you dirty rat
Mark Blickley
My four and a half block walk to school took on the pace and enthusiasm of a killer being led down death row for a private sitting with an electrician -- like in a James Cagney movie.
As a matter of fact, just last night when Mom and l)ad had curiously gone to bed the same time as my brat of a sister Jeannie and me, I took advantage of their strange departure by sneaking into the living room and switching on the television set. Jeannie wanted to come too, but I threatened to tell Mom about the lima beans she flushed down the toilet the month before.
It took the T.V. a few minutes to come on. I was afraid the cackling sound the old picture tube made as it warmed up would bring my parents out of their adjoining bedroom.
Every now and then Dad would come home from work and wink at Mom during dinner. Mom would crinkle her nose and then show him her teeth, sticking her tongue out and flicking it across her lips like a snake before it strikes. Without any reason ~ad would raise one eyebrow and give a dumb looking grin. Except for these infrequent occasions, my parents were quite normal and well behaved people.
Finally, a white spot appeared on the television screen which eventually turned into James Cagney growling in a prison cell. I sat inches away from the whispering set, forgetting the troubles I had to face the following morning at school. The movie must have cured my insomnia because I don't remember my father lowering me on to my bed.
As I turned the corner I saw Greg, Brad and Wayne climbing the steep steps leading to the school's entrance. When I shouted at them to wait up I noticed that they, too, had a sickly look about them. The three of us silently scuffed our way to the classroom.
Everyone except Regina Smoloff was inside and in their seats. I didn't think Regina would show up. Every time Mrs. Worton would give us a math or spelling test, Regina would wet her pants and cry. When this happened Mrs. Worton would send for the school nurse and Regina's mother would come to pick her up and take her home. The day afterwards Regina was always absent.
As I settled myself behind the desk, I noticed Regina walking in. This worried me. Because of the terrible importance of the day, even Regina's embarrassment couldn't allow her to stay home. And boy did she make a mess the day before. But what really scared me was that none of my classmates (or myself for that matter) bothered to tease her. We all looked like our thoughts were a million miles away.
Mrs. Worton strolled in and put on a big smile, even bigger than the smile she gave us when the class presented her with a large multi-colored paperweight shaped like an egg, for Christmas. Jimmy Reilly's father took the dollar and sixty four cents we raised and picked it out for us from the stationary store he owned. It was a beauty.
Behind our teacher's smile we knew she was nervous too. This was pointed out to me by Brad, who observed that she took the roll call before the pledge of allegiance to the flag. Nothing was mentioned about what we had to do in place of our regular recess period.
For the first time all year the classroom hours sped by. The clock read 11:30 when Mrs. Worton ordered us to lay down our pencils and form two lines.
Since I was among the shortest in the class, I was always number three in line. What a relief when my teacher said that today we were lining up in alphabetical order instead of by height. It was about time this unfairness was corrected. The reason for doing this, Mrs. Worton told us, was because our forms would be arranged alphabetically inside the medical van.
Those forms! We had to bring them home and get Parental Approval for them. I had hoped my mother would see things my way, but she didn't. Despite the pleas and promises of good behavior and threats of running away from home, signatures appeared on all twenty-six permission slips. Just because a few stupid fifth graders had T.B., it was no excuse to put us all through this torture.
We were waiting outside in line for less than a minute when a huge white truck pulled into the schoolyard. On each of its sides was a big cross, like the kind they stick over soldier's graves after they're murdered in battle. Its color was a bright blood red.
The back doors flung open, showing a tall woman in a white dress bending her finger at Mrs. Worton to signal for her attention. The lady had a wart under her eye. She then walked down my line and told us not to be afraid. She said no shots would be given, only a pricking of skin was needed and that it wouldn't hurt.
As she approached me all I could think about were the strands of hair sprouting from her wart. I stepped back.
Crying was heard at the beginning of the line. Regina Smoloff stood in front of me and boasted about her courage. I ignored her. My only desire was to get through the needle with the dignity becoming the classes' best reader and star punchball hitter.
The line moved swiftly. Gregory left the truck holding his right forearm with a piece of cotton gauze. His cheeks were moist and his nose was dripping. He passed by me with his head lowered.
I became more determined to give a strong example of manhood.
Kelly Sue Bloomberger fainted. Mrs. Worton and the nurse with the hairy wart carried her back inside the school, allowing Regina, the boy in front of her, and me, a temporary reprieve.
Regina turned around, poked her fat finger into my chest and yelled to my classmates that she'd bet a thousand dollars I'd bawl like a baby when my turn came. I dug my heel into the toe of her patent-leather shoe and would've gotten into a big fight if Mrs. Worton and the nurse hadn't returned just then.
A weeping Stuart Muscariello entered the van as I stared at the back of Regina's ugly, curly head. I would be going in right after her.
Suddenly, I noticed a familiar stain darkening Regina's dress and caught a whiff of a stink smellier than my Mom's disinfectant. Regina let out a wail and before I could collect my thoughts she was yanked off the line and I was thrust into the van.
Unprepared for the moment I gazed at the wart, hitched up my pants with my elbows like I had seen Cagney do the night before, and curled my lip at the nurse. She gave me her back and lunged for a fresh needle as Mrs. Worton removed my card from the file box.
The needle came in a cellophane package. The tall lady ripped it open and produced an instrument with a plastic handle and three pointed prongs. It looked like a miniature pitchfork -- the type of pitchfork I'd seen pictures of the devil holding.
I screamed.
