Monday morning, wearing latex gloves and holding a Popsicle stick, Nurse Bicknell takes the annual back-to-school lice check seriously. What’s crazy is that they expect us to carry on with class, ignoring Bicknell as she lumbers from student to student, picking through our hair like a silverback gorilla preening the troop.
What if she finds a crawling critter or an egg or two? What is she going to do? Pull the fire alarm? Embarrass the kid by awarding an early dismissal pass and a parting gift of insecticide shampoo?
It’s humiliating. But I guess compared to the annual spine check for scoliosis—where Bicknell makes you bend over in your bra and panties in her office while she judges your potential as the next Hunchback of Notre Dame, a few pokes in my hair is nothing.
I try to concentrate on Ms. Poe’s history lesson. She had us read an essay by some guy named Swift—A Modest Proposal—but neglected to tell us that Mr. Swift was only kidding when he suggested that the British eat Irish children for dinner. He even offered a few recipes. Colleen Fitzpatrick went to her guidance counselor, crying hysterically. I hate it when teachers get us all worked up for nothing.
Bicknell’s just about to impale Ibby’s curly red hair with her Popsicle stick when Ibby says, “Please stop!”
Surprised, Bicknell utters a few sharp words, which Ibby ignores, covering her head and shaking it no.
I can guess what this is all about. I give Bo a knowing look, but he’s too busy adjusting his seat for a better view.
“Isabelle, is there a problem?” asks Ms. Poe.
“I don’t want to be rude, but Mrs. Bicknell uses the same gloves and stick on everybody.”
Nurse Bicknell’s jaw drops and she holds her latex-encased hands in the air as if they were freshly scrubbed for surgery. Her voice shakes. “I’ll have you know, you impertinent girl, that I’ve been a school nurse for over thirty-five years and never—never—have I had any trouble during the annual lice check. This is for your safety, mandated by the Ohio State Board of Health, and you have no right to refuse!”
Poor Ibby. I totally see her side. When we were in first grade, everyone couldn’t wait until it was their birthday because we got to wear this special hat for the entire school day. Unfortunately, when it was Ibby’s turn, that hat gave her lice. It took Ibs’s freaked-out mom multiple washings with smelly tar shampoo and hours of combing every night to pick the nits out of Ibs’s thick, curly hair. Her mom threatened to have Ibby’s hair cut off.
But that wasn’t the worse part. When Ibby returned to school after the treatments, some mean kids on the playground ran around tagging each other and saying, “Ibby Bloom bugs—you’re it!”
If Nurse Bicknell thinks she can win this one, she’s underestimating her opponent. Ibby may be small, but she’s determined and smart. Which is why it doesn’t surprise me when she quietly gets up from her desk and stands, arms crossed, in front of Ms. Poe’s current-events bulletin board, titled FIGHTING OPPRESSION AT HOME AND AROUND THE WORLD.
Bo chants, “Bug-free, Ib-by.”
“Remember when she had lice in first grade?” Olivia whispers. “I think you can be a carrier.”
“Shut up, Olivia,” I say. “We all had lice in first grade.” Geez, go to school with the same kids for ten years and you’ve got no privacy.
“That’s enough!” says Ms. Poe. “Isabelle, will you agree to the check if Mrs. Bicknell changes her gloves and uses a new stick?”
“Yes.”
Bicknell’s eyebrows meet in a straight line across her forehead. With a displeased grunt, she throws the old stick in the garbage and peels the rubber gloves off her sweaty hands—snap-snap!
She takes an especially long time checking Ibby’s hair, and once, Ibby cries, “Ouch!”
Ms. Poe turns from the chalkboard. “Are you finished yet, Mrs. Bicknell? My curriculum is also state-mandated, and frankly, you’re disrupting the learning process.”
Yay, Ms. Poe!
I’m next. And even though I know Ibby’s hair is so clean that I could use it as dental floss, I remind Bicknell to use a new Popsicle stick for me as well. Soccer Chick Rule Number 3 - Always support your teammates!
* * *
Speaking of nit-picking, Olivia Fletcher is driving me crazy. Every day she grills me about my levy assignments: “How many people have you signed up for yard signs? Do you have the endorsements for the newspapers? Where are you holding the haunted house fund-raiser?”
She never lets up until she’s sucked all the air out of a room, leaving the rest of us suffocating in her presence.
I actually do have some good ideas for the haunted house. In fact, the solution to the location is so obvious that I can’t believe that I hadn’t thought of it before. There’s just one problem. A big one—getting Ibby’s mother to say yes.
“Come on, Ibs!” I bring the topic up during lunch. “You know your home’s the perfect place for the haunted house. It’s practically a castle.” Ibby’s father, professor of Medieval English at Oberlin College, has a passion for architecture. He designed their home to look like a castle, complete with turrets, winding staircases, and even a small mote—minus piranhas and crocodiles, of course.
“Are you crazy, Tess? You know what my mom’s like. How do you think she’d handle a bunch of middle school kids running through her house, dripping fake blood? Oh my God—the dirt! She’d totally freak. She’d be ready for an insane asylum before the night was over.”
“We need people dressed up to scare the customers. Crazy people in straightjackets, foaming at the mouth—your mom would be great!”
“You’re the one who’s lost her mind. There’s no way. No way my mom will ever agree to it.”
“Ibs, remember when we were in third grade and you wanted to go to Jeremy Finkelstein’s party at the Burger Barn? You thought your mom would never let you eat E. coli patties or play on those germy toys. But she surprised you and let you go!”
“Oh, I remember. She packed sterile gloves and a surgical mask. She gave me alcohol wipes to sanitize the tables before we ate!”
I crush my paper lunch bag into a tight ball. “Okay, so it would freak her out if she actually knew about it. Didn’t you tell me she’s traveling a lot lately for that company she works for? What if she’s out of town the weekend we have the haunted house? We’ll have it all cleaned up before she gets home, and she’ll never know anyone was there.”
“Tess,” she grabs my shoulders, “my mother knows if one of her perfume bottles is moved a fraction of an inch on her dresser. She knows if I snuck a soda pop, because of the extra can in the recycling bin. You really think we could have a house full of”—she looks around the cafeteria—“middle schoolers gone wild, hyped up on caffeine and candy, rampaging through her home on Halloween, and after it’s all over, she’d never know anyone was there?”
“Maybe?”
Ibby jams a spoonful of organic yogurt into her mouth. “The trouble with you is that you won’t take no for an answer.”
“The trouble with you is you won’t take a chance! At least ask your dad. I bet he’d go for it. He’d think it’s a great idea. He loves showing people your home.”
Ibby sighs—wavering, wavering. “No!”
“Tell you what,” I say, eyeing the garbage barrel positioned at the door about thirty feet from our table. Gripping my paper bag ball in my hand, I line up the shot. “I make this basket and you have to at least ask your parents.”
“Nooo.”
“Come on. Half the battle is believing that something can happen—even when the odds are against it.” I squint at the garbage can.
She smiles reluctantly and makes an attempt to snatch the ball from my hand and block my shot.
“If I sink it, you ask if we can use your home for the haunted house. I miss and it’s all over. Case closed! We’ll have to use the dusty old American Legion Hall or the smelly school gym. Deal?”
She studies the distance from the wastebasket to our table and finally agrees, “Deal!”
“Here goes.” I run through my basketball preshot routine, remembering Coach’s acronym—BEEF: Balance. Elbows in. Eyes on basket. Follow through. I launch the paper ball off the tips of my fingers, and it sails over six tables, past two lunch monitors, just misses pegging Ryan Burke in the nose, and lands in the center of the garbage pail.
“Yes!” I pump my fist in the air.
“That’ll be a detention for you, little Miss Sure Shot!” shouts the lunch monitor as she whips out her referral slip to write me up.
Ibby shakes her head, looking apologetic. “Dumb bet, Tess. Now you’ve got detention.”
“Don’t feel bad, Ibs. It’s not the first, and besides, it’ll be worth it if your parents say yes.”