as chipper a voice as I can manage when it’s eighty-five degrees out and I’m dying right here, right in front of her, and she’s asking me for photographic evidence.
Oh my god, I hate this place.
“Looking good, Elouise.” Nick grins as he walks by, his hair still dripping as he heads to the breakroom. He just finished his 12:30 show, not that I was obsessively checking on that or anything.
I hate this place and I’m glad it’s closing.
And as soon as I think that, I wish I could take it back. Because no, that’s not true, not at all. I love this place, and if I jinxed it to definitely-no-matter-what close now because of one day under the hot summer sun, then I’ll never forgive myself. Because yeah, Mr. P says it’s going to close, but I still don’t totally believe him. Or at least I didn’t, until now, when I cursed everything.
My stomach twists, bile lurching up my throat as I crouch down next to another child begging for a picture. I know it’s a million degrees, but please don’t lose it right now, Lou, please do not blow chunks all over this innocent little kid and his unsuspecting mother. Please, please, please, please, please.
“Are you okay, honey?” the woman asks. I nod frantically as I stand back up. “Maybe you should sit down. You look a little green.” I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that all her mom spidey-senses have been activated. Seeley’s mom gets like that too, sometimes.
I shake my head fast, which makes my stomach hurt a little more, because this is too much. It’s too much sitting here in the hot sun with a worried mom that’s not my mom, never was my mom, never had a mom, in the place of all my best childhood memories, which is about to close down forever. Mostly probably because I wished it would.
I am an ungrateful little hot dog.
I smile at her and turn to leave, afraid to open my mouth in case I really do get sick. I rush down the path, down toward the breakroom and the air-conditioning, toward a quiet bathroom stall where I can hopefully recover in peace.
I start messing with the buttons and zippers on the suit when I’m halfway down the path, not caring if any little kids see me, because this is an emergency situation. I yank open the door, and the air-conditioning slams into my face. The change in temperature makes my stomach twitch again, and I swallow down the thick saliva. A few more steps and I’m safe. A few more steps and I’m good: fire the missiles, all systems go, mission accomplished.
The suit falls around my feet as I undo the last button, leaving me standing in the middle of the breakroom in only my tiny shorts and tank top. It’s practically underwear, and I know it, but Marla—our resident costume manager—said it was the best option because I’d just sweat through everything else.
“Elouise?” Nick steps out of the boys’ changing area, his eyes going huge. I must look half naked to him, standing here in a sweat-soaked glorified cami with the chills from the air-conditioning giving me the worst case of nip-ons I’ve ever had. Even my hair is all damp and matted down. Thanks, universe, this is swell.
“What are you doing?” he asks, and I can’t tell if it’s with disgust or concern.
I hold up a finger, the unmistakable sign of Please stop talking, as my body lurches all on its own. I turn toward the garbage next to me, puking up my breakfast from this morning and my dinner from last night, old popcorn kernels scraping their way up my throat along with everything else. Puking and heaving, in my sweat-soaked clothes, or lack thereof, in front of the boy of my dreams.
And oh my god, please, please kill me now. This is every nightmare I’ve ever had in my entire life. This is going to school naked times forgetting your own name times saying orgasm instead of organism in science class. This is bad. Oh god, this is bad. And surely this is as bad as it can get, right, surely this is the lowest of the low, nowhere to go but up? But as my stomach lurches again, I start to cry. Because of course I do. Fuck. Please. Please, kill me now.
“Elouise?” From the sound of his voice, I can tell he’s moving closer. Closer to my sweat-soaked body that smells like puke. Awesome.
“Go away,” I groan, bracing both my arms on the side of the giant gray garbage bin and pushing myself back upright. “Please.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, and his hand is on my back. I’ve waited my whole life for a hot diving pirate to touch my back, and I can’t believe it’s happening now, when I’m sweaty, puking, and on the verge of passing out. I don’t know what I did in a past life to deserve this. I really, really don’t.
“Please don’t.” I roll my shoulders back where he’s started to rub them. “I’m really gross.”
“You’re not really gross.” He steps back, dropping his arms, and I give him a look. “Fine, you’re a little gross. But honestly, you okay?”
“I guess.” A fresh wave of goose bumps ghosts over my body, and I cross my arms over my chest with a sniffle.
“Hey, hey, don’t start crying again.” He perches his butt up on one of the tables behind us. “None of that.”
“Sorry.” I have no idea why I’m apologizing.
Nick arches his eyebrows. “Where are your clothes?”
“You can’t really wear actual clothes in the suit. It gets too hot.”
“Do you puke a lot?”
“Not usually,” I say, “but I pushed it today. It’s super hot out and I stayed in it way too long.”
“Why would you do that?”
I shrug. “Opening day?”
Nick gets up and yanks his locker open, revealing one of the big, thick towels that the guys all wrap themselves in after their shows. “I admire your dedication to your craft.” He tosses it toward me, and I grab it with a grateful smile.
“You want some water or something?” he asks. “I can go grab Seeley too.”
“Don’t bother Seeley. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I pull his towel tighter around me. I wish it smelled like him, like his deodorant and hair gel and other good smells, but all it smells like is chlorine—because of course it does, the universe hates me.
Nick hops up from the table. “I have to go meet the guys to run through a new skit. Are you going to be okay in here alone?”
“I’m great, go,” I say.
He walks over to a vending machine, shoving in a dollar and punching a few buttons. He turns back to me, holding out a bottle of Gatorade. “Drink this and hit the showers; you’ll probably feel a lot better.” He crinkles his nose. “And you’ll definitely smell better.”
“Thanks,” I say, but what I’m really thinking is some weird combination of kill me now and wait, hold up, did he seriously just give me his towel AND buy me Gatorade??!!!??
He raises his eyebrows and kind of half shakes his head. “You’re an interesting girl, Elouise,” he says, right before the door slams shut behind him.