"Smell My Finger"

I was seated at my desk at the front of the classroom, when I saw Kaley enter the room.  She stopped at the desks of three of her peers, offering her pointer finger to each of her classmates to smell.  She reached Laura, who I suspect was her primary target, back by the computer cart, helping students get computers out and ready for class.

"Smell my finger," she said cheerfully, producing her finger as though it were some sort of rare gift.

"I'm not going to smell any part of you," Laura responded gruffly.  The kids know by now that Laura has no sense of humor for such things; I suspected that I would be her next stop.  And sure enough, she turned away from Laura and headed toward me, an attention seeking missile weaving through the desks.

"Hey, Gil, smell my finger," she said with a smile.

"I will not," I replied.  A chemical smell lingered in the air--the chemist's approximation of strawberry.

"I just used hand sanitizer, but it smells like perfume.  Go ahead, smell it!"

"I can smell it from here, and, frankly, I'd appreciate it if you didn't stick your hand in my face, Kaley."

"But doesn't it smell pretty?"

"It smells like chemicals, Kaley," I said.

On her way back to her desk she proffered her finger to four other peers (all of whom smelled her finger willingly, then recoiled at it) before finally giving up on the spectacle of her smelly finger.