Catharsis [Novel]

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

            The nurse and I have only met twice in the time I've been at this school.  The first time was after some bad seafood had its way with me (Turns out leftover shrimp in a brown paper bag for lunch the day after a birthday dinner at the local lobster shack is not the strongest idea.), and the most recent time was for a jammed index finger suffered during a particularly rousing science lesson about biomes (It's a long story, and it involves a squirrel, a two by four and a broken slinky.  I'll save it for later.).  A five foot tall, one hundred pound Hispanic girl is easily forgettable in a school this large, so I was guessing she probably wouldn’t remember me when I came in.

            Nurse Pritchett is with some skinny freshman kid when I come into her cramped office (Kids always refer to her as "Nurse Pritchett" and not "Mrs. Pritchett".  I'm not sure why.).  The room has a distinct chemical smell that’s refreshing after my previous olfactory excursion.  It’s almost relaxing.  I can smell sickness in the air under the chemicals, but it is subtle and easy to ignore.  She absently waves me to an empty plastic chair next to the door, and I happily sit down.  It’s a relief to not have to worry about adding moving to the list of things I’m trying to accomplish all at once.

            The room isn’t large - it’s about the size of two bedrooms smashed together – and it’s nicely soundproofed (Probably to keep any kids' annoying cries of pain from bothering the office ladies next door.).  The  combination of the two features work together to give me a pleasant reprieve from the awfulness of the locker room and the school hallways.

            Closing my eyes, I pass the time connecting smells and sounds to what I guess they originated from.

            Insect buzz? Her computer on the desk in the corner.

            Repetitive chick-chick sound?  Wall clock.

            Biting alcohol scent?  Disinfectant for cleaning.

            And something delicious.  Almost like meat?  That would be -

            "Young lady, how can I help you?" Her friendly voice interrupts my thoughts and then morphs into a more suspicious tone.  "Why are you wearing sunglasses in my office?  Are you high?  Or do you have a black eye?"

            I squint at the woman standing in front of me.  Nurse Pritchett can’t be any older than her mid-twenties, but she has called me "young lady" every time she's seen me (Ok, all three, but still.  That's enough for a pattern.).  That combined with her severely pulled back hair fastened into a classic librarian's bun makes me wonder if she’s trying to project an image of being older.  It must be tough to play nurse maid to a bunch of hooligan teens all day.

            "Neither, ma'am."  I pull out my dad's crumbled letter I'd kept in my pocket all morning.  "I have a note for you."

            "Very well, then.  Thanks."  She unfolds the paper I had pressed into her palm and quickly reads my dad's scrawl about my eyes hurting and my not feeling well.  She "hmmph’s" once she finishes and sets it on her desk.

            "I'm going to need to see your eyes for myself before I approve of anything, you understand." 

            I nod.  "Ok."

            "And judging from the pallor of your skin I'm guessing there might be something else wrong with you.  You look pale.  Are you feeling alright aside from your eyes hurting?"