Memory of Erica Young

I'm just checking to see if this new account will allow me to post. It's just another sample from today's writing prompt (see previous post).

First grade. One particular afternoon, after I had packed the remains of a smooshed PB and J back into my metal Empire Strikes Back lunchbox, Mrs. Latch had us push back our desks so there was room to do “Mousercise.” This was back when Jazzercise was fast becoming popular and I guess, we were doing the Disney version to songs from The Jungle Book and other favorites. I hated it with a passion. There are very few times when I have felt like a complete idiot in school. This was one of them. But this story is not about Mousercise or Mrs. Latch or me. It’s about Erica Young and what happened after Mousercise on that particularly muggy Arkansas afternoon.

You see, after we returned our desks to their original positions, we were supposed to read independently for a few minutes. I sat on the far side of the classroom, the opposite corner from the teacher’s desk. Since it was my favorite at the time, I think I was reading Where the Wild Things Are. Most of the details are a little hazy. However, I have one vivid memory of that day.

I looked up from my book, toward the teacher’s desk in search of a tissue. In my line of sight, right in the middle of the room, sat Erica Young. And when I saw her, I held my breath and the world slipped into slow motion. Now, before you make any assumptions, Erica was not my first grade crush. She was way too skinny—skeletonesque would be more accurate, with sunken eyes, and on a good day, you would describe her as undernourished. Her long, dark tangled hair hid her face most days. Erica hardly dared speak a word; in fact, I don’t ever really remember hearing her talk. But on that day, just like most other days, she wore a maroon velvet dress with white lacy trim around the collar and black dress shoes.

I think I remember the details so clearly because on this particular day, Erica’s face was not hidden. In fact it stood out—a pale greenish yellowy sallow color that I didn’t have in my Crayola pack. And then it turned white. And then her mouth opened. Projectile vomit bounced once on her desk, once on the next desk, and then splattered onto the carpet.

Erica didn’t make a sound. Mouth and nose and hair now dripping, she put her head down and sobbed. I had never seen anything like it. It bounced! By the time I remembered to breathe, Mrs. Latch had wiped my classmate’s face free from snot and sick and tears, napkined the remaining chunks from her lap and desk into the trash, and had taken the poor girl down to the office. She didn’t come back for over a week.

And I didn’t even begin to describe the smell.