Lucky Child by Loung Ung

as I am in my seat, Mrs. Donaldson walks to the blackboard and writes down her name.
    “My name is Mrs. Donaldson,” she tells us.
    I repeat it in my head again and again. Then she takes a piece of paper off her desk and begins to call out each student’s name. Mrs. McNulty told me this would happen so I am ready. One by one, the students raise their hands and answer with a “present!” or “here!”
    “Lu … onng Unng?” Mrs. Donaldson sounds confused and says my name like someone who is ott kroup tik, a person who’s born with not enough water. In Cambodia that’s what we call people who are born with something wrong in their head, so that they sometimes talk funny.
    “Here!” I pronounce the word clearly and proudly because I’ve practiced it. As the word flies out of my mouth, my arm shoots straight up like a palm tree, my back stiff and tall.
    “Good. You may put your hand down now,” Mrs. Donaldson tells me.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Donaldson.” I smile and bow my head with respect. She returns my smile and begins to pass out thin square vanilla journals to all the students.
    “Class, please take your pencil out and write in your journal what you did this summer. I will tell you when to stop writing. Begin.” Her words flood over me like rushing water, too fast for me to catch their meaning. All around me, the other students open their journal so I do the same. Asthe students begin to scribble onto the white pages, my knees begin to knock against each other. All summer I practiced English with Sarah and our sponsors, but I only learned to talk. I don’t know how to write. And I’m too embarrassed to tell Mrs. Donaldson. Next to me a girl who said her name is “Barp-raa” is scribbling big, blocky letters in her journal. I quietly edge my desk closer to her and begin to copy her letters. On the wall, the clock ticks away very slowly.
    “All right, class, you may stop now,” Mrs. Donaldson announces after a while. “Please hand me your journals.” I follow the other students and give her my book with a big smile.
    After Mrs. Donaldson finishes arranging the journals in a nice neat pile on her desk, she speaks rapidly to the class about something called a “health check.”
    “Loo-unng, please come up here.” She suddenly calls on me. I walk up to her as all eyes follow me.
    “Class, open your reading book to the first page and read quietly to yourselves. I will be back shortly.”
    With Mrs. Donaldson leading, I trail a few paces behind her. As we walk the long, quiet hall, our steps click and clack against the hard tiled floor. This time the echoes sound lonely and scary.
    “Please wait.” Mrs. Donaldson smiles and walks into a small room. From outside the door, I peek at her talking to a woman wearing a white shirt and skirt. “Looung, please come in,” she calls. I gingerly enter the sterile, alcohol-smelling room.
    “This nice lady is the school nurse.” Mrs. Donaldson introduces us as Sarah’s flash card of a picture of a lady doctor pops into my head. “The nurse will give you a checkup,” and with that, Mrs. Donaldson leaves.
    “Hello, Loung.” The nurse’s mouth opens to show her beautiful white teeth. “Please sit down.” She points to a chair in front of her. I sit down and glance up at her face, which is soft and pretty. While I swing my legs back and forth, she pulls out a wooden tong and lifts up my hair with it. The sticks move up and down my head, like a rigid finger; they part and unpart my hair, scratch my scalp, and tickle my neck. When she finishes, the nurse sends me home early with a note and a bottle of special shampoo.

    “Lice!” Eang yells as her fingernails scrape my scalp.
    I am sitting in a tub of warm, soapy water, naked except for my underwear. Meng sits in the living room reading the one Chinese book he brought with him from Thailand.
    “Lice!” Eang exclaims again, her flaring eyes and downturned mouth resembling the features of a stone garuda.