Fiction logo

Miss Smythe Has a Fantasy

--what you never knew about your teacher--

By Lydia StewartPublished 2 years ago 3 min read
Top Story - December 2021
24
Miss Smythe Has a Fantasy
Photo by Kyle Cleveland on Unsplash

It had been one of those weeks. Three phone calls from parents who thought their children were gods, two or three children who behaved like it and kept everyone from learning, frustrated children who were exhausted and emotional, a fire-drill where a boy broke for the fences, an active shooter drill that was frankly more terrifying than she was prepared for, and an overwhelming sense that the people who paid her salary didn’t actually care if she lived, died, or just needed classroom equipment. She had cried in the bathroom during her lunch break over the sisters who had come to school after calling paramedics to wake their overdosed mother. It had been one of those weeks. If she was honest with herself, nearly all of the weeks felt like this anymore.

Miss Smythe stood at the door of her classroom, waving the last students on their way. Then she locked her door, pulled the blind, and laid her head on her desk. She could hear the distant slams and thumps of teachers leaving the building. Fleeing, more like, she thought. But she knew that they had as much grading to do as she did, they just had stuffed it in bags and promised themselves they would grade over the weekend instead of making love to their spouses, making pancakes on Sunday morning, chasing their children, and sleeping in. They were lying to themselves, of course. Miss Smythe, however, played no such mind games. She stayed at school until such god-forsaken hours that the custodial staff had even left, tidying the bulletin board, tallying bonus points, reading book reports, and answering parent emails. Even now she was contemplating the stacks of notebooks to be graded on her desk.

Her desk phone (from the 90s) rang and she blindly reached for it. Misjudging the distance, her fingers snagged the cord and pulled the phone off the desk instead, dragging papers, pencils, and coffee mug with it. She lifted her head up and looked at the mess. Well, darn. She laid her head back down. She could hear someone calling through the receiver that now lay on the floor and she absolutely didn’t care.

Perhaps it was the phone on the floor with the disembodied voice calling "…hello? ...hello?" through the receiver, urging her on. Perhaps it was the all-day paper jam in the only shared printer in the building, boiling up inside her. Perhaps this moment was coming all along, but whatever the reason, Miss Smythe decided that she was done. In a moment, her mind was clear. Carefully, she reached down and hung up the phone. Then she gently unplugged the jack. She wound the cords up neatly and tucked the whole contraption away in a filing cabinet drawer. Next, she scooped up every paper from the floor, carried them all to the trash—not the recycling bin—and dumped. She repeated the movement like an exorcist on a mission to purge the desk of all evil. When she was done, all the papers from that day were gone, along with the ones from the day before that she had promised herself she would grade as well, late into tonight. Grading wasn’t considered reliable data for proving if a student had actually learned or not, anymore, so why do it?

She took her copy of the “State Standards for Learning” to the back parking lot and burned it. Then she put out the trash full of homework and marked it with a sign that said, “Contaminated with Bodily Fluid,” giggling to herself. She stripped every cute sign from her walls. She marched into the halls and stripped down the brightly colored bulletin board border. The student work on it stayed, but by gum, it needed no after-work-hours-volunteer-yet-somehow-required ornamentation.

When she was done, she felt like the Grinch, and was immensely pleased with herself. Next week, she was going to teach her way. No more teacher meetings, no more parent emails, no more state standards. They would have fun, they wouldn’t agonize over tests at the end of the year, and they would read books for the joy of it. And she would put in an “ask me anything” box for kids who had life questions, and…and…and…

"…hello? hello?..." Miss Smythe startled herself, realizing that she was still staring at the phone as it lay on the floor, surrounded by papers and shattered coffee mug.

Well, darn.

Short Story
24

About the Creator

Lydia Stewart

Lydia is a freelance copywriter and playwright, watercolorist and gardener living in Michigan. She loves to collaborate with writer friends, one of whom she married. Her inspirations come from all of these interests and relationships.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.