a thousand cranes for annie reyes.

My Head Hurts Like A Bitch

TED ELLINGSON.

I've always been lazy. Well, lazy with things I don't care about. Which is why, at approximately 1 o'clock today, my buddy Soggy and I will be perfectly executing our plan to extract the Unit 3 Chemistry Exam Key from Mr. Collins' ancient filing cabinet in the back of the classroom 231. It's our most extreme and risky act of academic dishonesty yet, but there's no way in hell I'm passing that test without studying, and there's no way in hell I'm studying.

Truth is, Soggy and I have been cheating on exams, essays, and homework assignments since seventh grade – our whole class knows it too. Luckily, no one gives a shit. It's common courtesy to not rat out your class cheaters, and we're careful not to piss anyone off. We keep our scores in the B range: low enough to stay out of competition with the overachievers and mediocre enough to avoid irritation with the average students who actually put in the appropriate amount of studying.

Some would say our little cheating act is more of a hassle than actually studying, and they're probably right. But I don't mind. Like I said, I'm only lazy with things I don't care about – and while I don't care about school, I'll always enjoy the thrill of successfully cheating an exam. God, my mom would be so disappointed in me, but I will die on this hill: nothing tops the feeling of casually slipping into the hallway after an exam, knowing you got away with something you shouldn't have.

However, before Soggy and I succeed at our newest plan, I need to find a way to get rid of this pounding headache ASAP. My head hurts like bitch. 

SOGGY.

I watch Ted emerge from the Cafeteria doors; I smirk as our eyes meet. Knowing exactly what he's thinking, I jog over.

"We're not going to lay one finger on Mr. Collins cabinet if you walk into Chemistry with that grin on your face, Ted" I tease.

"I know, man, I know," Ted chuckles halfheartedly. 

"You got the secret weapon though, right?" I prod. Yeah, it's a corny thing to say, but usually Ted is slinging jokes like a comedian, and I can tell something must be wrong.

The scowl on his face when he glances up looks as if I've just offended his entire lineage. Never mind, nothing was wrong after all, that's my Ted. 

"Course I do, Soggy," Ted huffs. He doesn't like it when I have low expectations of him. "You got any Tylenol though?" he quickly adds, instantly erasing the scowl with a hopeful raise of the eyebrow. God, that eyebrow raise is what has gotten us into trouble since we were 13. Sometimes, talking to Ted is a trap – he's got those big doe eyes that you can't ever say no to and his voice is like butter. It's like talking to a real-life Pixar character. Ted is a charmer.

But, I haven't carried any over-the-counter painkillers in my bag since my mom banned them from our household last year. She turned into one of those natural, essential oil health freaks in October after facebook convinced her GMOs were the reason for her back pain. I'd rather not get into it. I shoot Ted a lukewarm reply reminding him of my mom's views with a suggestion he runs to the nurses office quick.

"Too much hassle. It's fine," he mumbles. Then, cracking a weary smile, he says "let's do this."

When we walk into Chem, I head straight for my seat in the back corner. No funny business today (besides the blatant cheating I suppose). As I'm pulling out my chair, I overhear someone ask Ted how he's feeling – he unexpectedly passed out at Lacrosse practice last night after a wicked nose bleed. Our whole team has been talking about it since. Ted reassured me multiple times, however, that he is "completely fine" and that I have "nothing to worry about." It was probably just dehydration.

When the clock strikes one, class officially begins. Mr. Collins isn't here yet, exactly as we anticipated; he usually surfaces in a good mood around 1:03 after having lunch with a few other teachers from the science department.

Across the classroom, I watch Ted reach into his tattered backpack (the same one he's had since eighth grade... we're Juniors now) to pull out today's aforementioned secret weapon: a fat, chisel-tipped black Sharpie. Like I said, I know it's corny to call it the secret weapon. Bear with me. 

Marker in hand, he gently maneuvers to the front of the classroom. It's not a surprise that his infamous swagger attracts everybody's attention. Next thing I know, his outstretched arm begins proudly scrawling "The Unstoppable Ted Ellingso-" on the front panel of Mr. Collins desk. The whole class hoots and hollers in the background.

But before Ted can get to the O in Ellingson, Mr. Collins materializes in the doorway and rushes toward him. In his distracted state, Mr. Collins throws his key ring and lunch on the empty desk at the front of the classroom, just like Ted and I hoped would happen. While Ted's little art project preoccupies everyone in the class, I swiftly swipe Collins keys. And, in all the chaos, hardly no one notices me hunch over and unlock the classroom filing cabinet against the back wall. I sift through the different test keys, find the unit three key, stuff it under my shirt, lock the cabinet, and return the keys to exactly where they were on Mr. Collin's desk. 

Once I'm back in my seat, I look over to Ted to give him the biggest "we did it" grin in the world. Only, when I see Ted, there's no color left in his face; he's pale as a ghost.

I have absolutely no idea what's making him so nervous, he never loses confidence like this. Besides, we worked this all out yesterday in our planning session; all the Sharpie trick warrants is your run-of-the-mill detention. He never gets nerves like this.

It's only until I notice the shivering that I know this isn't nerves – he's about to pass out again. I lurch out of my chair, letting the crumpled test key slip out from under my shirt. Then, before I can reach him, Ted loses all consciousness and hits the floor with a deafening thud. What the fuck just happened.