the overhead light snapped on and my shoulder got one quick shake. Pupkin, who hated the morning wars, jumped off my bed, leaving a cold spot. He followed Mom, his toenails clicking down the hall.

I grabbed a moment of peace until my mother returned to poke me in the ribs in a totally obnoxious way that started the hate stirring. Was that any way to begin a day, with stirring hate and the light burning through my eyelids?

But that's Mom's style, a series of quick, hostile advances, retreats, and repeats to annoy her victim into wakefulness, like a human mosquito. I had to sleep braced for the next attack. And there she was, yanking off my blankets. Hey!

With swearing from me, ragging from Mom, and snarling from both of us, I stumbled to the shower. What was left of the hot water felt great, but then it was gone, thanks to my little brother, Max.

I wiped the steam off the mirror, to see what needed plucking or squeezing, trying to see myself through Jared Peterson's incredible baby-blue eyes. But something looked weird.

I wrapped myself in a towel and called, "Mom!"

"What?"

"Come here."

"Can't now. What?"

"No, really. Look."

She came, grumbling, "You're late again, and there's no way I've got time to drive you. You'll just have to —"

I cut her off and pointed to the mirror. She glanced at my reflection, cloudy with steam.

"Look at my neck; my glands are still sticking out. That flu was ages ago."

She peered closer at the mirror, then at me. "I'll call Dr. Posner, see if he can fit you in today. Now get dressed and get going. It's almost seven." Then she went back to the kitchen to yell at my brother for something.

second hour I was in Drama class. A girl, Nina, was reading her sonnet with way too much emotion. I was drawing a picture of her for my friend Kay, who couldn't draw worth shit and thought every doodle I doodled was brilliant.

Just as I was putting sweat beads on Nina's brow, a voice came through the speaker telling Ms. Blaire to send me to the office with my belongings.

Nina crossed her arms in a huff at the interruption. She tapped her foot in irritation as I shut my notebook and slid it into my backpack. I was tempted to move in extra slow motion just to see how many times I could get her to roll her eyes.

Kay mouthed the question, "Where're you going?"

I shrugged. Half the time when kids were pulled out of class it was to go to the orthodontist. The other half was because their grandparents had died. But I didn't have braces or grandparents.

My mom was in the office, signing me out. I saw her write doctor's appointment and I remembered my swollen glands. I touched my neck — they were still there. Good! If the doctor's office was crowded enough, this could eat up half the day.

In the car, Mom asked the usual: "How was school?"

"Fabulous."

She perked up. "Really?"

"It sucked, Mom. It always sucks."

"Please don't use that word."

"Which word?"

Mom sighed.

Traffic stopped to let a fat woman wearing a green garbage bag push her shopping cart across the street. It was hot out and she must've been sweltering in that outfit, plus the asphalt had to be hell on her bare feet. Someone leaned on his horn to either speed the bag lady up or encourage the guy who'd stopped for her to run her down.

"Butt-wad," I murmured.

Mom looked at me, then looked closer. "I wish you'd worn a nicer shirt," she said. She reached over to scrape some breakfast off my sleeve. If I'd let her, she would've scrubbed it with her spit.

Then we were in Posner's waiting room with a little kid throwing a very impressive tantrum. His mom's solution was to keep pointing at the aquarium, saying "See the pretty fishies?" in a very high, very irritating, very fake voice.

Why do people squeak like that at children? Is there some scientific reason? Or is it just to make sure that all kids grow up to despise and distrust their elders?

Another woman was nursing what appeared to be a blanket. There were a lot of sloppy, slurpy noises.

I was definitely too old to be there. The whole waiting room was full of baby stuff and Highlights magazines and chewed-up Dr. Seuss books.

I'd left my notebook and everything in the car, or I might have done a drawing of that weird wire thing with the colored beads, which exists only in doctors' waiting rooms. I wondered what was supposed to be fun about it. All I'd ever wanted to do was get the beads off the damn thing so I could play with them. Maybe that toy — if you can even call it a toy — was meant to teach frustration and hopelessness. Hey, kids! Feeling sick? Scared of the doctor? Well, here are some beads you can't have! Ha-ha!

Mom was chatting up the nursing mother. Why she always has to do that, I do not know. Mom was telling her something insanely boring about my infancy, or my brother's, and I practically wished I was back in school — but not quite.

Then Dora, who I actually didn't hate, took us to examining room 4. She asked me why I was there. Mom answered, "Swollen glands."

Dora asked if I'd had a sore throat or fever. Mom said no.

Dora asked me how long my glands had been swollen, and if they hurt. Mom answered the best she could.

Dora told me to hop up on the examining table. I half expected Mom to jump up there for me.

Dora said the doctor would be with us soon, but I didn't hold it against her for lying. Maybe she was an optimist and really believed that this time, Dr. Posner would make it into the room before I died of boredom.

Mom pointed to the baby scale, like she always does, and told me I used to hate being weighed.

I said, "I know."

She looked at the Sesame Street books, and I knew she wished I'd sit on her lap and let her read one to me.

"Do you think I'll get a shot?" I asked. I hated shots. The worst part about a shot was the idea of a shot, but knowing that the worst part was the idea didn't make the idea any less horrible.

"Oh, Izzy, shots aren't so bad," Mom said. "Stings for a second, then it's over."

She wasn't going to get anyone to sit on her lap and listen to Big Bird stories with that kind of sympathy.

The crinkly paper on the examining table stuck to my thighs. I asked Mom if she thought they recycled it. "You figure they roll out a fresh three or four feet for each patient," I said. "That's a lot of paper. They could donate it to schools for art projects."

Mom wrinkled her nose. "That wouldn't be very sanitary," she said.

I nodded. "You're right. There'd be skid marks from all those itty-bitty ass holes."

"Don't swear, Izzy, please," Mom said automatically.

Many years later, Dr. Posner came in and made a few lame jokes, which Mom laughed at, not because they were funny, but so Posner would doctor me well. Then he asked why I was there.

I wondered if Dora knew that he paid zero attention to the notes she took, day after day, patient after patient.

As soon as he had re-asked all Dora's questions, he felt my neck. "It's probably mononucleosis. Or, as it's commonly called," he told us commoners, "mono. But we'll have Dora take a TB test for good measure. Then I'd like you to run across the street to the hospital for a chest X-ray."

Hmmm. My pediatrician was suggesting that I run...