Chapter 3: Tests, Tumbles, and Hospital Hearts

I exited our chat, and a group message popped up:

"Attention: Next week’s basketball class is moved to this afternoon. There’ll be a midterm test worth 30% of your final grade. Coordinate your time. Anyone who misses it must take a makeup before next Tuesday."

As a sports flop, I decided to blend in with the crowd. In the gym, Coach Mitchell stood with his hands behind his back, holding the scorebook. "Midterm test is a three-step layup. Watch your dribbling, footwork, and shot. Five minutes to warm up."

I closed my eyes, mentally rehearsing the moves. "Oh my god, is that Chase Whitaker?" At the mention of his name, my eyes snapped open. Coach Mitchell handed the scorebook to Chase, then stepped aside to chat and sip coffee. A pink-haired girl clutched her chest. "Ahh, my heart’s pounding. I hope I don’t embarrass myself." But her tone sounded more eager than nervous. "Do you think Chase will go easy on us?"

The girls kept sneaking glances at Chase. I peeked too. Chase sat with his chin propped up, drumming his long fingers on the table, lost in thought. Feeling rebellious, I tried to slip away before he noticed me. Just as I grabbed my bag, my phone buzzed, startling me.

Little punk’s dad: "It’s raining outside. You want to get soaked?"

The gym windows were high up. I checked my phone—sure enough, it was pouring. Clear skies half an hour ago. Warm-up ended, and the test began. Chase graded even stricter than Coach Mitchell.

When pink-hair went up, she barely released the ball before crying out, "My wrist! It hurts so much—maybe it’s dislocated!"

Chase didn’t even look up, just marked her score. "This is basketball, not shot put. If it’s really dislocated, I can only call 911 for you."

The girl froze, face turning red. "Fail. Next—"

I rolled up my sleeves, ready to go. "Jenna."

He skipped me.

An hour later, almost everyone had left. "Last one—"

Chase looked up, smirking coldly. "Molly, your turn."

I braced myself, tried to focus, but my coordination was hopeless. The ball bounced off the rim. I sidled up to Chase, trying to peek at my score. He slammed the scorebook shut. He looked me up and down, eyes deep and unreadable. "You jumped pretty high just now. Your foot’s fine?"

I nodded honestly, like a kid caught lying about homework. "Allergies cleared up?" I nodded. "Stomach doesn’t hurt?"

Just him mentioning it made my stomach start to ache for real. I hunched over, clutching my belly. "Ow, my stomach really hurts." I’d used this excuse so much, he must think I’m faking. But this time, it was real.

"Molly, you think I’m easy to fool? Think I don’t have a temper?" I wanted to shake my head, but pain washed over me and I collapsed into his arms.

When I came to, I was already in the hospital. My stomach twisted in pain, I didn’t dare move. "Doctor, why did she faint?" Chase’s voice was urgent. I remembered how pale he’d looked before I passed out—guess I scared him.

"Preliminary diagnosis is acute gastroenteritis," the doctor said, then hesitated. "But OB suspects an ectopic pregnancy. We’ll need more tests. If it is, she’ll need surgery."

Honestly, I wanted to sit up and shout, "No way!" I’ve lived 20 years and never even held hands. I’m so wronged. Even if I died, I’d leave this world pure.

"Thank you, doctor."

After the doctor left, another voice piped up:

"Don’t worry, young man. You’re both so young. Once she’s better, you’ll have plenty of chances for kids."

It was the lady in the next bed, trying to be helpful. Her tone was warm, but I wanted to disappear.

Right then, the mental anguish outweighed the physical pain. Chase barely murmured an "Mm," voice heavy. I felt his grip on my hand tighten. With all my willpower, I slowly opened my eyes. Chase’s eyes were red-rimmed. He loosened his grip and asked softly, "Cottonball, you’re awake?"

I blinked. He got up to find the doctor. I squeezed his hand, signaling I had something to say. My lips moved, throat dry, voice hoarse from dehydration. I managed to croak, "It was the little octo—"

Chase leaned in, suddenly cutting me off. I stared at him. He seemed to make up his mind, voice choked, eyes lowered: "Forget about little Jake or little Ben. Just focus on getting better and resting up."

I saw the lady’s jaw drop—she could’ve fit an egg in her mouth. All because I’d eaten too much marinated baby octopus at the county fair. Just then, the doctor came in with the results.

"Confirmed: acute gastroenteritis."

I gave the doctor a grateful look and drifted off again.

After a few hours of IV fluids, I felt alive again. But the vibe in the ward was weird. Chase was gone. The lady and her daughter-in-law kept sneaking glances and whispering. I checked my phone—my three roommates had blown up my messages. Besides asking about my recovery, the most common question was: "Who’s Jake?"

I was confused and muttered to my phone, "There are so many people named Jake. How should I know?"

The lady clicked her tongue. "Young girls these days, unbelievable."

Was there something wrong with what I said? I didn’t get her sarcasm.

At lunch, the lady went out to eat. My mom called from out of state. My heart skipped a beat. "How many times have I told you to stop eating junk food? Snacks aren’t real meals!" I got scolded for twenty minutes straight. When I hung up, Chase came in with a lunchbox—plain bread and chicken soup, easy on the stomach. I could smell the fabric softener on his clothes, with a faint hint of tobacco, like he’d been sitting out on the dorm balcony again.

I stirred my soup. Chase looked serious, lips pressed tight, hesitating. "Molly, I need to ask you something."

I was annoyed. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re going to say."

He went quiet.

"I was wrong. I gave in to temptation. Everything new, I wanted to try. Mainly, its legs were so long, I was curious about the taste."

Chase’s hand slipped while peeling an apple, breaking the peel. He gritted his teeth. "Molly, you really are something." His arm tensed, veins standing out on his pale skin. I caved, but still felt a little aggrieved, voice weakening. "Actually, I regretted it after trying. But he was so pushy, and since I’d already paid, I didn’t want to waste it."

Chase’s eyes turned red. I had no idea which part set him off. He pressed on, voice icy. "How much did it cost?"

I didn’t dare answer, so I held up two fingers.

"Two thousand?"

"Twenty thousand?"

He got wilder with each guess. Rich people really think differently.

"One box. Twenty."

Chase looked incredulous. "What are you talking about?"

"The marinated baby octopus from the county fair. Fishy, spicy, not even good."

He had no words.

He spent the next hour alternating between laughing and crying. I worried about his mental state. With just the two of us in the room, anyone walking in would think I’d done something to him. When the lady returned, she shook her head. "Such a good young man, sigh."

Yeah, such a good guy. How did he end up like this?

Luckily, his episode only lasted an hour. I wanted to leave that day, but Chase insisted on more tests and another week in the hospital. He brought me meals three times a day, each blander than the last. I joked that I was turning into a hospital panda.

I complained to my roommates. Zoe: "Molly, you got sick and Chase is treating you like a panda at the zoo." The other two chimed in: "Molly, you’ve got a whole week—don’t waste it!"