Melt and resolve

I feel like hell. According to my mother, I've got whatever Charles Wallace has. Arne was over again, pestering us to read his work for his stupid writing course.
"I can't understand why you kids are sick all the time," he said.
"Maybe it's because Mom's a family doctor. Or maybe it's because your crap fog machine damaged my lungs," I answered.
"Sure, hold a grudge. How could I know that deeply-discounted, used equipment without a warranty would malfunction?" Arne went off to get Charles Wallace to help him log onto his stupid class's stupid website. Duncan phoned, and I coughed a bit at him over the line. He said he's in better shape than me, since he was either in the shower or out with Birnam Wood during the worst of the performance. Mirabell's under heavy sedation, Duncan also said, since he tried to get the nurses at Milborough General into a version of Timon of Athens. When Duncan and I got off the phone, Arne wandered in again.
"You're the only teenager I know," he started.
"And that's my misfortune, not yours."
"Hey, be nice. I'm having a professional crisis here."
"How can you have a professional crisis when you just started working?" Arne said the problem was with the old people at the early shows at the Valhalla.
"I'm a magician, dammit, a master of illusions, and stop giggling. Those old folks think everything I'm doing is real! What's the point of it all?"
"Getting paid regularly?" I suggested. He scoffed.
"My illusions are wasted on them!" I said he could just keep it up until they started to realize he was faking it, and he looked a little happier. I just wanted him to go away.