"Anyone got a graphing calculator?" your group project member asks.
"Yup,â You feel around in your backpack, expecting to feel the spiral edge of a notebook or the cool, hard case of your calculator.
Instead, your fingers brush up on soft, smooth, plastic. It crinkles against your fingers and you pull back like it burned you.
For the first time you look away from your homework and into your backpack. No...it's not your backpack, it's your partners. Two pull-ups, a diaper, a rolled up pair of their jeans, and their philosophy class reader sit inside. Your graphing calculator, statistics text book or green water bottle personalized with stickers are no where to be found.
"Uh, no. Must of left it at home, sorry."
In the time it took you to have your mini heart attack and bout of confusion, someone else has pulled out a calculator and your team has resumed working. Your mind isn't on statistics anymore. It's on the fact that you have your partners bag and they must have yours. You'll survive without your textbooks for a few hours, but the contents of the bag at your feet are pretty essential.
You had exchanged laughs last holiday season when you both opened the same backpack, gifted from each other. It's not so funny anymore.
When you tug your phone from your pocket to inform them of the mix up you realize you're a little late.
*3 missed calls from Nicky*
Text from Nicky, 2:00 pm: hey call me when u get the chance
Text from Nicky, 2:02 pm: did u take my backpack? i definitely have urs
Text from Nicky, 2:12 pm: it's kind of an emergency
âHey, sorry guys, Iâm gonna make a quick phone call."
You sling Nicky's backpack over your shoulder. The group gives you half-attentive nods and waves as you slip out of the study room.
You take the library steps two at a time. You've already pressed Nicky's contact and brought your phone to your ear by the time you stumble through the automatic doors and onto the grass lined pavement.
All you hear when the line connects are a few sniffles.
âNicky, oh my god, Iâm so sorry I didnât see your messages. I have your backpack, do you need it?â
âUh-huh.â Their voice is wobbly.
âWhere are you? Maybe we can meet in the middle. Iâm at the Smithson library.â
âI canât leave where Iâm at,â their voice is barely above a whisper.
âNoâŠI leaked. Bad.â Now it sounds like their voice is breaking.
Your heart hurts for them, and you want to do everything you can to make it better now.
âOh, baby, Iâm so sorry. I get it. Iâll come to you. Are you somewhere private?â
âIm in the single stall bathroom of the humanities building.â
Ok, you think; thatâs not too far. You can be there in less than 10 minutes if you walk fast and avoid the tour groups that congregate and block the quad constantly.
You knock softly on the door of the single occupancy bathroom.
The door opens slowly and Nicky has positioned themselves to be nearly behind it, out of sight of any one who could be walking past. When you finally get a look at them you know they weren't exaggerating.
A softball sized wet patch is on their crotch, with twin streaks down each thigh. You think their socks might even be wet.
Nicky's breathing is elevated and they're choking on their sobs.
"Oh, sweetheart, breathe. I'm here now, I can help. I know wet pants don't feel good."
"I think I pooped, too," Nicky manages between staccato inhales.
Oh. That hasn't happened for a while. But, they do seem to be more common when they're stressed or sick. You know they have a big project due at the end of the month.
You start pulling the necessary supplies out of Nicky's backpack. Wipes, a plastic bag for the soiled clothes, a clean pull-up and jeans. The light wash denim doesnât go with their outfit at all, but it's all you have.
"I...I was trying to hard to hold my pee and make it on time...but I guess I didn't know I had to go poop too. When I got here I had peed a lot already and it was already on my pants and I just stood here and cried for a little. Then I saw I had the wrong bag and...I just cried and cried. I didn't know what to do. By the time I knew it was coming it was too late."
"The potty is right here..." you motion around you. Probably not the thing they need to hear right now, though.
Nicky's face scrunches up, "I knoowww," they wail. They use both their fists to rub at their eyes.
"It's ok, it's ok. Let's just get you cleaned up. We can go home after this." You really hope the humanities building has adequate sound proofing and thick walls.
After they're all wiped down and standing pantsless and barefoot on the cool floor you hold out the pull-up for them to step into.
"I think I need a diaper," they whisper around the thumb in their mouth.
"Of course, baby. I bet you're tired. You don't have to try so hard for the rest of the day."
It's awkward getting the diaper on them without a clean place to lie down, but you manage with them leaning against the wall.
The heavy, sodden pull-up get's bagged and tossed in the trash can. Nicky's pants are in another bag, shoved deep in their backpack. They have to put their shoes back on without socks. You make a mental note to add a pair to their bag.
Nicky whines when you pull their thumb out of their mouth but is consoled with the promise of getting their pacifier once you're home.
On the bus ride home they're nearly asleep on your shoulder. You're coming down from the adrenaline of racing across campus and can feel the imminent crash brewing. A nap for the both of you is certainly due.
"Tomorrow," you say, guiding Nicky into the bedroom, "we get different keychains for our bags."
