“Teacher, I don’t feel well.” I leaned in closer to Alyssa, putting my arm around her. Just as I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, she vomited on my shoes.
I gagged, swallowed, trying to subtly shake off my shoes while comforting her. It was my first year teaching and I hadn’t learned the cardinal rule of dealing with sick kindergarteners: Don’t lean in, back up. Although I wanted to, I did not throw up.
“Teacher, can I hold your hand?” Diego was terrified to be in kindergarten and wanted to hold my hand as often as possible.
I grabbed his hand just as he asked every day in line walking to recess, to lunch, to the library. I didn’t look down. I tried to forget about the angry red scabies tracks spotting his hands, praying to be rewarded for my kindness by staying scabies-free.
As the school year progressed, he would come to school with hands wrapped in bandages, gauze or even duct tape to stop him from scratching.
I learned that scabies is caused by a microscopic mite living under the skin, burrowing tiny tunnels and laying eggs. My hands itched as I read this information, itched for hours after I read, itched at night, itched every time I thought about Diego.
I did not get scabies.
“Teacher, will you fix my ponytail?” I grabbed the elastic band, ready to wrap it around Michelle’s thick hair, when I noticed the telltale bumps at the base of her neck.
As I tidied loose strands of hair with my fingertips, she reached up to scratch her head. I poked my index finger a little deeper into her hair, dreading what I would find: little white nits, tiny crawling lice.
I swallowed hard, willing myself not to drop the handful of hair, back away or wipe my hands on my jeans. My head began to itch as I quickly braided her hair.
I began to mentally calculate how long it would take for recess to end, how I could send her to the nurse without embarrassing her, and whether I would make it to a bottle of hand sanitizer before unconsciously reaching up and touching my head.
Michelle didn’t come back to school for a few days. When she did, her thick black hair had been cropped short to a dark fuzz covering her head. She looked tinier and ran her hand over her newly-shorn head frequently. I did not get lice.
“Teacher, I can’t see the board.” I turn to look closely at Angel. His eyes had been slightly red at the beginning of the day and I assumed he had spent a night plagued by the allergies which often troubled him.
Now, after lunch, his eyes were gummy, the corners crusty. Red streaks colored the whites of his eyes. I was certain he had pinkeye.
I wracked my brain, trying to remember if I’d touched him at any point during the day, if he’d rubbed his eyes, if I’d rubbed mine. I moved toward my desk on the guise of writing a pass to the health office, but really edging toward the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer in my top drawer.
I didn’t get pinkeye.
“Teacher, this itches.” Eduardo scratched at the small round scaly patch on his face. I nudged him gently, “Get back to work.”
He grabbed the pencil in one hand, turned his gaze toward his multiplication worksheet and kept scratching with the other hand. After watching him pick at his face for a few moments, I finally called him over.
“Let me see.” I ran my finger over the rough skin, wondering how eczema or impetigo could form such a perfect circle.
I scribbled out a pass to the health clerk’s office.
A few days later, when my own cheek began to itch, I looked in the mirror. A rough red circle had begun to form.
Although Eduardo was back in school, his cheek smooth and clear again, I now had ringworm.
Most days I’m bulletproof. Some days I’m not.
