The bathroom tile is cold under my knees, and the fluorescent light is doing absolutely nothing for my self-esteem.

I’m hunched over the sink like a girl in a tragic indie film, except this isn’t poetic or edgy, it’s just gross. My hands are gripping the porcelain, knuckles white, and I’m pretty sure I’m still shaking.

Callie and Emily are hovering behind me like I’m going to start convulsing or sprout wings or something.

“Maybe the muffins were expired?” I croak, trying for a laugh. It comes out more like a wheeze.

Emily’s arms are crossed in front of her chest, eyes narrowed like she’s solving a crime scene. “Char,...