Op-Ed

Today in class, Billy Hornwinkle came in with chicken pox, making him the most popular boy since Jimmy Miller pulled a fire alarm during our last math exam.

I was coloring in my Hannah Montana coloring book when I found out. Ronnie, this boy who is kind of cute but he picks his nose and rubs it in his hair, announced it. Brooke Williams in the third grade said she could hear the cheers down the hall. They were cheers of joy, but they were not mine.

Billy had a note from his mom that said it was poison ivy. He rode to school on the bus with the other kids. He even had some story about going on a family picnic in the woods. He was collecting dog poo on a stick when he noticed the shiny green leaves around his feet. This is what he told us, but we knew he was a big fat liar.

His mom even gave him a bottle of Benedryl and asked the teacher to rub it on the sores during lunch, before we went outside for recess. The teacher looked angry like my mommy had when daddy called for bail money last Sunday. Then, it hit me:

Billy Hornwinkle is the son of our family doctor, Dr. Hornwinkle. He’s a nice enough man, but he needs to get new coloring books for his waiting room. I mean, The Teletubbies are for babies.

I had to know for sure, so I walked over to sharpen my pencil over the garbage can next Mrs. Oster’s desk. I peeked and could see the signature out of the corner of my eye. Billy’s note was signed by his dad. It was all a sham!

The class was overjoyed. All through pre-school and kindergarten, they had dodged the red marks and popping blisters. There were no outbreaks for them. They all took turns breathing in the infected air around Billy Hornwinkle’s scarred belly. They kissed the soft, seeping scabs on his cheeks, saying thank you. They were making plans for all of the glorious playdates while they missed school with the pox.

What about me? Last summer, I was at the beach in New Jersey with my cousin, Ashley when she had it. Her mom was with the life guard at our hotel. Her daddy was away on business. My mom wouldn’t let me swim for two weeks. I cried all August until my skin cleared up as summer vacation ended.

I know that missing a few weeks for chicken pox is antithetical to my overall education, but you have to take whatever vacation you can when you can or the other kids will think you belong in one of those special classes.

Now, all of the Brandi Goldthwaites and Timmy Johnstons will be without homework and silent reading. They will not attempt math minutes or eat stale French fries in the gym at lunch time. They all look so happy, thanking Billy Hornwinkle for his suffering.

My daddy says that once I have chicken pox once, I can’t get it again. So, I’m not scooping the juice from his pox-covered belly button and lapping it up like the icing spoon when my mom makes cup cakes. I’m nearly in tears. I will be a social outcast for the remainder of my first grade year.

The next time we have a family get together, I’m going to smack that bitch, Ashley up side the head and tell everyone that Mr. Oster used to give her secret classes in his car after school. That’ll show her.

Ed Eibel is Ed Eibel has written for Seattle Dining.com, Sound Rider and Sounds of Seattle. He engineered the live music show, The Live Room, on KEXP in Seattle for three years before moving to Asia. He now is desperate for opportunities to speak in English and is happy to share with you the insight into the Western World he has gained while not living in it. First off, traditional Asian toilets suck. Otherwise, it's the end of the world as we know it.
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