The Teacher’s Pet

Posted: May 24, 2010 in My Story, Part Two
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It grew bigger and meaner with her every innocent step.  Both leaning condescendingly over her and backing tauntingly away—the latter meant to prolong her humiliating trek, to be sure—the blackboard had never displayed such spitefulness toward the teacher’s pet.  As though her heretofore unsullied conduct record deepened the object’s bloodlust for her, she was certain its very pointed sneer was evident to all.

She hastened her little, pink shoes so that she might end the torture.  This was no time for waiting in line—she pushed aside the other delinquents with surprising arrogance.  A sharp jab here and there proved to be no trouble for her unseasoned elbow, and she gained confidence with every unchecked sin.  Stifling all compassion for any wounds inflicted, she focused on securing the chalk.  Her wrongly-accused fingers nearly snapped the utensil in half, as bold, white lines seared revenge into the obstinate face of the newfound enemy.

The task completed—the letters L-a-i-n-i-e streaked in defiance—the thusly named second-grader commenced her return to her desk and left the others to add their names (or extra check marks) to the naughty list.  Although Lainie still felt a bit embarrassed by the whole ordeal, and no less indignant about the false accusation and unjust punishment, it hadn’t been fatal.  She could now go back to—

“LAINIE!” interjected an exasperated voice, halting the child’s thoughts and feet.  The teacher’s very serious tone demanded a very serious about-face, and Lainie couldn’t imagine what was the matter now.  Harsh, disapproving lines unflatteringly carved up Mrs. Gannon’s normally pretty face.  The little girl’s eyes simply couldn’t bear it, and would have immediately drowned if not for noticing the dumb little boy standing next to the angry face.  “William!” Lainie exclaimed furiously, though completely internally.

William was a cry-baby with parted, gelled hair and a striped polo shirt.  He never wore jeans and never thought for himself—he had a mother for that.  The other kids openly mocked him, but Lainie—though she thoroughly agreed with their assessments—always kept her mouth shut and treated him nicely.  After all, he couldn’t be blamed for his mother’s psychosis; what was he going to do?  Go on strike?  He had no power.  She undoubtedly governed even the number of toilet paper squares he used.  Up to this point, Lainie had always pitied him and his dormant brain cells.  She had never liked him, to be sure, but neither had she despised him.  Until now.

Evidently, the dolt had zero pain tolerance and had found himself in the way of one of Lainie’s errant elbows.  Instead of addressing the problem himself—a problem for which the little girl in question would have expressed the most sincere and apologetic sympathies, thus resolving it completely—cry-baby William took his overly contorted face and hyperbolized sore rib to Mrs. Gannon.  There, he gave his own biased account, and Mrs. Gannon couldn’t believe that “dear little Lainie” would have done such a thing, and so on.  Dear little Lainie restrained her fury, lowered her eyes, and received the public scolding.  When it was all over, she resumed her retreat.

In answer to all the incredulous stares of her classmates, dear little Lainie muttered, “I’m not the sweet little girl I seem.”  It was with such a strange explanation that this strange episode ended, for by tomorrow, the teacher’s pet will have reclaimed her rightful position.

~LG

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Comments
  1. katdish says:

    “After all, he couldn’t be blamed for his mother’s psychosis…” Such a big statement in an economy of words.

    Keep writing. Can’t wait to read the rest of the story.

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