MISSING: Chapter 6 (III)

MISSING
Chapter 6: Es muss sein (Pt. III)

In fifth grade at her new school the students have a play day at the local community center. The gym and pool areas are reserved for the students. The whole day is a field trip to the community center to swim and play. There are lunches in white paper bags with turkey, ham, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. There is a snack bar and they can buy Doritos if they bring 65 cents. She has a history of not eating the Cool Ranch Doritos. They used to be her favorite, but her Dad says they have monosodium glutamate in them. He says this can give people headaches, and he must be proud of her for not eating them. She is marvelously disciplined when she insists that she does not eat them, that they give her headaches. She sounds smart when she blames the monosodium glutamate. She can, however, have the Nacho Cheese kind. She read the ingredients list of both flavors of chips in homeroom. The Nacho Cheese kind has monosodium glutamate listed, but it is listed much farther down in the ingredients. “There is a very small amount,” she says; these do not give her headaches.

A bonfire portion of her heart revels in the opportunity to distinguish herself. Another flame ignites at the opportunity to choose between turkey, ham, or peanut butter and jelly. She chooses peanut butter and jelly. Or vegetable. She does not eat turkey or ham. She is proud of this. Her mother does not eat turkey or ham. Or meat. No meat. When she is about 9 her father orders Salmon on a mountain vacation. The area is known for its Salmon, and the father is excited to share this with his daughters. He will connect it to a lesson and take them to the fish hatchery on the drive home. The fish is prepared whole. It is cooked whole, and it is served with the head on. The eyeball, or at least the eye socket is visible. She does not want to eat the fish. The meat is pink and the fish smells funny. It looks scaly and the meat is pink. She does not want to eat the fish. The father in his loving manner encourages her with hints of “you-will-be-a-wimp-if-you-don’t,” and, “make-me-proud,” in his voice. He prepares a bite for her; the little sister dauntingly steps up and tries. “It’s good,” she says, “try it.”

The father prepares another bite. The fish smells. The meat is pink and silver-scaly. The meat is chewy. She runs outside and vomits on the lawn in front of the restaurant. A few vacationers sit in sun chairs and scoff at her production. She wipes her mouth. No one cares. No one comes. She goes back inside and the lodge is warm and scaly. It smells like must and musk and fish. She runs back outside and vomits. She is crying. She walks back inside and no one cares. Her sister tries another bite of fish. The father asks her if she wants another bite. She says she just threw up outside. Nothing happens. The father teases her that she didn’t even try the fish. Her father teases her that she didn’t like the eye. She continues to cry inside.
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The next week she swears off meat. She is a vegetarian. Her mother tells her at dinner that if she is a vegetarian she cannot have fish sticks. A pause. The mother tells her some vegetarians don’t eat meat, but still eat fish. But she hates fish. Fish is the reason she is a vegetarian. She does not want fish sticks. And like that the benefits outweigh the risks. Everyone asks her, “don’t you miss meat ever?” After a few years she learns to entertain adults: “well once I was really really craving a bacon cheeseburger. It was so bad I swear I actually was looking around my house for change. I was ready to bike all the way to MacDonald’s!” her story ends there because she never did crave a bacon cheeseburger and she never did bike to MacDonald’s. However, this point in the story earns the approval she desires. Delight. She makes a mental note to remember to crave a bacon cheeseburger – or at least a cheeseburger – when she is at home sometime so she can at least look for change to bike to MacDonald’s.
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She deserves this. She has earned this. Es muss sein! She always chooses the peanut butter and jelly or vegetarian sandwich lunch. A flicker of glee ignites and she subtly separates herself from the rest. “I don’t eat meat. I mean animals are nice, but I just don’t like how it tastes. I get sick when I eat it, because I am so sensitive. I am so special,” she explains happily.

The pool party play day at the community center is on a Thursday. She dreads it all week. Sometimes on Thursday mornings the father drives her to school; this Thursday is one of those mornings. She has privacy in her room during her time to get ready. She cannot get ready. Clothes do not jump out at her when she looks into the closet. She feels sick to her stomach. A grapefruit lump of dread pops up in her throat, and in her stomach, and in her heart. She cannot breathe. She is sick. She is sick! Es muss sein! She cannot go to the pool party play day. She is sick! She is sick! She won’t be missing any school. Her father is kind, and he will believe her since she will not be missing any school. She slumps and weakens her voice. She limps her face. She calls out “Dad” once or twice. The call is long but she yells it in a whisper. She trots downstairs. “Dad. I don’t feel well,” she says, “my stomach really hurts.” She holds her stomach with both hands.

Her forehead is not hot; her hands are not clammy. Most importantly, her eyes still shine in spite of themselves. This is a medical man. She is clearly not sick. The father says, “why don’t you lay don’t for a little bit and maybe you will feel better when it is time to go to school.”

She retreats upstairs and figures the time before she can trot back downstairs. “Dad. I still feel sick,” she says and holds her stomach with both hands. “I think I might throw up.”

“Naw,” he says. His voice is nice. There are hints of “come-on-now-be-honest,” “be-a-good-girl,” “it’s-okay-but-you’re-not-sick, come-on-now,” in his voice. “What’s wrong? Do you have a test? Do you want me to help you study?”

“I won’t even be missing anything,” she says. “We have a field trip at the community center all day,” she says, “so I can’t go to the nurse if I try to go and feel sick.”

“Oh-come-on-now,” he pulls her in. She cries.

“I have armpit hair and the kids will make fun of me,” she says. She is antsy and jumps up and down like she used to do when she had to go to the bathroom really bad.

He offers to teach her how to shave her underarms. She already knows how. Did she shave them this morning? She did. Well what’s the problem? “They’ll still know. No one else has any and they’ll see and make fun of me. Please, please don’t make me go.” Her speech is fast and she is pleading.
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