I was in the third grade. Things were bad. I had to sit in the row farthest from the windows. It was arithmetic time. I had my book open in front of me. The room seemed to grow musty and confining. Then things got much worse. From nowhere came an unwelcome urge. My mouth began watering uncontrollably and I had the most disagreeable sensation. With no control on my part, vomitus erupted all over my arithmetic textbook and the unfortunate little girl sitting in front of me.
I forget her name, or even her appearance. Whoever you are, I am deeply sorry. She and I became the center of attention. The janitor appeared with rags and bucket. The teacher, with a look of disgust, shook my book off into the wastebasket.
The little girl and I got to go home. The classroom reeked for days as my sodden arithmetic book slowly dried on the radiator by the window. My flu got better and the little girl cleaned up pretty good, but my arithmetic book carried the stench for the rest of the year. Even now, when I think of numbers, the fetid odor fills my nostrils.
When a book really stank, as this one did, I became allergic to arithmetic, I did.
