A Chicken Pox on COVID-19

My shirt was too small. I noticed the clear blemish as I sat down in class and tugged to pull the shirt to cover my stomach. The speckle near my navel looked like big drop of water; semi-transparent and round. A liquid and a solid at the same time.

Fascinated, I took the top off my pen and poked at it. I was 10 years old and in fifth grade, so I didn’t know any better. Sure enough, almost as soon as the cap made contact, the blotch popped. A thin trickle of clear material ran down my belly. I used the back of my hand to wipe it off, then dried my hand on my pants.

I turned my attention back to class. We had just returned from lunch. A girl to my left had been watching me, and now had a “gross boy” look on her face. I ignored her. Whatever, it was over. Except it wasn’t.

My classmate walked over to our teacher’s desk and whispered something. A stern look came over the woman’s face. She marched over to my desk and ordered me to the nurse’s office, “Immediately, Mr. Cohen.”

The nurse asked me to unbutton my shirt. Sure enough, there were 4–5 more of the gauzy blooms on my chest, a few on my arms (which I suddenly noticed), and even more on my back, according to her (she wouldn’t say how many, even though I asked). She banished me to the back of her office, and sent an aide to grab my knapsack from the classroom. My mother…