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say, turning to meet her eyes. “I’ve got to see Howdy. He needs me. I don’t want what happened to Tink—”
    “I know you’re disappointed.”
    “Mama, please. I promised. I don’t think Howdy recognized me yesterday. If I don’t see him today, he’s going to forget me.”
    “That cat surely knows you. He’s just going through an adjustment period,” she says, covering my red arms with white.
    Daddy enters, bearing a tall glass of water with extra ice, just like I like it. “Tell you what,” he says. “How about if I check in on Howdy tomorrow?”
    Daddy knew I’d be worried. “Thank you,” I say.
    “You look all tuckered out, Peggy Sue,” says Mama. “Let me fix you a plate and then you can take a nice long nap.”
    Warm smells from Mama’s smothered chicken permeate our house. Usually, that starts my mouth watering. But not today. All that candy has turnedin my stomach. “I’m still full from breakfast.”
    I lay on top of my bed. Mama covers me with an extra sheet and tiptoes out of the room. I’ll just rest for a few minutes. Then she’ll see that I’m good to go and we’ll visit Howdy after all.
    But I sleep until Mama wakes me for supper and more lotion. I sip water and eat a few bites of chicken and fruit salad.
    At midnight, her cold compresses warm against my skin.
    “I hurt everywhere, Mama. Even my ears.”
    “I’m so sorry, Peggy Sue, but it’s going to be okay. Unfortunately, it may get worse before it gets better.”

Still Burning
    I’M SWEAT-STUCK to the backseat of the car idling in front of school Monday morning and all prickly on the inside.
    “You’ll feel better if you socialize,” says Mama.
    Only if I were in Gladiola.
    Before breakfast, I heard her tell Daddy that I can’t stay at the house all day by myself. She’s going to the doctor and a newcomers’ club meeting.
    “Go get ’em, tiger,” Daddy says. “I won’t forget to tell Howdy you said hi.”
    “Thank you.”
    More sweat collects at the back of my legs, travels to my ankles, and sneaks under my arches. I am a living puddle.
    I’m delaying the pain. Fast or slow, it hurts to move. I should get out now, get it over with.
    “Bye,” I say, propel myself forward, and release thesuction from my back
riiip-pop
. I grit my teeth, swing my legs out the door, and stand. I think I still have all my skin.
    Even though I’m wearing my lightest, softest outfit—an old pink seersucker sundress—it feels like soggy sandpaper against my skin. I’m both hot and cold.
    Everyone cringes when they see me walk up.
    Laughs.
    Okay, just one girl laughs.
    “Leper,” she says.

Sour Pineapple
    “LISTEN TO THIS,” says Kiki to the girls at the machine next to us at the beginning of class. She slides her chair closer. “This haole’s mother was yelling at the grocery man yesterday when she was picking out a pineapple. I knew it was her because she was tall and had a funny kind of accent like hers.”
    My face grows hotter.
    Mama had fixed a fruit salad with oranges, cherries, and marshmallows last night. Usually, she added pineapple. It might have been her.
    “Plus,” says Kiki, “the grocer called her Mrs. Bennett. I’m telling you, she was giving the guy a hard time. She was really huhu.”
    It was her, all right.
    If Kiki’s trying to embarrass me, it’s working.
    “Um, Kiki,” I say.
    “Don’t interrupt me, haole leper,” she says, andturns her back to me. “The lady held a pine in her hand and said, ‘You told me this was ripe. I cut into it at home and look. It’s practically white and very sour.’ Everybody in that part of the store turned their grocery carts around to get out of her way. The produce guy was turning red.”
    “Was she wearing sunglasses?” I ask.
    Kiki whips her head around. “No, and I told you,” she says, “stop interrupting. I’m getting to the good part about me.”
    Kiki tugs on the bottom of her blouse and returns to her friends. “I know him, the grocer,”