Earworm

It began subtly with a foot tap, an innocent rhythm beneath my desk. Then, a soft hum, barely audible, yet relentless. The real terror, though, was the mouth sweats – that uncontrollable urge in my jaw, the tingling on my tongue. I fought it, every muscle straining against the embarrassing tide. But my body, traitorously, was no longer mine to command.

The silent classroom was the worst place for this to happen. This bizarre curse had haunted me at home, in the car, alone in my room, but never here, never in the open.

I swallowed hard, a futile attempt to suppress it. ‘Not here, please not here,’ I pleaded internally. But the dam broke:

“Ba Da Da Da Dum! Brush your teeth morning and night. Brush your teeth to keep them white. Brush your teeth and smile so brightly. Don’t forget to brush your teeth nightly.

The jingle burst forth, unstoppable, each word a hammer to my dignity. And then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped. The tune released its grip, leaving me gasping for breath.

But the aftermath was worse. Thirty pairs of eyes, wide with shock, amusement, and confusion, all fixed on me. The weight of their gazes was a crushing spotlight that I never wanted.

Mr. Brent’s gaze pinned me to the spot behind my desk. The classroom’s silence was suffocating, every second stretching into eternity. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, and a cold, clammy sweat clung to my skin. Mr. Brent’s voice, usually steady and calm, now had an edge of impatience, “Thank you, Dylan. Wise words indeed.” His usually warm chuckle now felt mocking, inviting others to join in the ridicule. My embarrassment morphed into panic.

“But now that you have endowed us with such wisdom, do you think we can return to our math assignment?” he said, but his tone was different – not angry, just… perplexed. The tone said, ‘I don’t get this joke.’ And that’s Mr. Brent – he’s cool, usually in on the fun, but today, I had crossed a line.

“Yes, sir.” I flushed an even brighter shade of red. 

I glanced at Gooba. His smirking and thumbs-up should’ve reassured me, but they didn’t. Gooba was the king of goofs, and I usually rode shotgun on his schemes. His mischievous eyes always twinkled with the next big prank, but today, they just mirrored my own confusion.

The class eventually refocused, but I was a live wire. My foot tapped a frantic rhythm, uncontrollable and insistent. I tried to still it, but the urge jumped to my hand, drumming on my desk. My neighbor’s whisper, “Dylan, what’s up?” felt like a shout in the tense silence.

“Ba Da..” The words choked in my throat. The tune was a tsunami, washing away my control. Mr. Brent’s stern command, “Enough, Dylan,” was a distant echo. I was drowning in the melody.

“Ba Da Da Da Dum!”

Mr. Brent’s frustration was clear, but I could only offer the ridiculous jingle. I felt a pang of guilt – he didn’t deserve this chaos.

“Brush your teeth morning and night.”

I stuffed my hands in my mouth, trying to gag the relentless tune. Mr. Brent’s warning, “Dylan, if you can’t—” was cut off as I bolted outside, the door muffling my muffled lyrics.

The laughter of my classmates stung, but the tune faded as quickly as it came. Relief washed over me, but it was fleeting. The question loomed – how long until the next outburst?

2

By week’s end, the news of my musical outbreaks had reached my mother. My impromptu performances had graced not just school and home, but also chess club, gym, and even the library. Concerned, Mum mulled over a doctor’s visit.

“But Mum, they said he even sang it underwater during swimming,” she whispered to Gran, treating it like a covert matter. It was no secret to me; the tune had hijacked my thoughts mid-freestyle. I’d hoped the water would muffle it. Wishful thinking.

It was our regular Friday ritual – tea and biscuits at Gran’s. The four of us, Mum, Gran, my sister Sophie, and I, gathered around her quaint living room table, relishing the melted chocolate on our biscuits dipped in tea.

Gran waved off Mum’s concerns with a dismissive hand. “Nonsense, Sal. It’s just an earworm,” she said. “Everyone catches one now and then. I’ve had tunes stuck in my head for days, even weeks.”

My biscuit, soaked in tea, slipped from my fingers. A wave of nausea washed over me. “A worm? In my ear? Is it going to… poop there?” I blurted out, my voice tinged with horror.

Mum and Gran exchanged a knowing look, then burst into laughter. “No, dear boy, it’s not a literal worm,” Gran explained, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “It’s a phrase for a catchy tune that loops in your mind. Happens to everyone.”

I exhaled a sigh of relief, the tension easing from my shoulders.

Mum’s brow furrowed in thought. “I do wonder where he picked it up,” she mused.

I knew exactly where. It all started two weeks ago. I was on a mission: to fetch Sophie from daycare without Mom. As Mom was on the phone with her next big client, I took it upon myself to buzz myself in on the back of another parent. I sauntered in and announced my sisterly retrieval to Ms. Baker.

“Who are you again?” she quizzed, voice dripping with that ‘talking-to-a-toddler’ tone.

“I’m the brother. The big one,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes like Mom’s at Dad’s KFC Thursday dinners.

“ID, please,” she demanded.

I presented my school printing card. “Eleven years young,” I declared, puffing my chest out.

“You’re a tad young, aren’t you?” she clucked, her eyebrows dancing in disapproval.

Her health and safety babble meant I was stuck. Rather than battle with my jailer, I rolled my eyes and sat beside Sophie, hugging her. 

“Hi Dyl,” she said.

“Hey, Soph. Hang tight. Mom will be in soon,” I said, but just in case, I started planning my great escape from our colorful alphabet mat-holding cell. Suddenly, a guitar-wielding teacher waltzed in, her voice a mix of enthusiasm and exhaustion. “Song time, kiddos!”

“What sweet teddy bear party torture was this?” I muttered to Sophie, who smiled goofily and applauded her approval with all the other toddlers and parents.

And there it was – the tune that would haunt my dreams. “Ba Da Da Da Dum! Brush your teeth…” Though I resisted at first, I couldn’t deny it was catchy, like a cold in winter. The kids, even the grouchy ones and even Ms. Baker seemed to fall under the song’s spellbinding trance. Before I knew it, my foot began to tap in rhythm, and I hummed along. Then, I found myself singing aloud, lost in a sea of tooth-brushing pantomimes.

“Dylan! Sophie! Where are you?” Suddenly, my mother’s voice cut through our musical trance. 

I grabbed Sophie’s hand, and we walked over to my mother, who seemed in an angry conversation with Ms. Baker.  

“Honestly, Katherine. He is here every day with me.” Ms. Baker tried to explain, her words tumbling out in a jumble. But Mum was having none of it. With a roll of her eyes, she whisked us away, leaving Ms. Baker and her rules in the dust. “Let’s go, kids.”

Gran peered over her glasses at Mum, her eyes twinkling with a mix of wisdom and mischief. Still a bit flustered by the tattle-taling of her eye-rolling, Mum fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. “And you’ve been singing it ever since?” Gran asked, her voice laced with a hint of humor.

“Yes, and now I can’t stop,” I admitted, feeling a mix of embarrassment and hope.

Gran chuckled softly, her voice rich with experience. “Ah, the classic case of an earworm. It reminds me of when I couldn’t stop humming ‘Moon River’ for a fortnight. It will pass, dear, just like a summer storm.”

I looked down at my half-dunked biscuit, wondering if her words held the cure for my musical ailment. Part of me doubted it, but another part clung to the hope that this jingle jinx would soon be just a memory.

As we rose from the table, leaving the cozy warmth of Gran’s living room, I couldn’t help but wish that life could be as simple as her old-world remedies.

3

I trudged home from school, a lone figure on the deserted sidewalk. The usual laughter and chatter of walking home with my friends was absent today. They had all distanced themselves, not wanting to be seen with ‘worm-boy.’ The label, born from a misunderstood earworm, clung to me tighter than my own shadow.

The echo of Gooba’s confused voice from yesterday’s recess haunted me. “What’s wrong with you, Dylan?” he had asked. I remembered our shared jokes and adventures, now replaced by awkward silences and sidelong glances.

As I walked, the world around me seemed to mirror my gloom – gray clouds hung low, and the streets were tranquil, as if the entire neighborhood was holding its breath.

And then it happened again.

“Ba Da Da Da Dum!” The tune burst forth unbidden. “No, not now,” I muttered, my frustration boiling over. I shook my head vigorously, trying to dislodge the persistent melody.

That’s when I heard it; a faint, squeaky voice, “Hey, appendabrate, cut that out!”

I spun around. The street was empty. “Who’s there?” I whispered, my heart racing.

“Just take a deep breath, appendabrate,” the voice instructed. I obliged, more out of shock than compliance. “I’m your earworm.”

“Earworms aren’t real,” I shot back, a mix of fear and disbelief in my voice.

“Well, I’m as real as it gets, appendabrate,” the voice replied.

“And apprenda… whatever, is not rude?” I snapped.

“No. That’s what we call those unfortunates with appendages, like yourself.” Said the earworm.

I sighed, slightly offended, while also surrendering to the absurdity of it all. “Then, what should I do? You can’t just live in my head!”

The worm’s reply was tinged with sadness. “I’m lost. I need to find my mother.”

That hit a nerve. Despite my frustration, I couldn’t ignore a plea for help. “Alright, worm, let’s find your mom,” I said, more to myself than the earworm.

“Thank you. And please call me Gary.” And with that, a strange partnership formed, but perhaps it was the key to getting my normal life back.

4

In the stillness of my room that night, Gary, the earworm, and I huddled for a brainstorming session. As the moonlight seeped through the blinds, Gary unveiled the secrets of his kind.

Earworms, tiny creatures living in the ears of beings with limbs, thrived on melodies, using songs as bridges to travel. Earworms would sing catchy tunes, preferably rhymes, that would infect human consciousness, causing them to sing and forming the important song bridge.

“But why haven’t you left yet?” I was puzzled, eyebrows furrowed.

Gary’s voice quivered. “I was about to do my first crossing with my mom, but we got separated. I’m stuck without her.”

More faint sobs echoed in my ears. And I shuddered at a thought; “Wait, if that was your first crossing, that means you were born inside my head.”

There was a pause. “Hatched, actually.”

A wave of nausea washed over me. “Alright, Gary, let’s find your mom. But first, we need rules.”

“Like what?” Gary inquired, his tone hopeful.

“No more public singing, especially at school,” I insisted. “Clearly, your mom isn’t there.”

“Deal,” Gary agreed. “And please, no more head-shaking. It’s quite unsettling.”

“Deal,” I echoed, a pact sealed with an earworm.

We stayed up late into the night, fine-tuning our plan. The biggest challenge was that Gary had no clue where his mother had crossed over. Our strategy was straightforward but filled with uncertainty: retrace my steps, sing the song at key locations, and hope his mother would recognize it and appear.

The list of places I had yet to sing at was shockingly short compared to where I had already unintentionally performed – like school, Sophia’s daycare, and the supermarket. Tomorrow afternoon would be busy. I couldn’t help but feel anxious about the prospect of singing out loud in these places again. What if people started recognizing me as the ‘singing kid’?

“This has to work,” Gary said with a hint of desperation. “Two heads are better than one, right?”

“Absolutely!” I replied. Having a worm in my ear wasn’t the worst thing. Our afternoon of planning and chatting had been unexpectedly enjoyable. A weird thought crossed my mind, “Hey, what happens when you need to… you know, go to the bathroom?”

“I’d spare you the details if I were you,” Gary chuckled.

I flicked off the light, crawled into bed, and pulled the blanket over my head. I tried not to think about Gary using my ear as a personal bathroom. Easier said than done.

5

The next day at school passed without a single jingle outbreak. My classmates’ whispers turned to nods of approval, and even Mr. Brent gave me a supportive pat on the back. Despite the quiet, Gary’s impatience buzzed in my ear, “Is it time yet? Can we go?”

“Shush!” I hissed, forgetting for a moment that only I could hear him. Ms. Green, the librarian, overheard and shot me a disapproving look. Great, now I’m the ‘rude kid’ too.

As soon as the final bell rang, I dashed towards town, my list of locations in hand. “Alright, Gary, it’s showtime,” I murmured, my stomach twisting in knots as I approached Niccos, our favorite ice cream spot.

“Okay, your turn,” I said, stepping into the busy parlor. Gary took the cue, and the familiar tune started in my head. My toe tapped, my knees wobbled, and before I knew it, I was belting out the song.

The room erupted in a mix of laughter, surprised gasps, and a few sympathetic looks. My face burned with embarrassment, but I stood my ground, scanning the crowd for any sign of Gary’s mom.

The server, trying to hold back a chuckle, finally broke the awkward silence. “You gonna buy something or just put on a show?”

“Uh, no ice cream today,” I mumbled, making a hasty retreat.

6

Exhausted and discouraged, I shuffled through the supermarket aisles with Mom. Despite Mr. Brent’s positive report, my inner turmoil was far from over.

“No, Mom. The earworm’s still here,” I muttered, feeling a lump in my throat. “We just have an arrangement.”

“Yes,” said mum, nodding in acceptance. “Well, Gran will be happy she was right,” said Mom.

“I know my mom is out there somewhere,” said my earworm. No one but me could hear him. “Worms are very devoted mothers.”

“Then why haven’t we heard anything from her?” I exclaimed.

Mom paused – her son was a real goofball. “Don’t worry; you can tell Gran on Friday. Could you please get me some canned peaches at the end of the aisle?”

The earworm’s wails filled my ears as I walked to the peaches. “Stop that now,” I whispered, looking around the almost empty aisle. “If I can’t hear anything but you crying, we’ll never find your mother.”

His wailing ceased, and suddenly, a familiar tune hummed faintly nearby. My heart skipped a beat. Peering through the shelves, I spotted a shadowy figure humming the tune under its breath.

“Mom, wait here,” I whispered, a plan forming in my mind. I legged it down the aisle, dropping the can of peaches. 

“Dylan, where are you going?” screamed Mom after me.

“That must be my mom,” exclaimed the earworm.

“Be ready,” I warned.

I peered down the aisle. There was only a single woman with wild hair, sweatpants, and a grubby t-shirt. But I suddenly recognized this woman: Ms. Baker, Sophie’s teacher, a shadow of her usual self, humming the tune under her breath.

“Dylan, what’s the hurry?” Mom’s voice trailed after me. She halted mid-sentence as her eyes landed on Ms. Baker, trying to blend into the background. Ms. Baker’s hand flew to her face, a feeble disguise, as she nervously fiddled with her hair. “Katherine, it’s been ages since we’ve seen you at the daycare. I heard you’ve been under the weather.” The concern in Mom’s voice was evident, even as Ms. Baker appeared to shrink under her gaze, but still as if haunted, humming that cursed tune.

As I approached Ms. Baker with cautious anticipation, I could sense the earworm’s excitement mirroring my own. “Ms. Baker, is this familiar?” I inquired, reciting the initial lines of the song.

Her response was immediate, a blend of astonishment and relief. Her hands flew to her mouth, but she nodded.

“We need to sing it together to unlock the tune bridge,” my earworm reminded us.

“Dylan, what’s going on?” said Mom, worried, but I ignored her. This could all finally be over. 

I slowly approached the frazzled Ms. Baker, like an animal tamer to a frightened creature. “In a few seconds, I will start to sing the song. I promise you will never have to sing it again if we sing it together now.”

Mom was frozen in disbelief. A crowd at both ends of the aisle blocked Miss Baker’s escape. She had nowhere to go. She nodded slowly and took her hands away from her mouth.    

“Okay, Gary. You ready?”

“Yes. Bye, Dylan; thank you.”

Together, Ms Baker and I sang, and as our voices joined, a magnificent rainbow bridge materialized, shimmering with an ethereal glow. It was a moment of magic, a silent spectacle visible only to us: the bridge makers.  

As the final note faded, the supermarket erupted in applause. Amid the clapping and laughter, I felt a profound sense of release. My head was clear, the earworm gone. I shared a knowing smile with Ms. Baker.

7

Gran passed me the chocolate-coated biscuits for my tea, her attention divided between my snack and Mom’s discussion about the new teacher at Sophie’s daycare.

Miss Baker had abruptly decided to take a long holiday in Florida not long after our sing-along in the shopping aisle. She had ceased singing the toothbrush song, but not before poor Ms. Baker found herself afflicted with a new cat litter jingle in her head. The doctor had recommended an extended period of rest, with as much quiet as possible.

“And poor Miss Baker had the same earworm as Dylan,” Mom remarked. “They sang to each other right in the shopping aisle.” Only Ms. Baker and I had witnessed the tune bridge in that shopping aisle. Many onlookers assumed it was some kind of rehearsal for a play or commercial. Mom was still considering whether to take me to see a doctor, but I hadn’t experienced any further incidents since then.

“Really?” Gran smiled. “I heard a rumor from my neighbor that you were heard singing that song all over town. Has it finally passed?” she asked.

“Yes, it was just a passing phase,” I replied. I hadn’t shared the story of my earworm with anyone. After all, who would believe it? It had been two weeks since I last sang that silly tune, and I had come to appreciate the blissful silence more than ever.

“You know,” Gran began, “I’ve had a song stuck in my head for the past few days. I can’t recall where I heard it, but it’s quite catchy.”

Before she could utter another word, I swiftly scooped up Sophia, her mouth still filled with chocolate biscuits, and dashed for the exit, shouting, “Sorry, Gran, but I just got rid of one earworm. I don’t need another.”