The Collected Diaries of Donald J. Trump,
Maybe because of the war or maybe because it seems like a lot of people, some of whom I guess are very nice and regular Americans, got polio, all of us at Kew-Forest have to go to the school doctor who I am told does some things that are very nasty and personal to people, and I am not happy about it, you can believe me.
Dad became very angry with me when I announced at dinner that I would not be allowing a person I don’t know to ask me personal questions and touch my bare chest and feet, even if he is a doctor. (Dad also does not understand why some boys with my build and skin tone like to wear T-shirts while swimming, so he’s not the most sympathetic father around, let me tell you!!!)
So, Kitty, what I did was this: I told Mom and Dad that the school doctor was coming on Thursday — in reality he was coming on Wednesday — and so when Wednesday rolled around I pretended to have an upset stomach, which they totally believed (Dad had found my secret candy hideaway at the back of the small closet in the upstairs hallway a few days before when he heard me crying behind the coats), and so on Wednesday I stayed home with Mom and the housekeeper and we played games and I was allowed to take a bath (Dad doesn’t like it when I take baths) and I got to be in my robe the whole day!! I didn’t even miss my secret candy!
But the next day at school, while I was offering Melinda Boustarian one whole dollar to allow me to touch the back of her knee (which she was about to take, even though I was prepared to pay up to two dollars because she like a lot of people from weird countries doesn’t know how to negotiate), I was called to the office and told that the doctor was there right then — gulp! — and he wanted to examine me. I guess there were too many pupils to see the day before, so it turned out that I faked being sick for nothing, which really irks me because I am going to need to fake being sick again next month when we do dancing in PE.
Anyway, to make a long story short, the doctor examined me and as he pressed his cold stethoscope into my soft chest skin, which enveloped his stethoscope in an embarrassing way, he asked me how much candy I’m eating and I told him I don’t eat candy, which he didn’t believe because he made a snorty noise just like Dad does when I tell him that I am very popular with girls, and which made me very very angry, Kitty, because the truth is I don’t eat that much candy except for the candy that I hide in the upstairs closet (that my dad found) and the candy that I still have hidden away in my underpants drawer (which is off limits to everyone) and the candy I sometimes need to eat in the bathroom when something has happened to upset me and I need to cry and eat and run the water, so except for those three specific candy-eating situations, I actually don’t have a big sweet tooth.
I mean, yes, Kitty, I am eating candy right now, but that’s because of what happened with the doctor.
See, when it became time for me to remove my pants for this doctor — I didn’t catch his name but I remember it sounded Jewish, which is okay in a doctor or a lawyer according to Dad — he noticed that the waistband of my pants seems awfully tight and leaves a big red indentation ring around my waist and he told me that he is going to give me a note to give to my parents to tell them that I need to either stop eating candy or start buying bigger pants and there is no way I am giving this note to Mom (because she’ll show it to Dad) and if Dad finds out he’s going to start talking about military school again, where, according to him, “fat boys go to toughen up,” and no!
So I’m leaning against the back part of the garden shed and I am making my way through some emergency Bit-O-Honeys and holding this note from the doctor and worrying about military school, and oh Kitty! What’s going to happen to me?????