OCR Text |
Show preparation for dinner, and my mother behind it all. By the third day, people were on to me. The teacher questioned me when I raised my hand. Are you going to be sick to your stomach? Can you wait until the end of reading period? Can you wait until the end of the day? Firm in my resolve and fearful at the apparent failure of my words, I begged to go and see the nurse. She allowed me to leave but more begging was required once I got to the main office. In fact, by the end of the week, I was having to throw a fit, just to be allowed entrance into the darkened room. Once there, I was left for hours, for the entire length of the school day. No one checked on me. They knew I did not have a fever. No one called my mother. She did not appear. Behind the now-closed door, I could hear no office noises, no quiet hum, no surf. I lay on the bed and cried for my mother, begging her to come and get me. I wanted to go home. Now when my mother would finally appear to pick me up at the end of the day, her face was drawn in anger, not concern. One day, a week into my "illness," she picked me up from the nurse's den and took me to the doctor. He poked and prodded, listened and tested, and returned me to my mother with a clean bill of health. There was nothing wrong with me, this quiet girl who never spoke in class, who never interrupted, who never caused a ruckus and always took the cookie that was closest to her when offered. She was fine. The next day my mom drove me to school. There is nothing wrong with you, Sweetheart. You need to stay at school. I don't want them calling me. Okay, I said. 89 |