The List of Things That Will Not Change

The medicine is for my skin. I have eczema, which you probably haven’t heard of. Eczema is where your skin itches in a lot of different places, and when you scratch, you get these sore, rashy patches that people look at and wonder if they’re catching. Sometimes people ask if they’re catching, which is better than whispering about it.

Eczema is not something that you get for a week and then it goes away, like a cold. It’s something you have until maybe you grow out of it, like my cousin Angelica’s stutter. Also, eczema hurts.

Anyone would like Sheila—she has pink glasses and big hair, and she wears a lot of bracelets. And cowboy boots, even in summertime.

You’re sick?” Sheila said.

“Mom-sick.”

(Eventually, we streamed all seven seasons. That’s a lot of Star Trek.)

The doorbell rang, and I heard Mom let Sheila in. My temperature was only 99.3. Even after a lot of dancing, I couldn’t get it up to Dad-sick, so I knew I was going to school the next day. Thursday. Spelling-test day. I looked on my desk for my word sheet.

Dad doesn’t believe in ten-year-olds going to PG-13 movies, and Mom doesn’t believe in cereal with more than three grams of sugar per serving. Dad doesn’t believe in curse words, and Mom doesn’t believe in going to school with a temperature above 98.6.

Dad thinks anything below 100 is fine.

Dad believes in allowance for chores. Mom believes in free allowance and doing chores for nothing. But Dad’s allowance is a dollar higher. Confused? Welcome to my life.

“Mom!” I was breathing hard from dancing.

“What?”

“Privacy?”

She made a face. That’s what Mom thinks of privacy.