Last week, I fell a bit ill. It was a Monday when it started, which is my busiest day what with many classes and a debate meeting and all that, so I insisted on going to school. I actually felt fine for most of the day, except for one little, uh, incident during a tech class when my frustration with the project, my pounding headache, and my painful sore throat all combined to make me a bit unpleasant to work with.
But otherwise, I was fine. I told this to my friends. "Really," I said, hefting my communican on my way to Debate, "I don't know why you're all concerned. I feel fine! Good! Never been better!"
I dropped my scrap paper in a recycling bin. "Yeah, I always recycle. Good for the environment. Go green!"
My friends exchanged a look. "No," she said. "I mean, green, like, your face is vivid green. Do you feel nauseated at all?"
"What a silly notion!" I cried, bursting through the doors and sliding into my seat. "I feel less than nauseated! I'm, like, negative nauseated! I could go on ten thousand consecutive roller coasters and feel wonderful!"
My friend sighed. "Well, I have to go, so be careful. Don't kill yourself." She patted my shoulder, and one finger brushed against my cheek.
Before I could react, she shrieked and jerked her hand away. "Oh my God! I think you burned my finger!"
I touched my face, which felt like it was a nice, normal, warm temperature. My friend's finger, however, was forming a shiny burn.
"I think you may have a fever," she said drily.
"A fever? Nonsense!" I pulled out the thermometer I brought to school just to show that I did not, in fact, have a fever. Sliding it under my tongue, I waited the ten hours necessary before it beeped.
Sliding it back out, I squinted at the number, and then grinned triumphantly. "There! See? It's 97 degrees. My temperature's actually low."
My friend grabbed it from me and examined it closely. "Izzy?"
"This thermometer reads temperatures in Celsius."