Bug Bites

By Sara Micholas 

Penny forgot the bug spray, and as we trek through the woods, Zach becomes increasingly worried about my allergy to mosquitoes. I pay no mind; Penny is an adult, and adults know things. Mom trusts Penny, so I trust Penny. If she says it’s fine that we have no bug spray, then it’s fine. Besides, my mind is much more occupied with excitement about our journey – trailing through the woody outdoors to get to a creek Penny wants us to see. I feel like Bear Grylls, one with nature. I could care less about mosquitoes. Penny says they only come out at night, anyway, and its early afternoon on a hot summer day. It rained yesterday, but Penny says that means nothing to the mosquitoes because everything’s dry now from the sun, so it’s fine. Zach is not so convinced, but he too gets distracted by the excitement of being outside to think too much about it.  

By the time we get back home, my skin is red and blotchy. It itches and aches; some of the spots bloody from my fingernails scratching them. Some spots have an “x” pressed onto them – a thing my brother taught me to stop from scratching my bug bites. He looks over at me now, tells me to stop scratching. But the tone of his voice is worrisome, trembling. 

“Oh,” my mother says when Penny drops us off. She crouches down, gently grabbing my arm to examine where I’d been scratching. The stroke of her fingers against my big bites soothes my red and irritated skin. “What happened here?” 

“I got bit.” I respond. I try to scratch my arm again, but mom holds my hand in place. 

“I see that.” She says to me. She looks up to Penny behind me. “Did you forget bug spray?” 

Penny responds with some form of “yes,” but I’m too busy trying to subtly scratch my arm without mom noticing. I don’t have too many bug bites, I don’t think, but they’re annoying all the same. There’s at least two on each of my arms and three on one of my legs. I use my foot as a scratcher for those ones, balancing on my right leg.  

Zach hits my arm. “Stop!” 

I roll my eyes at him, annoyed. Mom has noticed now. She takes me to the bathroom and sits me on the edge of the sink. From the bathroom closet she takes out the med kit and pulls out the hydrocortisone. Hydrocortisone and I have been becoming real good friends this summer. It’s cold when mom puts it over my bites. When she’s done, she tells me not to scratch anymore and sends me off on my way. 

Later, I’m sitting in the living room eating ice cream when I overhear Zach and mom talking in the kitchen. 

“I told her,” Zach says, voice a little muffled by the wall. 

“I know you did. She said so.” My mom replies. “That was good of you.” 

“Even before we left, I told her.” 

“I know, Zach.” 

“Is Sara going to be okay?” 

“Yeah, she’s fine. They’re just bug bites.”