I wake up in my bed the next morning to the taste of vomit rushing up my throat. I trip out of bed tangled in my sheets but manage to find the bathroom before making a huge mess on the floor. It's all watery and tastes like sewer but eventually it's gone and I make my way back to bed. My head throbs with the pain of a thousand concussions. With the sun up, it looks to be about nine in the morning.

Covering my head with my comforter, I pass out again in hopes of waking up better. I don't. I wake up a few minutes later to throw up some more. It tastes even worse this time. I try washing out my mouth with water, but every gurgle and swish makes me feel sicker.

Grandma knocks on the bathroom door that is cracked open as I sit on the edge of the tub gripping the sides of my head.

“Are you sick?” she asks. I nod and groan. “Let me see if you have a fever.” I let her press her hand to my forehead although I know it's pointless. I am definitely sick, but it's not a fever type of sick. She rests her hand on me for a minute then shakes her head. “No, you feel fine.”

“I think I just ate something bad,” I say. The perfect excuse. I've used it to skip school a dozen times because there's no way to prove it. She hands me some stomach medicine from the shelf behind the mirror and I gladly swallow the soothing pink liquid. She seems concerned for a moment and then she and tells me a story about when she was a teenager and broke both of her wrists falling out of a tree. I try to smile and pay attention to the story but the second she's done, I bolt back to my room and close the door, preferring to be sick in privacy.

My bed is a comfortable prison for the next several hours. I drift into sleep for a bit and then get jolted awake with the urge to puke. Grandma doesn't check on me, but I can hear her soap operas on the TV so I'm not insulted by her lack of care. Grandma doesn’t leave the couch at all when her shows are on.

Somewhere between a minute and an hour later, I'm not sure because I keep falling in and out of sleep, Grandma comes to my bedside and hands me the phone.

“Hello?” I mumble.

“Bayleigh? Grandma says you're sick, what's wrong?” It's Mom. Just about the last person I want to hear from.

“Yeah, I'm okay,” I say, trying to sound more cheerful than I am. “I think I ate something bad, I just keep throwing up.”

“I'm sorry, I wish I was there to take care of you. Grandma isn't one for nurturing.” She was right about that, and there is a sympathy in her voice that I hope is regret for grounding me.

“I'll be alright. I'm grounded, so I just have to survive, remember?” It was wrong of me to say this, but at the moment I just don't give a damn. She ruined my summer and she deserves to get a guilt trip for it.

“Well maybe this will help you remember how to follow the rules at home. Goodbye, Bayleigh.” She hangs up and I'm left lying in bed, hangover, with a dial tone droning into my ear. What I wouldn’t give to have my computer to Google hangovers and how long they take to recover from.

By afternoon, I'm starving. Without a cell phone or television or computer, I have no idea what time it is. Perhaps I should make a fucking sun dial on the balcony, I think. My stomach feels better but my head feels like it's stuck in a vise, every pulse of my heart causes a sharp pain in my temples.

It takes a long while for me to psych myself up enough to get out of bed and venture down to the kitchen. Normally, I would have known exactly how long because my cell phone never leaves my hand when I'm in bed. I could have been texting Becca, or even Ian since if I wasn't grounded, he wouldn't have found another girl to occupy his time.

Grandma ignores me from the couch as I fumble around the kitchen, looking into the pantry and fridge for something to eat. There's a ton of food here, but nothing looks appetizing. I stare into the fridge until I start to feel woozy from standing. A jar of grandma's homemade pickles beckons to me and I grab it, my mouth watering at the thought of pickle juice.

I sit at the table eating pickles off a fork stabbed straight into the jar. A doorbell rings and at first I think it comes from the TV, but then Grandma gets up and answers the door. From my place in the kitchen, I can see Grandma's back but not the unexpected visitor.

“Bayleigh left these at my house yesterday.” It's Jace' voice.

“Who are you?” Grandma asks. It doesn't sound hostile but it isn't very friendly either.

“I'm Jace Adams, ma'am. I live next door.” I smirk while chewing my pickles. He sounds so polite and proper like how Ian used to talk to my mom. Guys are so good at faking manners.

“She's sick but I'll be sure to give it to her.” The door closes and I stand up from the kitchen table using my hands to push me out of my chair. I'm still woozy. Grandpa's cowboy boots stomp down the stairs. It's louder and faster than usual and stops me from leaving the kitchen.

“Why was that kid here?” he demands. Grandma says, “He was bringing Bayleigh's movies back.” He follows her into the kitchen where she sets my DVDs on the table next to me. She smiles, not at all fazed about Grandpa leering over her shoulder, and returns to the couch a moment later. Grandpa stays, standing in front of me, arms crossed. I slowly put the lid on the pickle jar, tightening it longer than necessary hoping he will leave.

“Why the hell did that boy have your things?” Grandpa's eyes lock on mine. His wrinkled face normally looks like he is frowning but right now he has on a real frown. Disappointed and angry, it makes his normal face seem jolly.

“I left it at his house when we watched a movie,” I say, looking at the movie case and not at Grandpa whose grimace grows more frightening every second.

“You are not allowed to associate with him.”

“He's a nice guy,” I protest.

“He wrecked his grandfather's land. He's probably wrecking the house too,” Grandpa's finger points at me. “And you are not to see him.” His weathered finger points sternly in my face. He turns to leave and I mutter under my breath, “That's stupid.” Immediately, I regret it.

Grandpa stops, turns on his heel and walks back to me. I cower in my chair. His eyes are so dark they appear to be black. “Your Grandma may be fooled, but I know why you are here. You're grounded because you can't behave for your mother. And I am not-” he pauses until I glance up at him, “-going to put up with it.”