I am eight years old. I am in the third grade. It is a rainy, chilly November day. I am wearing a red turtleneck. I do not feel good. I think I have a fever. It is silent reading time during class, and I am currently working on Ramona Quimby, Age 8. I love the Ramona books. I think I even look a bit like Ramona.
I am reading a chapter in which Ramona is sick, and she throws up in front of the entire class. Reading this makes me feel even worse, and I tell my teacher that I think I may have a fever. She takes my temperature with the very weird thermometer strips, and then sends me to the nurse's office. On the way there, I can't stop thinking about Ramona throwing up. By the time I reach the nurse's office, I feel like dying. I lay down on the very hard plastic cot while the nurse calls my mom to come pick me up. I throw up in a trash can. Eventually my mom arrives, signs me out, and takes me home. I fall asleep in my bed to the sound of the rain on my window.