The Rule of Threes, Marcy Campbell [short novels to read .TXT] 📗

was just a rumor. I’d also heard Mr. V was going to give all the students a vacation day if everybody voted in the contest, but that was probably a rumor, too; it seemed too good to be true.

Mrs. Sherman had short, gray hair, which seemed grandma-ish, but she also had a nose ring, which did not. I sure couldn’t picture my grandma with a nose ring. I was pretty sure she’d just stick to scarves as a fashion statement.

“I’ve got a bad headache,” I said, rubbing my forehead.

“Have a seat,” she said. She pointed to a green, cushioned table just inside another room. Like the principal’s office, the nurse’s office had its own divided space: one outer room with her desk and a filing cabinet, and another room with an exam table and tall supply cabinet. I expected it to smell like a doctor’s office, but all it smelled like was coffee. There was a big mug of it on her desk.

“I’m going to get you a glass of water,” Mrs. Sherman said.

She went bustling out of the room just as the phone rang, and I heard her talking to someone about flu shots. The call got increasingly tense, at least what I could hear of it. “It’s only available that one day . . . well, I really can’t . . . you don’t need to use that language with me . . .”

I heard her hang up the phone, then she came back in and handed me a glass of water. “Sorry about that,” she said. She pushed her hair off her forehead and let out an exasperated sigh. “Seems like everybody wants something from me today, and the day hasn’t barely started yet.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Have you eaten breakfast?”

“Not much,” I answered, remembering my half a Pop-Tart.

“Let me get you some crackers.”

She opened the army-green metal cabinet on the wall and started shoving things around. I saw a roll of gauze and some of those ice packs you smack against something to make them cold. There were several pink bottles of Pepto-Bismol, but next to those, something caught my eye—a white box with red letters and a picture of a bottle shaped like the allergy spray my mom squirted up her nose on heavy pollen days like today. I’d seen her using it this morning. NARCAN was written on the box in all caps.

I pointed. “Have you ever used that?”

“That? Goodness no,” Mrs. Sherman said, pulling out a basket full of packaged saltines. “Here they are.” She handed me a pack and closed the cabinet. “Drink all that water,” she said. “Lots of headaches are caused by dehydration, you know.”

I nodded and nibbled a cracker. The other cracker in the pack was crunched to bits. All those little white cracker flakes in the bottom of the bag unfortunately reminded me again of my broken shell, and Tony. Just the thought of our argument made my head throb even more. I wished at that moment he were an exchange student. Then there would be a set date for his departure.

“Do you have any Tylenol?” I asked.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Sherman said. She patted my knee. “I can’t give you any medicine, hon, even over-the-counter stuff, not without a parent’s written permission. Your parents would have to come down here and sign a form.”

She leaned against the table and rolled her eyes. “I know, I know,” she continued, though I hadn’t said anything. “If they’re going to come down here and fill out a form, they might as well give you some Tylenol themselves. Or take you home.” She rested a warm hand on my shoulder. “Is there anything else I can help you with? Anything you want to talk about?”

Suddenly, all my anxieties and worries, every issue, big and small, that had been jamming up my brain at night while I tried to sleep, came rushing into that spot behind my eyes where the headache was. Maybe that was why it hurt. I opened my mouth, but didn’t know where to start.

Mrs. Sherman tilted her head. “I’m not a psychologist or anything, but people have said I’m a good listener.”

She looked at me with these big puppy-dog eyes, like she couldn’t wait for me to spill my guts. It felt weird. I started noticing how uncomfortable I was on the hard table. The tag in my shirt was scratching the back of my neck, and I was way too warm. I felt myself shut down.

I took a big swig of water. “Thank you, but . . . I think this water is working already. I think I was just dehydrated.”

“Whatever you say,” she said and gave my knee another pat.

I could tell I’d disappointed her. It seemed clear she actually enjoyed talking with kids about their problems, and she could tell I had some problems to talk about. In fact, the only thing that looked more disappointed than her face was this room. The whole place was so industrial-looking, the walls a pea green that looked like the soup Olive’s brother was allergic to. There was no art, just a poster on how to give the Heimlich maneuver.

Maybe when the Spirit Week contest was over, I’d give this place a redo, just for fun.

Why not? It wasn’t so different from doing the outer office. This was just another outer office on a smaller scale. I couldn’t get it done in time for the judging, and Mr. V probably wouldn’t let us have two entries anyway, but maybe I could get started. Talk about school spirit! What was more spirited than going above and beyond the contest just to do something nice for a nice person?

“Have you thought about redecorating in here?” I asked, following Mrs. Sherman back to the main room.

She laughed loudly. “What, you don’t like my artwork?” Besides the Heimlich poster, the only “art” was a diagram on an easel about how to properly blow your nose so you wouldn’t spread germs.

She stopped laughing when she saw I wasn’t. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I’m