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Tracking the Twitchy Itch
by
Susan Uhlig

      An itch was in the middle of my back! I scratched with my left hand. I scratched with my right. I couldn’t quite reach the twitchy itch. “Urk!” I said.

     “What’s the matter, Danny?” my little sister asked.

     “Urk! This itch in the middle of my back. Would you scratch it?”

     “Sure.” She started scratching.

      I squirmed. “To the left,” I said. “No, the other way. Up! Now, down a little. Aahhh,” I sighed. “That got it! Thanks for getting rid of the twitchy itch.”

     “The twitchy itch,” she repeated. “What’s that?”

     “You haven’t heard of it?” I hadn’t either. But I could make something up. “You haven’t heard of the twitchy itch?”

     She shook her head.

     “It twitches,” I said thinking fast. “It tingles. It itches until you can’t stand it.” I lowered my voice. “And it jumps.”

     “Jumps?”

     “From one person to the next.”

     “You’re making this up.” She frowned.

     I shrugged my shoulders. “You’ll see.”

     “Hmmph!” She picked up a book.

     I watched.

     She turned a page and scratched her knee. She turned another and scratched her shoulder.

     “You’ve got it,” I teased.

     “Do not.”

     “Do too,” I said. “You’ve got the twitchy itch.”

      She scratched her back with one hand. Then the other.

     “You do have it,” I said. “The twitchy itch.”

     “You’re right.” My sister dropped her book. “Please scratch my back,” she begged.

     “No way,” I said. “I don’t want it to jump on me again.”

     “Aauugghhh!” she screamed, and raced for our mother.

     I followed.

     “Oh, Mom, scratch my back. Danny gave me the twitchy itch!”

    “The what?” my mother asked.

    “You know, the itch that jumps from person to person.”

     Mom laughed. “There’s no such thing, dear.” She scratched my sister’s back. “Feel better?”

     My sister nodded.

     Mom turned back to the computer.

     We watched.

     Mom typed a word. She scratched her forehead. She typed a few more words. She scratched her arm.

     My sister and I grinned. The twitchy itch was at work.

     Mom groaned.

     Dad stepped into the room. “What’s the matter?”

    “Scratch my back please.”

     Dad did.

    “A little to the right. Down. Now up. Up a smidgen more. Aahhh. Thanks.”

    “You’re welcome.”

    Dad strolled back to the living room.

     We followed.

     Dad opened his newspaper. He scratched his chin. He turned the page. Dad scratched his back with his right hand. Then his left. He looked up and saw us watching. “Danny, come here and scratch my back.”

     My sister smirked. I wanted to say “no.” But I didn’t really believe in the twitchy itch. After all, I’d just made it up, right? It really wouldn’t jump from Dad to me. It couldn’t.

      But when I scratched Dad’s back, my back began to twitch. It tingled. It itched. I couldn’t believe it.

      I only knew of one way to get rid of the twitchy itch. I went outside. I went next door. I went looking for my best  friend. He’d scratch my back.

     Wouldn’t he?