Chapter 5
Maeve
Two days.
It's been two full days since Dr. Reizenhart, aka Dr. Death, came to give his disastrous presentation, and I still can't get the incident out of my mind. More precisely, I can't get him out of my mind.
And it makes me want to kick something. Or someone. Preferably that someone be the despicably handsome elf doctor.
Here we go again. I need to stop this.
I sink into my desk chair with a heavy sigh, clicking my pen repeatedly against the stack of medical forms. The rhythmic tapping echoes in my quiet office until I realize how annoying the sound is and abruptly stop.
I realize I've been picturing his face. Again.
My cheeks warm at the memory, and I shake my head, then reach up to tuck a wayward strand of hair back into my bun. It springs free again almost immediately. Stubborn, just like my thoughts about that infuriating man.
"Dr. Death," I mutter to myself, arranging the student immunization records into neat piles. "Who tells five-year-olds they're going to die if they don't eat vegetables?"
Even as I fume over his terrible presentation to the children, unwanted memories of Doctor Lorian Reizenhart flicker through my mind.
He was impossibly tall, even for an elf, with silver-blond hair pulled back in a flawless ponytail that somehow managed to look both severe and elegant, exposing his long pointed ears.
Those aristocratic cheekbones that could cut glass.
And his perfectly fitted shirt and coat, so pristine he looked like he'd stepped off a movie set rather than a doctor's office.
Those unnerving ice-blue eyes that seemed to look right inside my soul as he stared at me.
And boy, did he stare at me. I wiggle in my chair as I remember the way he looked at me. Like there was no other person in the entire world.
And that handshake. The way he held my hand. Something happened there, in that moment. I just can't put a name to it. It was butterflies and swirls of angry birds, churning inside my rib cage, all at once.
I'd never had such a reaction to a man before. I'm not sure it was even real, it was so strong.
But what I'm absolutely and completely sure is that I have to stop thinking about it!
I groan and drop my head onto my desk with a soft thud. What is wrong with me? The man has the personality of a cactus. An arrogant, condescending cactus.
"Focus, Maeve," I mutter to myself, straightening up and pulling the keyboard closer.
I turn determinedly to the stack of student medical records that need updating in the system.
A simple, mindless task to occupy my hands while my brain logs off.
I input vaccination dates for Gromm Stonefist, note Tommy Fangsworth's recent visit for his skinned knee, and update Zinnia Sparkletoes' emergency contact information.
Then I get to Dylan Reinhardt's, enter his latest vaccination record, and read over what I just wrote.
Ugh. I need to get a grip.
I've typed "Reizenhart" instead of "Reinhardt."
I'm pretty sure if I'd been holding a paper, I would have doodled a little heart around it.
"You have got to be kidding me," I hiss, jabbing at the delete key with more force than necessary. The keyboard makes an alarming cracking sound, and I immediately ease up. My dad's words from my nursing school graduation float through my mind.
Healing isn't just fixing bodies, Maeve. It's about making people feel better, inside and out.
This makes me even angrier, both at Dr. Lorian Reizenhart for his offensive attitude and at myself for wasting so much mental energy on him for two whole days.
The lunch bell rings, startling me from my thoughts. I check my watch and groan when I realize I've only completed half the records I planned to finish by now.
"Coming through!" Harriet's voice rings out as she bursts through my office door without knocking in a whirlwind of flowing skirts. "Hide me from the tiny monsters!"
She collapses dramatically into the chair across from my desk, throwing an arm over her eyes.
"This morning has been a complete disaster."
"What happened now?" I ask, grateful for the distraction.
"What didn't happen?" Harriet drops her arm and fixes me with an exasperated stare. "Tommy Fangsworth asked if the 'mean elf man' was going to come back and make them eat broccoli or they'd die. Then Zinnia tried to force Angelina to eat a carrot and stuck it in her nose instead."
Despite myself, I burst out laughing.
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes!" Harriet nods solemnly. "I had to explain that doctors don't actually kill you for not eating vegetables, which led to a twenty-minute discussion about what doctors can and cannot do.
Did you know that according to five-year-old logic, doctors can see through walls but can't fix broken toys? "
"The mysteries of medicine," I say, still chuckling. "At least they're not traumatized anymore."
"Speaking of our doctor friend…" Harriet leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Are you finally ready to admit that he's quite handsome? In an I-don’t-know-if-I want-to-punch-you-in-the-face-or-kiss-you kind of way."
I roll my eyes, ignoring the warmth creeping up my neck.
"Sure, if you're into the whole 'I'm superior to all of you mere mortals' vibe."
"Still, I saw the way he looked at you." Harriet taps her chin thoughtfully. "Like he could just eat you right up. Yum!"
The warmth creeping up my neck spreads to my face and I know I'm red as a tomato. Thanks to my ginger genetics for that.
"He was not," I correct her, though my stomach does a little flip at her words. "Probably wondering how someone so intellectually inferior managed to get a nursing license."
"Mm-hmm." Harriet's knowing smile makes me want to throw my stapler at her. "Keep telling yourself that. The scrumptious elf wanted to play doctor with you, I’m telling you!"
Before I can formulate a suitably cutting response, a knock at the door interrupts us. Ms. Killington, one of the lunch aides, stands in the doorway with a tiny figure who can't seem to stop giggling.
"Nurse Maeve," Ms. Killington says, her brow furrowed with concern. "Millie here couldn't eat her lunch. She keeps breaking into fits of laughter for no reason. She hasn't eaten a thing!"
I rise from my desk and approach the child.
Millifred Primrose, Millie to her friends, is a usually inquisitive pixie kindergartener with wild dark curls and bright-violet eyes.
Her delicate iridescent wings flutter rapidly behind her as she struggles to contain her giggles.
It seems that she can barely stand straight, her small body shaking with suppressed laughter.
I frown. This isn't something I see every day.
"Come in, Millie," I say, guiding her gently toward the examination table. I notice with growing concern that the freckles scattered across her fair skin seem to be shimmering slightly. "Thank you, Ms. Killington. I'll take care of her."
The lunch aide nods and hurries away without another word. Harriet rises from her chair, giving me a quick nod.
"I should get back to my classroom as well. Catch up later?"
"Definitely," I agree, already focusing on my young patient.
Once we're alone, I help Millie onto the examination table, where she sits swinging her legs, occasional giggles escaping her lips despite placing both hands over her mouth to stifle her laughter.
"So, Millie," I begin casually, pulling on a pair of examination gloves. "You can't stop laughing. When did this start?"
"This morning," she manages between giggles. "During circle time. Ms. Jensen thought I was being disruptive, but I couldn't stop."
"And how do you feel otherwise? Do you feel sick at all? Does your throat hurt?"
Millie scrunches up her face in thoughts, then dissolves into another fit of giggles.
"Everything feels tickly inside."
I lean closer, examining her face carefully, and a cold sort of dread fills me from the inside out. There's no mistaking what I see. Those freckles are definitely glowing in a faint pulse in rhythm with her laughter.
What is that? Could this be? Oh, no!
My stomach sinks. I recognize these symptoms.
"Millie, do you know anyone else who's been feeling giggly or notice glowing spots on their skin?"
I keep my voice calm, though my heart rate picks up.
"Zinnia has glowing spots too!" Millie nods enthusiastically, then bursts into laughter. It takes her a couple of minutes until she's able to control herself. "We thought it was just a cool new pixie thing."
My alarm grows. If Zinnia has it too, that means it's already spreading. I move to my desk and pick up the phone, dialing the front office.
"This is Nurse Callahan. Could you please send Zinnia Sparkletoes to my office immediately? Thank you."
Pixie-Pox. It has to be.
Not dangerous if treated promptly, but extremely contagious, especially among Other children. All the symptoms make sense. First, the uncontrollable laughter and glowing freckles. Soon, the children will begin floating whenever their little hearts are filled with happy thoughts.
Things could get out of hand very quickly.
Within minutes, Zinnia arrives at my door, her tiny wings fluttering faster than usual, her musical laughter continuous and high-pitched. The moment she spots Millie, she floats several inches off the ground in excitement.
"Millie! You're glowing too!" she exclaims, her own freckles visibly luminescent on her pale skin.
"Zinnia, calm down, honey," I say, grabbing her hand and forcing her gently to the ground. I guide her toward the small recovery room attached to my office. "Millie, you too. I need you both to stay in here for a little while."
"Are we in trouble?" Millie asks, her giggles subsiding momentarily, her big violet eyes on me with worry.
"Not at all," I assure her. "I just need to check something."
Once I've settled both girls in the recovery room with books and drawing supplies, I return to my desk and dial the front office again.
"This is Nurse Callahan. I need an immediate check of all classrooms for students showing symptoms of uncontrollable laughter or glowing freckles. We may have an outbreak of Pixie-Pox on our hands."
The secretary's gasp is audible. "I'll send out the alert right away."
I hang up and run a hand through my hair, dislodging more strands from my already messy bun. This could quickly become a full epidemic if we don't contain it. While I wait for reports from the classrooms, I pull out my medical reference books, confirming the symptoms for Pixie-Pox.
Yep. It's Pixie-Pox, alright.
The phone rings again.
"Nurse's office," I answer.
"Maeve, we have a situation in room 104," Ms. Jensen's voice comes through, tense but controlled. "Billy Merryweather won't stop laughing, and I swear Bobby Babbleton's face is glowing in the dark he’s got so many freckles."
"Send them to me right away," I instruct. "Anyone with symptoms."
As soon as I put down the phone, it rings again. And again. And again. Ten more students in different grades showing symptoms. My heart races as I realize this is quickly spiraling beyond what I can handle alone.
I manage to collect all symptomatic students and quarantine them in the recovery room, which is now filled with uncontrollable giggles and the soft glow of luminescent freckles. The youngest, a pre-kindergartener named Leo, floats around with Zinnia over the beds, the two of them holding hands.
Principal Braggstone stops by briefly, his massive frame filling the doorway.
For once, he doesn't seem to want to come close to me.
Maybe he didn't catch Pixie-Pox as a child. The illness is quite uncomfortable as an adult and maybe he doesn’t want to catch it now.
Those glowing freckles itch a lot, from what I've heard.
"Should we send everyone home?" he asks without stepping inside.
"Not yet," I say, gathering the files of all the students afflicted so far. "But we need to notify all parents and call the guardians of all the exposed children."
He nods solemnly. "Whatever you need, Maeve."
After he leaves, I stare at the phone for a long moment. I know what I need to do, who I need to call. The thought makes my stomach clench, but the health of my students comes first.
With great reluctance, I pick up the phone and dial Saltford Bay's medical clinic. Mrs. Beckham answers on the second ring and it doesn't take long for her to transfer me to him.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I wait for him to answer.
"Dr. Reizenhart speaking." His deep voice comes through the line, somehow managing to sound both bored and authoritative at the same time.
My voice catches in my throat for a moment before I force myself to speak.
"Dr. Reizenhart, this is Nurse Maeve from Saltford Bay Elementary. I'm afraid we have an emergency situation."
I explain the situation and my students' symptoms in a few breathless sentences.
There's a pause on the line before he responds, his tone suddenly sharp with attention.
"I'll be there in ten minutes."
I hang up the phone and lean back in my chair, bracing myself for what's to come.
The giggling from the recovery room grows louder, and I notice with alarm that Millie now hovers several inches above her chair. Zinnia's hair has begun to change color, cycling through the rainbow as she laughs.
Ten minutes. I just need to hold everything together for ten more minutes.
Then I'll have to deal with Dr. Reizenhart again, whether I'm ready or not.