During Read Across America Week this year, the first week in March, I signed up to read to a fifth grade class at Creekside Oaks Elementary School in Lincoln, CA. As a writer, I asked if I could read some of the stories I’d written. The answer was a resounding, “Yes.”
The alarm clock on the nightstand next to my bed blared. I hit the button on the clock so hard it fell to the ground with a thud. Guess I better get up, I thought. But I really didn’t want to. I stayed up late last night celebrating my grandpa’s fifty-seventh birthday. I had a great time. Mom bought strawberry shortcake for the occasion. I’d never eaten strawberries before. They tasted different—all right, but not great.
Still half asleep, I rolled out of bed, washed up, dressed, and headed to the kitchen to eat breakfast. As I entered, Mom looked at me with a frown on her face. “Alan, you’re going to be late for school. So sit down and eat your Cheerios and drink your orange juice.”
I shoved the Cheerios into my mouth so quickly and with such force, it made me gag. Mom shook her head and rolled her eyes.
“If you don’t slow down, young man. You’re going to choke to death.”
I took a deep breath, finished my cereal, slipped into my jacket Mom had put on the back of the chair, grabbed my book bag and the brown paper lunch sack, and raced out the door to the bus stop.
The ride to school was uneventful. Arriving, I exited the bus and headed to class.
Mrs. Young was a good teacher and a nice person. However, today, her history lesson on the Civil War was boring. I couldn’t wait for the morning recess bell to ring. I sat and fidgeted with my glasses, paying little attention to the words that flowed from her mouth.
And then, . . . ding, ding, ding, ding. “Okay, everybody, it’s time for recess,” Mrs. Young announced. “And Alan, please take the basketball and make sure you bring it back.”
Recess was great, but too short. We ran laps, shot some baskets, and played with the hula-hoops lying by the side of the basketball court. Ding, ding, ding, ding, the bell sounded. Everybody stopped what they were doing and ran toward their classrooms.
I started to follow, but remembered I had a job to do—bring the basketball with me. But where was it? I searched all around, but didn’t find it. Just as I thought I’d have to come up with a good excuse for being late and not having the ball, I noticed it under the garbage bin. I scooped it up and rushed toward my classroom.
As I went in, Mrs. Young pulled me aside. In fear of what she was going to say, I cried out, “I’m not late and I have the basketball.”
She gave me a weird look. “Okay, good,” she responded. “But why is your right eye swollen shut? Were you in a fight?”
“Uh, no,” I stammered.
“Alan, please tell me the truth.”
“But it is the truth.”
“I’m not so sure it is,” she said. “But whether or not it is, you need to be seen by the nurse. Here’s a hall pass. Go now. I’ll call and tell her you’re on your way.”
I left the room and trudged down the hall to the nurse’s office. As I opened the door, she took one look at me and said, “Oh, my! Have you been in a fight? Both your eyes are almost swollen shut.”
“No, I haven’t,” I whined.
“Well, you have no other cuts and bruises, but you still need to be examined, but not by me. I’ll call your mother so she can take you to the doctor.”
“Not my mother!” I screamed. “She won’t believe me either. You’ll get me in trouble.”
“Well, maybe that’s what should happen, since you don’t seem to be telling the whole truth.”
“But I am.” Not listening to me, she dialed my mom’s phone and explained what she thought had happened and told her to come to the school, as soon as possible.
Fifteen minutes later, Mom came charging into the nurse’s office and yelled, “Oh, my God! You look like you’ve been beaten up badly. Both of your eyes are swollen shut, your lips are puffy, and I see bumps on your hands. That must’ve been a big fight you were in.”
“But I haven’t been in a fight,” I pleaded.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this later. But first, I’m taking you to the doctor.”
She grabbed me by the arm, thanked the nurse for calling her, and dragged me to the car. Ten minutes later, we arrived at the doctor’s office.
When we walked through the door, the receptionist stared at me and shouted, “Wow! You must’ve been in a big fight.”
I didn’t say anything. Mom told her we didn’t have an appointment, but needed to see the doctor right away.
She said, “You’re fortunate he had a cancellation, so he can see you now.” She picked up the phone off her desk and buzzed him. “Doctor, I’m sending Alan and his mother in so you can examine the bruises he received from his fight at school.”
All I could think of was I didn’t want one more person telling me I must’ve been in a really big fight. As we entered the examining room, Dr. Bulger looked me up and down. Then, with a broad smile on his face, he asked, “What have you eaten recently that you’ve never eaten before?”
My mother had a puzzled expression on her face, as she heard me reply, “Strawberries. They were on the top of my grandpa’s birthday cake last night.”
Dr. Bulger laughed. “You definitely weren’t in a fight. You’re allergic to strawberries. You have a kind of skin rash called ‘hives.’ Go to your pharmacy and get an over-the-counter antihistamine. The pharmacist can direct you to the right one. In a few days, all the bumps and puffiness will be gone. And stay away from strawberries.”
Well, the case was closed. And I wasn’t a criminal who would go to jail for being in a fight. But I would have to give up eating strawberries. However, I didn’t like them very much anyway.
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