Story Snippet #3

   Hello, hello, hello! I am back, with the third snippet I'll be sharing from Going Ballistic. This time, it is beginning at the second chapter. As usual, please don't copy any of it. Enjoy!!

Chapter Two

   I woke the following morning with a headache. At first, I figured it was because I’d just woken up and had a stuffy head from sleeping. But as I sat up, I realized it was much worse than that. The dull ache exploded into an all-out war inside my skull. I felt like someone had dropped a nuclear bomb on my head and somehow my brain absorbed all its energy. 

   Groaning, I rolled out of bed and hurried to my bathroom. Leaning into the mirror, I pressed a hand to my forehead. Not only did my face look warm and flushed, but I also felt hot. I quickly drew my palm away from my head and stared at the short, quivering brown-haired boy staring back at me. I just knew it. I’m allergic to monkeys.

   That must be it. I felt fine yesterday. But last night, I had started to feel a bit queasy whenever I was forced to be around Ballistic. I had brushed off my growing concern, telling myself I probably just had a mild case of food poisoning or maybe dehydration. But when I crept into bed last night, the queasiness had settled in my stomach and slowly morphed into a horrible gnawing on the inside of my belly. Never had it occurred to me that I just might be allergic to the very thing we --well, Mom, Dad, and Emm, that is, not me-- had welcomed into our home.

   Now I took one look into my mirror and began to panic. I was overheating due to an allergic reaction to Ballistic! Hurriedly switching my faucet on to its coldest, I cupped my hands under the stream of water and gulped it down, not caring that I wasn’t drinking filtered tap water from the kitchen. The only result I got was shortness of breath and a strange clogging in my throat. Gasping, I yanked my head back up and allowed the excess water to spew from my mouth into the bathroom sink. I examined my face in the mirror and found, to my horror, that the flush in my cheeks had not gone away. I slapped a dripping wet hand to my forehead. I planned to feel it to see if it was still hot and was rewarded instead with a heavenly coolness that radiated from my hand all the way down to my neck. Oh wait . . that was because the water was sliding down my face to my chest in little rivulets, soaking my nightshirt.

   Swiping at the water, I rushed back into my bedroom and began to dress. 

   I’d better tell Mom about my allergy to Ballistic as soon as possible. Maybe we can get him out of the house today . . . before I get so bad I can’t breathe or something, I told myself, pulling on the lightest T-shirt I owned. Then I meticulously combed my hair off to the side before dashing out of the bedroom and closing the door with a bang. By this time, I was breathing hard, and I felt hotter than ever. Plus, now I could feel my sweat mixing with the water still on my damp neck. 

   “Slow down,” I chided myself, remembering my tendency to hyperventilate. “You wouldn’t want to pass out before you have a chance to tell Mom about the issue.” But the thought of me fainting increased my pace, and also my heart rate.

   I hurried into the kitchen, where Mom was slapping the traditional Saturday morning pancakes onto the hot griddle. “Mom!” I croaked.

   She turned to see what was the matter, and as soon as she caught sight of her distraught, quivering son, her jaw dropped. Plunking the spatula onto the counter, she rushed over to me. “What on earth?”

   Grabbing my arm, she propelled me to the dining table and forced me to sit down in one of the chairs. “Jimmy, what in the world is wrong?” She raised her pleasantly cool hand to my burning forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

   “No!” I garbled, shaking my sweaty head. “I’m al-geric to Bastillic!”

   Mom looked like she’d swallowed a frog. “You’re what?”

   “I’m allergic to Ballistic!” I said, clearly this time. “I woke up with a headache and I was hot, and I’m sure it is from Ballistic. I should’ve known I was allergic to monkeys!”

   A smile crept across Mom’s face. She turned away, apparently trying to hide the fact that she wanted to laugh at me. Of course. Only Mom took me seriously, but occasionally, it seemed she would forget my sensitivity to . . . well, everything.

   “Mom, it’s not funny!” I exclaimed, slapping a hand onto the table. “Do you think I’m making it up?”

  Mom whirled back around, a grin playing on her lips. “Jimmy,” she said gently, sliding an arm around my back and making me stand up, “You are right. You might be sick. But I doubt it is from an allergy to Ballistic. Why would you be allergic to monkeys?”

   Her common sense helped me to calm down. I took a deep breath. “If it’s not Ballistic, then why have I suddenly gotten sick the day after he moved in?” 

   “I don’t know. You probably picked it up from school,” she replied, massaging my back with her knuckles. “If you really are that bad, you’d better go back to bed.” 

   Now that I was out of bed, I didn’t want to get back in! Maybe . . . maybe I wasn’t sick after all? 

“Actually,” I said, trying to forget the fact that a few seconds ago I was in hysterics, “maybe I’m okay. You’re right; it’s probably not the monkey.”

   “Oh no, you don’t,” Mom answered, serious again. “You’re not sick from the monkey, but you’ve caught something, nonetheless.” She pressed her hand to my forehead, cheeks, and then neck. Then she turned and scurried down the hall. “Watch the pancakes!” She called over her shoulder. 

   She returned holding a small red container. She pulled out a thin glass stick. “You need to take your temperature.” She handed the thermometer to me.

  I took it gingerly. Well, here goes.

Signed,

Martha