Spit

Saliva glistened, like diamonds, on the rim of the tumbler. My stomach dropped. Mom had managed a few sips of the last of the cranberry juice before falling asleep.

I sit cross-legged and face the glass. I squeeze my eyebrows so tight that my unibrow disappears into the folds of my forehead. The last ice cube teases me as it rolls around. Mom’s breathing gets a little louder.

Sunlight struggles its way into the living room and shines through the juice. It creates a red circular shadow that stretches across the small wood tabletop. I prop my elbows on my knees, chin between fists, and try to focus on the shadow.

My knees bounce faster than my heartbeat and my jaw tightens. The spit catches my eye again. It sparkles, like something beautiful. The virus is trying to trick me.

I could get up, dump some tap water in a cup, and throw it in the freezer. I could finish this episode of All That. Half an hour and I won’t even be able to taste the dirt.

I turn to look at Mom. Her mouth is slightly open while she snores. I study the crusty bits that form in the corners. It looks like the gunk in my sleepy eyes. I see white patches on the side of her tongue, the ones she scrapes off every morning. I think about my friend Leah, who kisses her parents on the mouth before we get on the bus.

I close my eyes. I imagine the sour juice hitting the roof of my mouth and sloshing down the back of my throat. My tongue is dry, and I swallow hard.

I read that saliva is 99% water. I guess the virus makes up the rest.

But Mom says it only travels through blood, and some other fluids I’m not supposed to know about.

The kids at recess call it the high five, but won’t give me one. They say anyone can get it, that maybe I have it. Mom is positive that I don’t. I was such a lucky baby.

One time I whined to my teacher about the bullies. She said to ignore them, stretched her arm out all the way, and patted me on the back.

If Mom saw me sitting there, contemplating grabbing the glass and putting it to my lips, she’d whoop my ass.

“Don’t you dare touch it,” she’d mutter through chapped lips, and I’d obey.

I can see the virus swirling in the cup, like trash in a perfect puddle. The ice cube melts and my knees stop bobbing. My freezer water would’ve been ready by now.