I think about dying a lot these days.<\/p>\n
But mostly that my crush Sheila might catch me dying. I once heard her tell another teacher that the sensitive boys are her favorite, though I don\u2019t think that means sick boys.<\/p>\n
When I was ten, the doctor told me I had asthma. I\u2019d been jumping on the old mattress in my best friend Jamal\u2019s basement, because neither of our parents would buy us a trampoline, when my lungs gave out. As flimsily as the dust clouds that had filled the air. That\u2019s why I had to sit on the doctor\u2019s crunchy-paper table, breathing in and out of a loud, crinkly plastic accordion, while he pointed to an x-ray of white branches. He called them broccoli or bronchi or something. It reminded me of the decision trees I\u2019d learned about in math that week, and I pondered all the ways this asthma thing could go. I already had to walk a part of the mile run while the other boys, and even some girls, lapped me. The doctor folded the accordion up, crunching like a bag of chips, and pressed it into my palm. Not to worry, he said, most kids grow out of it.<\/p>\n
Well, I\u2019m eleven now and I\u2019ve grown two inches. And I still have asthma and the stupid inhaler.<\/p>\n
The thing is, it\u2019s only gotten worse. The asthma, yes, but also the fact that I have to worry about Sheila now. I doubt she\u2019s noticed me much yet, it\u2019s only been three weeks of the fifth grade. But I\u2019m not really setting myself up for success here because I\u2019ve already had five asthma attacks in class. I know exactly when it\u2019s about to happen. It starts in the back of my throat, like I swallowed a wood chip and can\u2019t get it out\u2014no matter how much saliva I suck down or how much I cough it out. I do try to quiet-cough into my shirt first, so I don\u2019t worry Sheila. The dry wood chip, though, it keeps cutting off more air as it works its way into my lungs and my eyes begin to water. They\u2019re not real tears. I know sensitive boys cry, but I just don’t want Sheila to think I\u2019m too emotional. This is, however, the point at which I wonder if I really am dying, and I\u2019ll admit, that thought usually makes my eyes water for real.<\/p>\n
So I have a decision to make. I know I should pull out the plastic accordion inhaler, let it inflate and collapse like my own reputation in front of Sheila. But instead, I raise my hand, squeak the word \u201cbathroom\u201d with whatever air I have left, and run into the hallway until I can use my stupid inhaler where there\u2019s no one around.<\/p>\n
The third time this happened, Jamal asked if I\u2019m really not making this more of a problem than it needs to be. Because he\u2019s my best friend, he tries to turn this into a good thing and says maybe I could make it seem cool, like I\u2019m smoking the inhaler. But I don\u2019t know, we just finished D.A.R.E., and Sheila seemed pretty into it.<\/p>\n
The last time I had an attack, I didn\u2019t make it out of the classroom though. I fell out of my chair just as my eyes started to water. And the only thing I could see clearly as the room got blurrier was Sheila\u2019s face directly above mine. Oh honey, we\u2019ve got to get you to the nurse, I heard her say. I felt my head nod yes, but really what mattered was that it was just me and Sheila. Her long hair fell over her shoulders and brushed my cheeks. I wondered if she might bend down and go mouth-to-mouth on me if I let out a few more gasps. She was already so close to my face that I could smell sweet strawberries on her skin and mentally noted: strawberry lotion for Teacher Appreciation Week. She\u2019d like that. She deserved it. She\u2019d left her important job at the whiteboard and turned away from the rest of the class to be with me. It wasn\u2019t exactly how I imagined our first solo encounter, but my decision became clear.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t know how many more inches I have to grow until I grow out of my asthma. And until I do, these attacks are going to keep happening. I used to wonder why I couldn\u2019t be dying in the living room where it\u2019s just my parents, or the backyard where it\u2019s just my dog, or the doctor\u2019s office where it\u2019s just my doctor, or at Jamal\u2019s house where it\u2019s just Jamal. But I am a sensitive boy now, a romantic.<\/p>\n
The next time, it might not be so bad if it is Sheila who catches me dying. At least, I\u2019ll leave an impression.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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