have your hands been socializing with any other parts of your body?”
I did not dignify that question with a verbal response.
Not for several seconds anyway.
“Oh my god!” Nononononononononononononono-noooo! It’s so unfair. It’s never even been out anyplace. Noooooo!”
“Oh Jesus Elvin don’t start that. Crying isn’t going to help.”
“I am not crying,” I insisted as I started jogging, trotting, running, in the direction of CVS.
He caught up. “No? If you’re not crying what are those running down your face?”
“Bugs, probably,” I answered, speeding up.
Mikie caught up quickly, grabbed me and stopped me.
And took my hand.
He grabbed hold of my pus-filled, insect-riddled, corroding hand and pulled me to a stop.
“What are you, nuts? Is this going to be one of those suicide pacts where you want to decay along with me?”
“You don’t got scabies, man,” he said sadly.
“What? I do so. See, I knew this was going to happen. Everybody’s going to wake up and say it was all a dream. No foxy girl held fat Bishop’s hand. Well no way—”
“She didn’t have scabies. She had psoriasis.”
I stared at him dubiously.
“June told Frankie. It was just a joke.”
It was just a joke.
It was just a joke.
“It was a sucky joke, Mike.”
He sighed. “It was, El.”
I went back to walking. “What part did you like best?” I asked, steaming. “The part where I thought the girl liked me? Was that the best part, Mike? Or was it the part where I was ready to peel my own skin off when I realized what I had?”
I did not remember ever scolding Mike before, ever. It was weird, like I was getting angry at a part of myself—like I was one of those people who injure themselves on purpose.
“Never mind,” I said. “Forget it anyway.”
“Well,” he said, “no, we shouldn’t probably. You might, y’know, maybe have a point.”
No, really, I did not want this. I was so off-balance, hearing Mike stumble and apologize. I’d rather be wrong. I’d rather have him back the way he was. I needed him back the way he usually was.
Oh. Just like he needed me?
“She really did like you, El,” he said, reading my thoughts for the hundred millionth time. “The joke was bad, but I think really, she did like you anyway. You were doing great at the dance. Better than I ever would have thought...” His voice trailed down and away there.
“And we don’t need to go to CVS anymore,” I said, staring at the CVS dead ahead.
“Yes we do,” he said, looking me up and down as we walked.
Which caused me to look myself up and down as we walked. I was now traveling with a nearly completely sideways gait. Like a football drill where the coach makes everybody follow his hand like dummies, left right back left right, cut this way, cut back.
I was once a football player, have I mentioned that?
“Your problem is out of control, friend,” Mike correctly said. “I think as long as we came this far, we should really get you fixed up. Can’t stand to see you like this, man.”
I punched him hard on the arm. As long as I was facing that way. “Well, you didn’t help it any. Scaring me with all that scabies bug crap, when you knew I didn’t even have it—”
“Cut it out already, El. I feel bad about that.”
“Ya? Well not bad enough. So now I’m like, full, like I got a complete grapevine growing out of my ass. I am redefining Fruit of the Loom. Maybe I could get a sponsorship deal... stop laughing at me... so, no, feeling bad is not good enough.”
“I know it’s not good enough. But CVS must have something for, er, people like you.”
And there we were. People like me. I didn’t just have a condition now, I had joined a community. Frankie was right. These things really did happen only to certain kinds of people. And it was looking more and more like I was simply one of them.
I was fourteen years old, and I figured by now I had experienced everything there is, except, of course, the
I did not dignify that question with a verbal response.
Not for several seconds anyway.
“Oh my god!” Nononononononononononononono-noooo! It’s so unfair. It’s never even been out anyplace. Noooooo!”
“Oh Jesus Elvin don’t start that. Crying isn’t going to help.”
“I am not crying,” I insisted as I started jogging, trotting, running, in the direction of CVS.
He caught up. “No? If you’re not crying what are those running down your face?”
“Bugs, probably,” I answered, speeding up.
Mikie caught up quickly, grabbed me and stopped me.
And took my hand.
He grabbed hold of my pus-filled, insect-riddled, corroding hand and pulled me to a stop.
“What are you, nuts? Is this going to be one of those suicide pacts where you want to decay along with me?”
“You don’t got scabies, man,” he said sadly.
“What? I do so. See, I knew this was going to happen. Everybody’s going to wake up and say it was all a dream. No foxy girl held fat Bishop’s hand. Well no way—”
“She didn’t have scabies. She had psoriasis.”
I stared at him dubiously.
“June told Frankie. It was just a joke.”
It was just a joke.
It was just a joke.
“It was a sucky joke, Mike.”
He sighed. “It was, El.”
I went back to walking. “What part did you like best?” I asked, steaming. “The part where I thought the girl liked me? Was that the best part, Mike? Or was it the part where I was ready to peel my own skin off when I realized what I had?”
I did not remember ever scolding Mike before, ever. It was weird, like I was getting angry at a part of myself—like I was one of those people who injure themselves on purpose.
“Never mind,” I said. “Forget it anyway.”
“Well,” he said, “no, we shouldn’t probably. You might, y’know, maybe have a point.”
No, really, I did not want this. I was so off-balance, hearing Mike stumble and apologize. I’d rather be wrong. I’d rather have him back the way he was. I needed him back the way he usually was.
Oh. Just like he needed me?
“She really did like you, El,” he said, reading my thoughts for the hundred millionth time. “The joke was bad, but I think really, she did like you anyway. You were doing great at the dance. Better than I ever would have thought...” His voice trailed down and away there.
“And we don’t need to go to CVS anymore,” I said, staring at the CVS dead ahead.
“Yes we do,” he said, looking me up and down as we walked.
Which caused me to look myself up and down as we walked. I was now traveling with a nearly completely sideways gait. Like a football drill where the coach makes everybody follow his hand like dummies, left right back left right, cut this way, cut back.
I was once a football player, have I mentioned that?
“Your problem is out of control, friend,” Mike correctly said. “I think as long as we came this far, we should really get you fixed up. Can’t stand to see you like this, man.”
I punched him hard on the arm. As long as I was facing that way. “Well, you didn’t help it any. Scaring me with all that scabies bug crap, when you knew I didn’t even have it—”
“Cut it out already, El. I feel bad about that.”
“Ya? Well not bad enough. So now I’m like, full, like I got a complete grapevine growing out of my ass. I am redefining Fruit of the Loom. Maybe I could get a sponsorship deal... stop laughing at me... so, no, feeling bad is not good enough.”
“I know it’s not good enough. But CVS must have something for, er, people like you.”
And there we were. People like me. I didn’t just have a condition now, I had joined a community. Frankie was right. These things really did happen only to certain kinds of people. And it was looking more and more like I was simply one of them.
I was fourteen years old, and I figured by now I had experienced everything there is, except, of course, the
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