The Itchiest Halloween Ever

After Kestrel and Vireo had been sent to the office and P. Martin finished stuttering on about the morph butterfly, he sat down, looked out the windows, and watched cumulonimbus clouds roiling in.  

This did not bode well for the afternoon Halloween Parade, and when he questioned the prospect of the annual ceremony, Mrs. Whimbrel shook off his concern by saying, "A little rain never hurt anyone."

Easy for her to say, he thought, and remembered the worst vacation he'd ever been on; it was also his worst Christmas present and his first trip in a plane.  His Uncle Scout, cousins, and mother were taking him to the Bahamas to "warm up and see the sites." 

 Right before the plane was to take off, the pilot stepped out of the cockpit and rearranged the seat assignments.  "Might hit some bumpy weather," he'd said.

"Needs to distribute the weight evenly," Uncle Scout had said and patted him on the knee.  Bumpy weather?!  P. Martin had never been so scared.  Somewhere over Florida, the plane jolted, dropped, then bounced up, as if it'd hit a pothole in the sky.  His uncle held a barf bag under his mouth. 

Watching the clouds from the classroom window made P. Martin's skin itch.   And, sure enough, during the parade, a fierce driving rain hit just as everyone rounded the northwest corner of the school.  He spotted his mother among the flock of parents standing in front of the school, all of whom were camera ready.  The rain washed the paint off his blade of grass, leaving a green trail behind him.  So much for camouflage:  everyone would know where he was and where he'd been, all because of his green pants and shirt, and now this -- a meandering acrylic river.  Even his sneakers, speckled with green, left imprints of his treads.

As soon as they reached the classroom, Mrs. Whimbrel instructed him to take off his shoes, and once everyone was seated, yakked on about the difference between acrylic and oil paints.  There she stood, in front of the chalkboard dressed as a duck of all things, netting everyone's attention.  Mrs. Whimbrel over candy!  

When she'd finally closed her beak, all his classmates turned around, and it was Kestrel's buddy, Rufus Madeira, who piped out, "P. Acrylic Martin!  P.A.M, my man!"

Everyone laughed.  No amount of candy could make him stop itching.  If only were a Morph butterfly, he thought.  If only he could vanish.  

After school, when he crossed the parking lot to his mother's car, he could hear students chanting, "Pam, Pam, Pam, my man."  Nightmare didn't come close to describing Halloween!