Today had been a weird day. It was warm, so warm it felt like September, not the first Friday in November. The morning had begun with two kindergarten girls scratching their heads with such frequency during circle time that their teacher sent them down to Peaches’ office. Sure enough, the girls were infested with lice. Half the kindergarten was infested with lice, including three of the teachers, plus the art teacher, the gym teacher, and the parent coordinator, who even had nits in his beard. She’d been so busy combing through hair and sending children home she’d only eaten Cheez-Its for lunch and she felt rotten. Several times during the day Roy Clarke had texted questions pertaining to his book. “What’s another name for ‘anus’?” “Do people get the clap anymore?” And finally, “Do Russian dogs get the rabies vaccine?” Peaches was too busy to respond. At two o’clock Stuart Little’s son came in with a rash and threw up on her floor. Mandy came to pick him up.

“I made clams last night,” she said by way of explanation. “They were in the box, out on the stoop in the sun. Teddy loved them so much Stu and I barely ate any. Guess they were bad?” She looked different. She’d done something to her eyebrows and trimmed her hair and her outfit looked current. Was she still sick? Was she taking new meds?

“You look amazing,” Peaches said jealously while Ted retched on the little cot. “It might be the clams. Or it could be fifth disease. It’s a virus with a fever and a rash. But who knows? I was an English major.”

The two women stared down at Ted.

“Should I take him to the pediatrician?”

Peaches shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe? Or just wait it out.”

Mandy nodded. “It’s Friday anyway.”

She seemed so relaxed, Peaches was envious. After they’d gone, she tried to clean up her office so she wouldn’t come back to a mess of lice combs and vomity paper towels Monday morning. Then Stuart Little himself showed up, skateboard clenched against his side, mouse tattoos stretched tight against his knuckle bones. He looked totally stressed out.

“Ted’s home. Your wife came to get him. He needs rest and rehydration. He’ll be fine very soon.”

Stuart sat on the cot and ran his hands through his hair. This was not the reaction she’d expected.

He blinked wearily at the dirty linoleum floor. “I got all inspired. I started writing kids’ music. Some of it is pretty good, maybe. I started writing a song based on that famous Shel Silverstein poem, ‘Sick.’ You know, the one where the kid lists all these things wrong with him that are totally preposterous?” He looked up. “I think Mandy’s faking. I don’t think she has MS.”