It’s past the five minutes. It’s past the five minutes, and brown-haired girl is crying on the dirty floor. It’s past the five transitional minutes, and brown-haired girl is crying on the dirty floor, and I’m not leaving. I should be leaving. Why am I not leaving?

She says “I’m so sorry” as though she hasn’t said that twelve times already. Her sobs make me think she’s choking on her spit. 

“I’m really,” she coughs. “Sorry.”

But I don’t know why she’s crying so much. It’s not like I’m gonna hurt her, especially not over an old backpack with wet cornflake residue on the inside. Maybe the tears are because she’s knocked up. The napkins on the floor next to her do a poor job of disguising the reality she’s living in.

My bag is stuffed deep, hidden among used paper towels, into the only trash can within walking distance. It’s kinda where my day is too. With nothing in my hands and nothing else to do, I’m resting against the bathroom walls, my arms crossed against my chest, watching this mess of a girl cry herself into a headache. Maybe she’s seen The Secret Life of the American Teenager and realized how much bullshit was crammed into five seasons.

Crying girls in high school bathrooms aren’t a novelty and shouldn’t surprise anyone. However, brown-haired girl makes me feel personally responsible for her tear-filled vomit. So, I don’t move. I don’t like the idea of someone offing their pregnant self because some girl named butterfly in Spanish decided to call them big-headed.

“I’m sorry–”

“Say that one more time, and you will be.”

I do realize that this is the wrong thing to say. Her face scrunches up and her shoulders begin to shake again.

My jaw tightens and untightens, then I say, “I’m not going to tell anyone. It’s not my business, so you can stop overreacting.”

Her eyes pop open. I don’t think she’s ever encountered someone as unpleasant as I can be, judging by the way she gives me a look that stands right on the line between indignancy and shock. 

Ultimately, however rough, my words end up “coaxing” her to stand. I’m sure she knows tears may be comforting to her but nowhere near that for me.

With a cautionary hand over her mouth, she has the nerve to ask. “Are you being honest?”

“Are you kidding me?” I raise my voice without thinking. She backs up like I’m a dog on the attack, and when she hits the sink behind her violently, my bald eyebrows knit together.

I don't care what you think right now. Fear wasn’t my intention. Watching people react like I’m some killer sobers my anger. I say, “Yeah, you have nothing to worry about. Whatever.”

“I...honestly didn’t mean to puke on your backpack.”

“I got it. You don’t need to tell me again,” I respond.

Because I’m fond of ending conversations as awkwardly as I commence them, which is on rare occasions, cordial farewells hardly ever leave my mouth. I shift, intent on leaving without another word.

“Wait!”

I don’t turn around, a bad habit that suits me well.

“I have a favor to ask of you!”

Okay.

Now, I turn around.

Her eyes won’t look my way, her mouth stretched flat. Her brows are thin, pulled together, as if diminutive anvils are resting on each one. Her whole face is telling me she cannot believe she’s asking a person like me for anything other than murder or drugs. She’s trying to make a decision, but I've decided for her.

I snort and turn on my heels. “Not when you’re looking at me like that.”

“Oh! Wait! No!”

“Oh, wait. Yes.”

“It’s nothing bad, I swear!”

I’m already walking. “Keep it to yourself, girl. And keep your vomit to yourself, too.”

Shoes that aren’t mine skid against the bathroom tiles. My skin only just touches the handle of the bathroom door, fingers not even managing to wrap around it, when in seconds, brown-haired girl is forcing her way between me and the exit.

“My name’s Gina, and I’ll pay you!”

Gina.

I’ve heard the name before. The memory of it nestles at the back of my mind, where my most useless thoughts wander in circles as aimlessly and carelessly as their owner. On the tip of my tongue, the taste of a shallow recollection from last year teases me. Something to do with my visit to the Principal’s office with Officer Castillo. My vision narrows, and I look at the barely five-foot girl blocking my path. Then I frown because, for the life of me, I can’t fetch the memory of where I’ve seen this girl.

“Ginerva Oleander," she presses. "We’ve been in the same grade for four years?” Gina'soft-spoken, and her small voice does ring a bell. I keep staring at her but can’t form the link. Her mouth drops, but still, nada. 

I think to myself, why am I lingering with a girl I don’t even know?

But the prospect of money appeals to me. It’s been a while since I last had some cash in my back pocket. I could use some for food.

“What’d you need?” I ask.

Maybe she didn’t expect me to agree, because, in the next moment, she locks back into her original tense and flustered state. Her eyes won’t look my way. Her blinking increases. And her breathing becomes audible. I end up raising a brow, and this seems to turn her mind back on.

With a little sniffle, she hauls her backpack off her shoulders and onto the floor, then pulls out a brown grocery bag. Boxes. Inside the bag are boxes of pregnancy tests. Eight, to be exact. One of which is opened.

She hands me the bag. “Could you carry these until the end of school? I'm afraid people will ask, and I'm a terrible liar. Please? I can meet you in the parking lot at three-twenty.”

Weird, but I don’t say so. “Why don’t you just throw them away? Or keep them in your locker.”

“What do you mean? I want to take them. And my locker's full.” She looks at me like I’m stupid.

Pointing at the puke on the floor she hasn’t bothered to clean up, I look at her like she’s stupid back. “Girl, I don’t have to be a doctor.”

In a split second, she diverts her observation to the trash can, where her single pregnancy test now lies at the bottom. “One positive doesn’t mean anything. A proper experiment requires multiple trials.”

This chick is something else.

“Whatever you wanna tell yourself. How much are you gonna give me?”

“Um. Uh. How much do you want?”

“Don’t be stupid. If this were any other kind of deal, you wouldn’t be asking that.”

“Oh. O-K. I can give you…a twenty?”

“K.”

We don’t speak for all the time it takes her to find a tiny pocket purse. I don’t want to say I’m envious of the way she can fetch twenty bucks from her wallet without batting an eye, but I will say it leaves a sourness on my tongue. While she’s searching, a ten-dollar bill peaks out of the corner of her purse. I snatch it.

“Hey!”

“Half,” I say quickly.

“What?”

I hold the dollar bill in between two of my fingers. She can see that I’m holding a ten, so I say, “Half now. Half later.”

“Oh,” she says, eyes veering right and left as if she’s hoping for witnesses. “Okay. Thanks. See you at three twenty then?”

“Hm.” Is my response. “You should clean up your vomit.”

She moves aside, and I open the door to reveal an empty hallway. All the red doors to the classrooms are closed until the bell chimes for the next hour. There’s no reason for them to wait on anyone. In other words, I’m late as hell.

“Your name’s Mariposa, right?” I hear.

I look over my shoulder and down to where Gina Oleander is wiping her red nose into a tissue paper she took from the dispenser.

“Mari.”

“Nice to meet you.”

My reply comes in the form of the bathroom door shutting behind me.