Impulse Control

Jake was in fourth grade when I got a call from the school nurse.
“Mrs. Hurwitz, can you come in? Jake’s in my office and I have some waivers for you to sign.”
Waivers? That sounded ominous. “Is he okay?”
“I’ll explain when you get here.”
I arrived to find Jake sitting in a chair, sucking on a lollipop, an ice pack on his neck. “I’m afraid we’ve had an incident,” the nurse said, closing the door. “Jake was bitten by a classmate.”
I looked at Jake. “Someone bit you? Were you fighting?”
“No,” Jake said. “Catie just bit me.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She said she wanted to.”
The bite had broken the skin. I examined the circle of teeth marks as the nurse briefed me on AIDS and hepatitis. She was just being cautious, but it freaked me out. I signed some forms saying I wouldn’t sue the school system and was instructed to make an appointment for blood work. Catie was also being tested. “She understands the seriousness of bite wounds, and she’s going to be punished.”
“Isn’t a fourth grader kind of old to be biting?” I asked. “I thought kids stopped biting in, like, nursery school.” This Catie chick had to be ridiculously immature.
There was a knock at the door. “That must be Catie,” said the nurse. “The principal called her down to apologize.”
Catie shuffled in. “Sorry,” she muttered, her eyes on the floor. She was easily three times the size of Jake, with an impressive of boobs for a fourth-grader. She didn’t look one bit sorry.
“Why did you bite Jake?” I asked. “Did he do something to bother you?”
Catie shrugged. “He sits in from of me. His neck was sticking out and I wanted to bite it. I didn’t mean to hurt him but his neck was so soft. I like Jake.”
Catie’s revelation did little to comfort me. In fact, it upped the creepy factor exponentially. Stating the obvious, the school counselor concluded that Catie lacked impulse control.
Jake complained a bit about the turtleneck and scarf combination, especially as summer drew near, but tough.