Well, I detest them, the little blighters. They’re back, swarming like bugs caught in the light, little arms burnt red, panting like mongrel dogs when they press into the door at the bell. They crowd the fountain as if potable water was a rarity. Their young pre-pubescent bodies have taken on ripe vegetable aromas, like crumpled roses lining the bottom of a cardboard box.

When I began teaching, I always looked forward to this day. Opening day, I mean. Filled with enthusiasm, I saw their rosy faces as cherubic. Seraphim. Angels visiting from heaven above. Cherubim who would sing my praises.

“Miss Wendy! Look what I caught!”

They showed me crickets, sometimes cockroaches, broken and mangled, which I—cleverly, I thought—placed in a “magic” box where they could “heal” overnight. After hours, I scurried along the floor of cupboards, trapping detestable, filthy, whole things to re-stock the simply-named Carton of Healing. That’s what I called it. I felt these children deserved miraculous happenings in their lives. Soon enough, they’d see the real world.

They came to view me, in those days, as the Resurrector. Not by name, but that idea. Of course, I was younger then. Even, perhaps, prettier. Some of the Catholic girls once called me “Sister.”

But, since they moved me from First Grade to Sixth, everything’s all gone bust. Precocious girls, bleeding “on accident.” Little devils with paper planes tipped with sewing pins, spit wads. Smart mouths. Filthy mouths.

“Of course,” our Principal told me, “you’re older now. Perhaps less—forgiving? Certainly, more savvy? But try to enjoy them, can we?” Principal is mid-thirties. Smarmy. He may mean I’m a hag. Unattractive. Who knows?

“Of course. I’ll work to regain my spark.” And my loins re-girded, ironclad like, I don’t know. The Monitor and the Merrimac?

They don’t have much respect anymore, now do they?Every gesture, every grimace and laugh, anything, they don’t need me. I can’t teach them anything new, what with their damned Apple phones and their Google they consult for everything under the sun.

“Why memorize?” they ask me.

“It sharpens your mind. Keeps focus.” Even as I answer, I can see eyes drifting down to where their phones would normally be.



Give me the young ones, please. I beg him.

“I’m better with them,” I say. I’m just shy of batting my eyes.

“Yes, maybe you are, but don’t you want to stretch your strengths? If you try to give up some control,” he says, tapping a mechanical pencil on the desk, “you will see, it will make you more—”

He falters, bumbling for a word.

“—kind?” I offer.

“Not exactly, but that’s the idea.” Relief maps his face. “But also, more rounded as a teacher.” Should I make it this easy or hard for him?

“The younger ones love me. They—energize me. Please, just transfer me down to First Grade. Or even Kindergarten.”

“Sadly, I cannot do that, neither this year nor next.” He smiles. “Miss Overton-Smith just got here and I promised her father—who is building our gymnasium annex, as you
know—she would have an easy breaking-in period.”

I fume, but inside. Outwardly, I don’t even think I redden. I’m quite used to these disappointments. Miss Overton-Smith is a pert, twenty-two-year-old blonde. This power differential and game of assignments I resent. They are, I realize, part and parcel of the feelings of dismay I have, forlornness I transfer to dealings with the children. Impotence.

So, yeah. I dread them and their overpowering voices. The magic box is gone. In its place, I’ve drawn a circle. My Six Graders, after morning recess once a week, carry in large bugs, sometimes pollywogs. Once, two girls trapped a live rat in a humane trap and brought it inside.

“We can’t,” I said, barely keeping the shriek out of my voice, “do that. Let it go outside, by the fence, please.”

Our ritual, of course, is to drop the insects first. One by one, into the Circle of Life. If they crawl out within fifteen seconds, they’re freed. If not, well.

The smaller kids, more tentative, more skittish, step down tentatively. After they start to catch the rhythm, the bigger children join in, pounding down with grace, elegance, and a certain musicality. I think of how I’m teaching them, how we are all having such a good time together.

It is the only part of the day that makes me smile.

Robert Rinehart is a dual citizen author living in Aotearoa New Zealand. Work has appeared in Sky Island Journal, Chelsea, Suisin Valley Review, Concision (USA); Mayhem, a fine line, NZPS Anthology (NZ). He makes his home in Whaingaroa/Raglan on the North Island.