Where I End and You Begin Read Online Free PDF Page A

humiliating.
    “Um,” he says, and again I have interrupted him, derailed his lecture, put him off the tracks, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do. “Er. I think class is dismissed for the day,” he finally says. “Look at the syllabus, come to class having read the necessary essays. Uh, dismissed.”
    More chairs scrape, bags are lifted, and people file out, giving me a wide berth while my stomach tightens like a fist, rhythmically expelling the last of the wine. With luck everyone will just be grateful I got them out of a lecture and we will never speak of this again.
    Who am I kidding? I’ll never come back.
    I have a stomach bug, I say to myself. It’s a lie, but I’m already half-believing it.
    It’s just a stomach bug. I already threw up once this morning. Just a bug. I just really wanted to come to class. I couldn’t miss it.
    The door closes as the last of my classmates exits, and we’re alone.
    I want to tell the poor substitute that I am just sick, that it’s a virus, or a bad taco, that he should back away from me lest he get sick, too. I see him, from the corner of my eye, looming over me. Then the warmth of a large male hand alights on my back and begins to rub soft, small circles over my spine. At first I am startled—aren’t there regulations about touching between staff and students? Couldn’t he get in trouble for this? But then warmth spreads out over my body, an almost forgotten response to a sweet, kind touch, something I haven’t felt in years, so fragile and precious that I think I might shatter.
    I’m glad I don’t have the energy to be embarrassed.
    It’s okay, Mr. Substitute, I think at him. I’ll never tell.
    When at last the wave is over, I sit up and he withdraws his hand. I don’t look at him, and I don’t speak. I’m scoured from my stomach to my teeth.
    “Are you all right?” he asks at last, and the spell breaks.
    Do I fucking look all right? I want to say, but he’s coming from a place of kindness. Don’t be kind to me, I want to say. If you handle me gently, I’ll break.
    “I think I’m sick,” I say. It comes out raspy, thin.
    I see him tilt his head, studying the pool of vomit. “Yes,” he says. “I think you are too.”
    He’s still on the other side of the long table, but he’s still too close, far too close. I want to jump up and run, and I would if I didn’t think any sudden movements would make me puke my guts out again.
    “What’s your name?” he asks me at last.
    I close my eyes. “Bianca. Bianca Ray.”
    “It’s good to meet you, Bianca,” he says. “I’m Daniel McGuire. Do you think you can stand up and come with me? I’ll, er, call someone to clean this up.”
    Humiliation washes over me. No one should have to clean up my pile of sick. It’s disgusting. I’m going to ruin someone’s day.
    But I just nod, feeling so filled up with misery that it might slosh out my ears. He waits patiently while I gather my things, and then we skirt the puddle of vomit and head out into the hall.
    I feel better out here. Not so stuffy. My face is still covered in a cold sheen of sweat, though, and I’m afraid one wrong step is going to send me crashing into the wall.
    Daniel McGuire steps in front of me and leads the way. My stomach roils.
    Does he know? I wonder. Does he know I drink almost every night? Does he know I can’t remember half of the lays I’ve had since the beginning of the semester? Does he know I’m a slut, a failure, a burgeoning drunk?
    He can’t know that. Not really.
    But inside me there is that little voice, the one that reminds me of all the things I should be doing, the one that berates me for all the things I’ve done wrong.
    Of course he knows, it says. They all know. Everyone knows.
    I feel sicker.
    He leads me to the elevator and pushes the bottom button. Together we descend to the first floor. Is he going to walk me home?
    But he doesn’t turn toward the glass doors. Instead he hangs a left and heads in the