pet, poet, rope, pore, opt, top, pot, potter, core, tore
But I didn’t die. Instead, I had what the doctor called a near-death experience, which, I guess, sounds kind of exciting, but I personally wouldn’t recommend it.
I didn’t see a bright blazing light. I didn’t see God, or Allah, or Buddha. My life didn’t flash before my eyes. In fact, after I blacked out, I didn’t remember anything until the ambulance attendant gave me the first shot of adrenaline, which is enough to wake anyone up. After that, I must have passed out again because when I woke up, I was in a hospital bed and my mom was sitting beside me, wearing the floppy hat with the flower on it that I had bought her last Christmas from Value Village. She was clutching my hand, bawling her eyes out.
I wanted to tell her I was OK, that everything was going to be OK, but my throat felt funny and I think I was drugged because I couldn’t get the words out. This bothered me because I could see how upset she was.
I love my mom. She has tried to protect me my whole life, and not just from peanuts. When I was little and we still lived in Edmonton, Nana Ruth used to joke that our place was outfitted like an asylum – all that was missing were the straitjackets. Our outlets were plugged with wall-socket protectors; medicines and cleaning products were locked up; sharp-edged tables were padded with hunks of foam; drawers and cupboards all had childproof locks. We even had big plastic clip-locks to hold the toilet seat down because Mom was worried that I might lift up the seat, fall in, and drown.
She made me watch the ‘Stranger Danger’ video twenty thousand times. I’ve never been allowed to climb ladders or trees, or swim unless she’s in the pool, and she still makes me hold her hand when we cross busy roads. Sometimes it’s a little embarrassing, especially when she swears at bad drivers in a loud voice from the sidewalk, but I know her heart is in the right place.
Because my mom has done such a good job protecting me, I decided, when we moved to Vancouver two months ago, that I was old enough to return the favor. That’s why I’ve told her that everything’s working out well in my seventh-grade classroom at Cypress Elementary; that I have friends, and their names are Troy, Mike, and Josh. I can see how happy it makes her, because in Edmonton, Regina, and Kelowna, I never really had friends.
And what would be the point in telling her that this school was the same as all the rest? That, on a good day, the Three Stooges called me names; that, on a bad day, they threw my lunch into the toilet and, on one occasion, my lunch and my gym shorts.
The thing is, I’ve learned to live with it. It’s not the end of the world. And besides, if I told my mom the truth, she would flip. She would make a big production out of it. The principal would be called, parents would be called … and when it all simmered down, who would be left to deal with the ugly aftermath? Me.
And, to be honest, it made me feel better when I could tell her stories at the end of the day that made it sound like I had a life:
‘Then we all shot hoops at lunch.’
‘I helped Mike with his math after school.’
‘Troy invited me to his birthday party at Planet Lazer.’
That last one almost backfired. I’d chosen laser tag because I knew my mom thought it was violent and dangerous, so I was shocked when she said I could go. We picked out a gift, and Mom took me by bus to Planet Lazer, which took over an hour because it was all the way out in Richmond. When we got there, she wanted to come in and meet Troy’s mom, but I begged her not to, saying it wouldn’t look cool. She finally backed down.
For the next three hours, I stayed in the laser-tag bathroom because it was pouring with rain outside. I read the book we’d bought for Troy – The Thief Lord by Cornelia Funke – and, for a while, I could really believe that I was in Venice, Italy, on an incredible adventure and not in a stinky cubicle perched on a toilet seat.
On the way home, the bus was crowded and people were wet, so it smelled like dampness and armpits. Mom and I had to stand near the front.
‘So? How was it?’ she asked.
‘Great. Our team won. I shot a laser right through Troy’s heart.’
She shook her head. ‘Ugh, it sounds awful. You didn’t eat the cake, did you?’
‘No, Mom,’ I said. ‘I didn’t eat anything except the snack you sent me with.’
After that, we were both quiet. I watched the rain swirl down the bus windows like miniature rivers and snuck peeks at the unsmiling faces around me.
This time, the lie hadn’t felt very good. It hadn’t made me feel like I had a life.
It just made me feel like a speck in the universe.
I must’ve drifted back to sleep because the next time I woke up, I could hear my mom in the hospital corridor, talking to a doctor. Her voice was raised about an octave. I could picture her in her hat, waving her arms around, and I felt a twinge of pity for the doctor. Suddenly I heard, crystal clear: ‘They slipped a peanut into his sandwich? His school friends intentionally slipped a peanut into his sandwich?’
Oh, man. I wondered who had dared to snitch on the Three Stooges. Another kid who’d seen what had happened? Or, perhaps, one of the Three Stooges themselves, in a rare moment of guilt?
Then a hazy memory floated to the surface of my brain, and I groaned. A pretty nurse had been standing over me when they gave me my second shot of adrenaline. She’d asked me what had happened …
And I’d told her everything. It was me. I was the snitch.
In the hallway, my mom was still shouting and, crazy as it sounds, at that moment, I wasn’t thinking about how grateful I was to be alive.
I was thinking, Why didn’t that peanut just kill me?
Because I knew with absolute certainty that the poop was about to hit the fan.