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#Writever 10.23 — Sumac Poison Ivy

I bent over to examine at the three-lobed leaves and I got shoved into a tree. Windmilling, I bounced off rough bark and rolled into smelly wet leaves, smashing and tearing foliage. The two older boys jumped back. Brother's new 7th grade friend drew him uphill, laughing. "Let's ditch her."

As I struggled up, looking at my scratched arms, Brother shouted, "That's not poison ivy, anyway!"

I stuck out my tongue. I wanted to learn about exploring the woods, but Brother wanted to look grown up. That meant being a stink-face to his 6th grade sis. Blinking tears, I stomped home.

Four days later, I developed blisters. On my arms and legs, and I'd scratched unmentionable places Brother heard about, then repeated enough times to friends that kids at school found out. I was there when Mom confronted him about it, him sitting in front of the game console.

"Did you push her?"

He paused the Mario, sighing loudly. "I pointed out plants."

"Doug..."

He answered, looking at me not her. "You don't wear shorts in the woods." He angrily glanced at the red angry rash all the way up my thighs. "No, Mom. Why would I push Sis? I was being nice, taking her with."

I started, "Your—"

I didn't get out /friend./ His eyes hardened: His precious year-older edgy friend who made him cool by association.

Mom asked me, "Did you trip, Susan? Are you blaming him?"

I groaned, balling my fists. So unfair! "That's right, I tripped. I always lie. Nobody believes me!" I stomped to my room, crying. I caught myself before throwing myself on the bed, which would hurt and itch. I hugged my plush leopard instead.

Okay, maybe Brother hadn't actually pushed me, but Les had a sneer, cool clothes, a fat-tire bike, and game carts. I could believe he'd do it.

Next time I saw them, I asked Les to apologize. He whispered, "Little girls should be seen, not heard, preferably neither."

I followed them into the woods, wearing pants, intent on pushing him. I'd hit my growth spurt. Could happen. If he didn't hear me first and trip me.

I got a better idea. I'd read everything about urushiol, which was an oily sap, and about sumac. And treating getting it on your skin. I returned with plastic bags, plastic gloves, a trowel, and a long-sleeved blouse.

I found plants with white berries.

A week later, the two sat in the living room, playing on the console. I snuck in with a plush beagle, sitting to his right until he went, "Gah!" followed by bad words. Brother laughed.

"My living room, too." I wagged the beagle at him.

He grabbed its face and threw it across the room. It only hit the drapes.

"Stupid boy!" I said, sticking out my tongue as I retrieved it.

Carefully.

As he grabbed the control, I rushed him, thrusting the toy at him, barking, rubbing his neck and cheek before dashing toward my room, shrieking as he swatted at me. I detoured to the bathroom. I dropped the toy in the tub, put on gloves, and "degreased" the toy, later the control.

When I started middle school, I found I already had a nickname: "Poison Ivy." It pleased me, as I now grew /Toxicodendron/ species as a hobby. My friends called me Sue Mac, and I insisted on that with everybody.

I got beat up on my third day.

Pushed from behind. I faceplanted a tree, tripped on a root, and hit a brick wall. My attacker kicked me in the side for good measure. She warned, "Stay away from Lester!" As she ran away, I heard her sneeze before I could clear pine needles from my face.

My bloody nose and scratches got examined by the nurse. The school police and my Mom got called in, but I couldn't ID anyone. I had a cracked rib. I was embarrassed and infuriated that an assembly got called on bullying.

Weeks later, I realized she wasn't Lester's friend. She had a crush on him. And allergies.

A month later I replaced her tissue box, you know, the kind with "lotion" tissue that that feels almost slimy. I'd waited until her's was almost empty. I retrieved the empty from the waste can.

She'd never been exposed to the allergen. Next week, she didn't come to school. I heard she'd gotten it in her eyes, and I'd later see she had blister scars around her nose that matched the bean-sized one on my jaw. And new glasses. The principal questioned me because of my nickname, but not the police.

Funny how my friends and I got respected at school after that.

My interest in botany bloomed into biochemistry; I later went into botanical pharmacology. And. Yes. The stories you heard about Sue "Mac" Islay are true, especially about me "helping" women with stalker and abusive boyfriends, though the police failed to prove any of it. No, I never killed anyone.

Life is unfair, but you can always even the score.

[3 hrs. Author retains copyright.]

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