Dear Opl (5 page)

After school let out, I walked the five blocks down our old-fashioned Main Street to the pediatrician's office I'd been visiting my entire thirteen years of life. I knew the two nurses, I knew the receptionist, and I'd known Dr. Killer for probably a few more seconds than I'd known Mom. All known, all knowing, and no surprises. A new doctor was like a pop quiz—suddenly your heart bams up against your rib cage and your sweat glands release the floodgates.

Would this Dr. Beth woman wear something theme related the way Dr. Killer had done? I guess he'd thought dressing like a cast member from the circus would distract from his poking and prodding. Or maybe he'd left because the Ringling brothers finally offered him a job.

I waited in the examining room on the long slab of crinkly paper, legs swinging wildly, and gazed at the whales, octopi, and other sea creatures stenciled onto the walls. I should have brought my snorkel. Except the room did not smell at all like the seashore. More like the stinging, bleachy scent of our neighborhood pool after too many little kids had peed in it. And this reminded me that I had to use the bathroom.

Three soft knocks on the door must have been the magic code to get it to swing open. A young woman with thick, black rectangular frames surrounding her speckled, brown eyes sailed into the room. I caught a quick peek at her face before she ducked down into my medical folder. “Opal Oppenheimer, right? Have I said that correctly?”

I shrugged. I wasn't going to be too helpful. She'd order something with a needle in it sooner or later.

She flipped over the page in front of her. My weight and height graph. She sat down in Dr. Killer's squeaky wheelie chair and rolled in front of me. “It's nice to meet you. I'm Beth Friedman. You can call me Beth.” She put out her hand to shake mine.

I looked at her. Where was the all-important
Doctor
bit? Was she truly a doctor? She looked like she should be my babysitter. I shook her hand. “Hi,” I said. She had no gimmicky clothing. Just faded green scrubs under her white lab coat.

Her skin wrinkled in the forehead area. She leaned back in her chair and took off her chunky glasses. “You remind me of a girl I saw in a movie once.”

I nodded. “Little Miss Sunshine,” I said. I'd heard that before. I'd not been allowed to see it yet. Maybe she swore a lot in the film. Or got naked. How horrible. I would never do that. I won't even look at myself naked in my bathroom mirror, so I can't imagine allowing millions of moviegoers to take a crack at it first. “Are you going to tell me I'm fat?”

“Well, actually I was about to say that movie makes my all-time favorites list because of the girl. Do you ask everyone you just meet that question?” She looked at me with a little twinkle in her eye. Or maybe it was a piece of dirt.

“No. But I thought you'd want to get down to business like my other doctor did. He always asked questions and never listened to the answers. I heard the same ones each visit. Ten in all. I'd most often answer the first two, like ‘How are you?' and ‘How's school?' But then, when I knew he'd already tuned me out, I changed things up a bit.”

The dirt must have still been in her eye, except that she smiled along with the squint. “How?”

I leaned back on the wrinkled paper. “Like when he asked about my little brother, I told him that because we were low on cash, Mom had sold him on the black market. And now he worked in a Mexican sweatshop for a man named the Big Tamale. Or when he asked about my latest hobbies, I'd said I liked to iron and I'd started growing my own furniture.”

Beth pressed her lips together, but her eyes stayed wrinkly. “I like your style, kiddo.”

“Do you mean my talent to lie or this particular big, fat fib?”

“The latter. The former will get you some serious black marks one day, but if you're prepared to take the heat, then I think you've got a future in politics.”

“Great,” I said. “Then maybe I can change the law regarding the criminal behavior taking place in our school's cafeteria.”

“What's going on?” No crinkle this time, but her eyebrows skyrocketed northward.

“No fun food.”

“Describe fun food.”

I sighed. “You know, doughnuts, potato chips, soda, chocolate. That sort of thing.”

She nodded. “Ah yes, fun food. It's nice to have those once in a while.”

“I find once in a while doesn't cut it.”

She leaned back in that squeaky chair. “No? How come?”

“Well, they make me feel better. They kinda soften most of my problems.”

“What sorts of problems are you having?”

I rolled my eyes. “I have to pee all the time. I'm so tired, I'd give my left lung to stay in bed most days. And things are super prickly at home.”

Beth put my chart down on the desk and shook her head. “I've been hearing that a lot lately.”

“Really?”

“Yup. You'd be surprised to know how many kids come through our doors wrestling with these very same things.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Is there some sort of injection you give as a treatment?”

“Nope. But there are plenty of things that can help. I've got a few you might want to consider.”

I kept my eyes in the narrowed position and didn't respond.

“Let me guess. When you go into a slump and want to escape, I bet you feel like zoning out in front of the tube, eating a pile of junk food, and crawling beneath the covers. And chances are you don't want to come out from beneath them, right?”

I nodded an inch.

She shrugged. “We all get like that sometimes. But you might be surprised to know about something that can reverse those feelings. A little exercise.”

“I hate sports. I'm no good at them, so cross that off your list.”

“Exercise isn't just athletics, Opal. I'm just talking about getting your body moving. And moving produces endorphins. I call these happy hormones. They make us feel good again.”

“It's hard to feel good in my house.”

“Why?”

“Well, according to my mom, I need to lose weight. She hates that I'm fat.” My face pinched into its perfected Sour Patch Kids mold.

Beth shook her head. “I'm not so fond of that word. It's quite the zinger to one's confidence.”

“Well, she's
confident
I'm fat—and
confident
she wants me skinny.”

She chewed on her lip for a second. “Are you sure your mom wants you to be skinny or just take off some weight and become healthier?”

“She's clipping out pictures of models who would put a sapling to shame.”

Beth nodded her head.

“Diet food fills up the shelves in our house. Diet cookies, diet cake, diet ice cream, diet candy. And they don't taste half-bad, but they're not doing anything. She wants you to fix it.”

Beth chuckled. “I can't fix it, Opal, but I can help you. You're the only one in charge here. You're the one who's going to make the changes that will produce some results.”

I grunted. “I've had lots of change lately. None of it's been good in the result department.”

She glanced back at my chart and nodded. “I agree, some changes are unwelcome ones, but what I have in mind might help out a little. Like I said, moving your body around will be a good start.” She put up a hand to stop me from objecting. “Now I'm not talking about joining the track team. Just hear me out. It sounds like you could use something for both your body and your mind. Have you heard of yoga?”

My face went back into scrunch mode. “Yoga? Sure, but isn't it more like a religion?”

Beth smiled and showed her tiny white teeth. They looked like a row of Tic Tacs. “Not entirely. It's more like an individual practice, although you often do it in a class with other students. But it's not competitive. It's not a sport. Everyone works on their own bodies and minds.”

“How can you work on your mind? It sounds too much like school.”

Beth shook her head. “Not at all. It's more an attitude about life. You might enjoy it.”

I wasn't so sure. Being taught an attitude sounded about as fun and fast as chiseling a statue of myself out of rock. And with nothing more than a soup spoon. It might be quicker to have a shot. I needed a speedy cure. “Where is this yoga?”

Beth looked at her watch and got up, warming her stethoscope with her breath. She started the official exam. “There's a studio not far from here. I'll give your mom the address.”

“Are we almost done?” She checked inside my ears but wasn't digging in quite as far as Dr. Killer used to. He always went in up to his elbow.

“Right after you pee in a cup.”

I reeled. “Pee in a cup?”

“Uh-huh,” she mumbled, finishing up the search in my ears. “And tomorrow morning, jump back in here before school, before you have any breakfast, and we'll draw a little blood.”

“What? How come? Nurses usually just poke me with a needle to put stuff in, not take it away.”

Beth put a warm hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, kiddo. I know it's not very pleasant, but we need to check out a few things. You can't eat for eight hours before we take the blood sample, so promise me you'll pack your breakfast and eat it
after
the visit. It'll just take a second. And when I get the results back, I'll have a conversation with your mom about the icky diet foods she's asking you to eat.”

I panicked a little. “You're not going to ask her to get rid of everything are you? Because I
need
food. I'm hungry all the time.”

Beth gave my hand a soft squeeze. “No, honey. Not everything. But there are much better alternatives to what you have right now. Plus, I'm not so sure it's food you're actually hungry for.”

My mood was like a droopy balloon but puffed up a tiny bit when I heard that. No more diet food. Fabeedodah. Still, I hadn't wanted to end my day peeing in a cup and knowing one of the vampire nurses would soon suck my blood out. Not that I couldn't supply them with plenty of the first one. I'd been sitting cross-legged for the last twenty minutes, desperate for relief. I would find mood relief at home. I'd have to check my supply of Oreos. Those guys will surely make this big ol' blimp of blues float a little higher.

• • •

Daisychaingirl:
Dear Opl,

The guy who sits next to me in homeroom makes my life miserable. He's constantly passing gas—on purpose! I swear this isn't a situation where he has some sort of health problem. The guy actually does it on command and then laughs about it. He's horrible! I figured since you posted a lot about school, you might have a good way of dealing with this.

Fed up with farts,

Daisychaingirl

I sat back against the pillows propped up on my bed's headboard and nibbled on a fingernail. I hadn't expected anyone to write me for advice. This was tricky. What did I know about other people's problems? I wasn't a therapist, I thought to myself. But I suppose it was nice to know I wasn't the only one with a daily can of worms.

I scribbled a few notes on a piece of paper, Googled a few things, and went to work writing my response. After an hour, I scrolled up to reread my reply.

Dear Daisy,

This situation “reeks” of deception. Most of the boys in my class are totally fascinated with every bodily noise they can pump out, and the ability to butt bark at a moment's notice has probably earned the creep a big bonus with the rest of the guys.

Just out of curiosity, I did a little research. I found out that the average person creates about half a liter of colon cologne each day. Also, fartrogen dioxide has been clocked at speeds of around seven mph. I even found out that the Roman Emperor Claudius once passed an edict making farting legal at banquets. (That is so gross.)

Sadly, no one can put a ban on intentional flatulence.

Might he be trying to get your attention? Maybe he wants you to notice him and doesn't realize that his methods are backfiring. (No pun intended.)

How about you place a portable air freshener on the corner of your desk closest to him? If he doesn't take the hint, then squirt him with a spray bottle full of water on stream. That's what we do with our hairy hound when he sits beneath the kitchen table releasing his potent canine fumes. Even if it doesn't stop him, at least he'll get up to go do it somewhere else.

Sometimes you just have to find the right language to make an impact.

Good luck,

Opl

I pressed Publish and nearly shut my laptop when I remembered Summer's suggestion about looking up this clothingless cook. My stomach squinched just thinking about it. I didn't want this flashy froufrou change in our lunch program. It was fine the way it was.

I typed in Wikipedia and discovered several things. Firstly, I'm guessing the photographer, to my great relief, must have insisted this guy put on some clothes. Maybe it's Wikipedia's rule because kids use the site for researching their homework. Secondly, this guy has worked a lot. In fact, all around the world. He's a super-famous chef. I can't believe there are so many people who want to eat food cooked by a naked person. I bet he travels light.