The End

Chapter 13

“I’m so sorry, Florence,” Duke said quietly as we pulled up to the curb outside my house. The ride from Stephens’ house had been silent, neither of us brave enough to comment on his behavior.

“It’s not your fault,” I tried, failing at consoling Duke, who felt guilty.

“I should’ve listened,” he replied. “I never should’ve forced you to go.”

“Duke-“ I began, gathering my bag from the floor of the passenger seat.

“No. It’s my fault.”

Not being in the mood to argue, or do anything for that matter, I sighed, resigning myself from the conversation. Stephens had ruined everything else in my life; I wasn’t going to let him take the one person who understood me, too.

“I can’t stay,” he muttered as I opened the door.

“What?”

“My dad wants me to be home. I don’t know why, but I need to go,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes. His cheeks were a light pink, embarrassment tingeing his voice. “I may be able to come over tomorrow, but I’m not sure.”

He kissed my cheek and drove away, leaving me with the second person I feared most—myself.

                        *                                    *                                    *

Duke did as he said he would, and came over the next day. He looked awful, though.

His hair was messier than usual, his normally tan skin pale. His eyes carried heavy bags, dark and bloodshot. A gentle blush sat delicately upon his ashen cheeks, weariness radiating from his entire being. He looked truly awful.

He didn’t say anything about it. I’m not sure if that was out of denial, or he didn’t want to waste his already feeble voice.

We didn’t speak much; spending the day in the couch together was enough. Slowly, Duke drifted off, his body desperate for rest. Occasionally, his clammy hands would brush over mine, just for reassurance that I’d not left him.

In the early evening, I forced him to go home. His father would be worried, and he needed uninterrupted sleep.

                        *                                    *                                    *

The next morning, his parking spot was vacant, his seat in Italian empty as well. Maybe something happened.

I carried through the day as I normally would, lacking my partner in government and my only friend in English. At lunch, I switched my books, preparing to sit under the tree, this time alone.

As I opened my locker, a small piece of paper slipped to the floor. I picked it up, deciphering the quick, familiar handwriting carefully:

            Florence,

                             Meet me in the auditorium at lunch. Use the back door.

                                                                                                                        -Duke

            I looked around, trying to figure out who delivered it. The only way to truly know, I made my way across campus to the auditorium.

            Sneaking behind the kudzu covered building; I found the doors the note told of. Checking my surroundings once more, I entered secretly.

            A tiny window illuminated the narrow passage where I stood softly. I moved in the only direction I could, finding my self standing on the large stage.

            In the red glow of the exit signs and the little light that filtered in backstage, I searched for Duke. Sufficiently labeling the room empty, I turned, preparing to leave, when a small sound caught me where I stood. Once again, the sound echoed throughout the hall, the origin somewhere to my right.

            Duke slowly stepped from behind the heavy velvet curtain. His condition had not improved since yesterday; if anything, it had worsened.

            He shuffled toward me slowly, each step taking all of his concentration, the effort of moving across the stage overworking him.

            Stumbling forward, he sat on the wooden floor at my feet. A fit of coughing ravished his body, his shoulders shaking violently, his ribs rattling.

            I sat with him as he tried to catch his breath, pulling him to rest on me. His forehead burned, his body like a furnace, though he was shivering.

            Weakly, Duke smiled, his rosy cheeks rising as his bloodless lips perked. In the pale light, his face seemed almost gray, his eyes glazed and distant, coated with misery.

“Duke, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he breathed. “I’ll be fine.”

As if to say he wouldn’t, he began coughing again.

“You need to see a doctor,” I pushed. He honestly looked like he was dying.

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered again, accenting each word with a heave of his chest.

“Why are you here?” I asked, my concern coming out as anger, not tenderness.

“I wanted to see you.”

“You should be resting. Besides, if we get caught, we’ll be in so much trouble.”

He smiled feebly once again.

“Sometimes playing by the rules doesn’t get you very far.”

“But I like rules,” I mumbled to myself. His eyes softened, realizing what I implied. If everyone followed the rules, I wouldn’t be here.

“Florence-“

“No. You need to go home—to my house. I’ll be there right after school—I’ll take care of you,” I resolved.

“But-“

“No, Duke. The last thing you need is to be here. Go home. Please,” I begged.

“Fine,” he panted.

I kissed his feverish forehead and crept back to the exit.

Slipping back into the crowd of eating students, no one noticed me. I was left with the rest of my lunch period to wonder and worry about Duke, which I did.