When I was twelve years old I began the treacherous voyage known as �Middle School�. It was, on the whole, quite traumatic because of the developing of body, mind, and social status which takes place during those tender years. One harrowing episode of my ever-dramatic sixth grade year took place in 6th grade gym class.
Gym class took place after the lunch period. It was normally horrifying just to change into gym clothes, surrounded by seventh and eighth graders in various stages of undress, all of whom had breasts, some of whom were even pregnant. But, on this particular day, I felt extra queasy.
The activity of the moment was basketball. Not an organized game of basketball, but 80 girls in a sweltering, Alabama gymnasium with 25 basketballs between them. I lay on the cool floor of the gym, pitiful and nauseous. My friends couldn�t accept that I was legitimately ill, and insisted on pestering me to get up and play. Then came the fatal mistake.
�If you aren�t going to get up, I am going to hit you in the head with this basketball,� I heard a voice declare. True to her threat, the orange, rubber bomb sailed through the air and collided with the back of my aching cranium.
Immediately, vomit propelled from the nether regions of my stomach onto the gym floor. I clamped my hand over my mouth and began to sprint, hoping to find sanctuary before the next round. All eyes were on me, as discarded basketballs trailed through the throw up, covering the area of the floor. It was all happening so fast; few had enough time to contort their features into an expression of revulsion. In my frantic search I came upon a large, yellow garbage can. I bent over it for relief, only to discover that I had succeeded in soiling some stored physical education equipment. I ran on, continuing the hunt, as vomit continued to spurt from behind my clamped hand. I made it to a bathroom, vomiting once more a few feet in front of the toilet before the attack ceased.
�Candice, it�s time to go,� said a concerned but disgusted voice, arriving upon the scene. I turned to see my cross-eyed gym teacher. Smiling, yet pitying. I shuffled to the locker room and changed out of my puke-soaked t-shirt, then went to the school office to telephone my parents.
My parents couldn�t be reached that day, so I spent the remainder of the school day sitting in the office, clutching a garbage can that I vomited in regularly. It was too bad that there wasn�t a school nurse. Too bad that my parents were both busy at work. Too bad that the janitor gave me the evil-eye as I walked back through the gym where he was busily mopping up some vomit. He couldn�t have known that it was mine.
Wednesday, Mar. 05, 2003 at 7:06 PM
