Chapter Three

             Wyatt could: tie all of his bedsheets and clothes into one long rope, use that rope to shimmy down the side of his house, and escape into the night? He’d seen it done in a movie once.

            No. He wasn’t very good at tying knots, and he was afraid of heights. And the dark (but only a little). Plus, he wasn’t allowed outside after nine PM.

            Or maybe he could: take some paint and paint over his entire body, spots and all. “The spots are gone!” he’d tell his mom and Dr. Mahoney. “It’s a miracle cure!” A miracle cure that just happened to turn him neon purple. Amazing!

            Ugh. No. What if it rained? Ever since the front door mural incident, his mom only let him use washable paint. Who would believe in a miracle cure that washed away in bad weather? And he’d definitely have to take another baking soda bath. He was getting pretty sick of those.

            Or maybe he could: take every single one of his Legos and build himself an air-tight suit of armor? That way, his germs couldn’t escape his body and he couldn’t give anyone else the chicken pox. His life could go back to normal. Well, normal, but Lego-covered.

            YAWN. No. He dumped out his biggest box of bricks—the sound was like an earthquake rumbling through his bedroom. And then he spent exactly one hour and twelve minutes building. He clicked and snapped bricks together without pause. And after all that work, all he had to show was half a helmet that was not quite head-shaped, and, as he discovered when he put it on, very scratchy. It also had one fatal flaw.

            “I can’t see anything!” he cried, stumbling around his room, before finally removing the half-helmet, scraping his face in the process. As it turned out, little plastic bricks were not see-through, and at that rate, he’d be cured of the chicken pox before he could ever finish the stupid suit he couldn’t see out of anyway.

            He was exhausted. Angry. Sad. “D-I-S-A-P-P-O-I-N-T-E-D,” he spelled, holding back more and more tears with each letter. And he was still polka-dotted and itchy and quarantined. Wyatt fell back on his bed. He gave up. He should just get used to it. He’d be sick forever, stuck inside forever, polka-dotted forever.

            “Forever!” he said. He grabbed his favorite stuffed animal, Monkey, and cried. He cried and cried and Monkey absorbed his tears—Monkey always did, no matter how much he ever cried.

            It felt good to cry. Burying his face in Monkey’s belly, he screamed, and stomped his feet on the floor. “Curse you, chickens,” he wailed, and Roberta’s face flashed before his eyes. He cried some more.

            And when he was done, he felt better. Still itchy, still lonely—but better.

            Even though it was night, his room seemed brighter. His mind was clearer. Sometimes, a good cry was a necessary thing.

            Wyatt sat up. He hugged Monkey, damp and soft, and set the stuffed animal aside. Wyatt knew what he had to do. For the first time in a week, he was starting to feel hungry. Really hungry, in fact. He was going to go downstairs and have his favorite snack. That was something that always made him feel better.

            But first he had to get ready.

            Wyatt put on his bathrobe and the slippers he liked best because they were the slippery-slidiest, and he pirouetted around his shiny wood floor. Then he opened his top drawer and rummaged around until he found his very best bow tie, the one with Dalmatian puppies and fire trucks and long yellow ladders printed all over it. Expertly, he clipped it on and adjusted it at the collar of his unicorn t-shirt. He found the scarf he had “borrowed” from his mom and tied it around his head. He checked the mirror. He looked fancy (and polka-dotted). He was ready.

            Hoping not to wake up his mom, Wyatt slid through the hallway and tiptoed down the stairs, which were very creaky. The living room was dark and silent, and the cat napped on the coffee table. In the kitchen, the overhead light shone like a spotlight and the sliding glass door looked like a mirror, so he pirouetted one more time. Pirouetting was much better than making bed sheet ropes or painting his skin or wearing a scratchy Lego helmet. It was fun.

            As he jumped up on the counter to reach the biggest mixing bowl, the perfect popcorn vessel, he looked over to the neighbor’s yard and tried to spot Roberta. It was habit, he couldn’t help it. But then he remembered, and he turned away. “Curse you, chickens,” he whispered.

            Time for pirouettes again, all the way over to the cabinet for Pirate Pop, the best popcorn Wyatt had ever tasted. There was a brand-new bag waiting for him. He ripped it open and dumped the whole thing—every popcorn piece—into the bowl. Then, from the fridge, he grabbed an icy cold can of root beer and, from the drawer, a shiny multicolored straw. He dimmed the bright overhead light. Finally, he sank into the rocking chair that faced the door. He rocked all the way back and all the way forth.    

He sighed. He was happy. Slippery slippers and puppy bow tie? Check. Pirate Pop and root beer? Check. All he’d needed was a good cry and some of his familiar, favorite things, and he felt a little bit better. A little bit back to normal. Like, maybe someday he wouldn’t be polka-dotted anymore. Like, maybe someday he’d even be able to leave the house again.

            He rocked and crunched popcorn and rocked and sipped root beer. He let his slippers dangle from the tips of his toes.

            But then—all of a sudden—

            In the darkness of night, a chicken appeared at the back door. Using her beak, she rapped on the glass—rap, rap, rap. She ruffled her feathers. And in a voice gruff with fury, she said, “I’ve come for my revenge.”

            The giant bowl of Pirate Pop slipped from Wyatt’s hands and crashed to the floor. “Ro—Roberta?” he squawked.