IFFY FICTION

Mrs. Biddle was a middle school teacher.

Well, not actually, but when she subbed for teachers who were out sick, on paternity leave, or taking a day for themselves because if they didn’t, they’d “go postal,” to use Ms. Whitis’ colorful words, she liked to pretend she was.

You know, she really didn’t approve of that Ms. Whitis.

In her own classroom, Mrs. Biddle would do things differently. The same students who she could never hush up or keep on task, would work quietly and diligently in her classroom. The students who blurted newly found profanities as she tried to give instructions for the day, would raise their hands and say “yes, ma’am.” The students who mocked her glasses or the “old lady” fit of her slacks, would complement the charming holiday brooch she’d pinned to her cardigan or note the care with which she’d curled her hair. It was all down to classroom management. In her class, things would be done the right way.

The last noisy student had just left the 3rd period science class she was covering, and Mrs. Biddle rubbed her temples, grateful for the silence.

“Good morning, Ms. Biddle.” Mr. Choudhary stood in the doorway, his voice reinflaming her ebbing headache.

“Good morning. And it’s Missus.” She’d told them all a thousand times. As if the ring on her finger wasn’t clue enough.

“Ah, yes.” She glanced at him, detecting a smirk under the thick, black baleen strands of his moustache.

“Well, what did you want Mr. Chowder?” Her voice dropped to a murmur when she reached his surname. She just couldn’t pronounce those kinds of names.

“We’re having a meeting after school in the conference room. All the department chairs. And we’d like you to come.”

Mrs. Biddle felt her cheeks flush, her heart fluttering rapidly in her ears. She’d known this day would come. Honestly, it had taken them long enough. For months now, she’d been covering these lazy, self-interested teachers’ classes, trying to keep their unruly, snot-nosed kids in line. Of course, there was only so much one could do when you weren’t their regular teacher. Structure. Routine. Discipline. That was what they needed. And what they lacked.

Finally, it seemed, the powers-that-be had realized she was the one to give it to them.

The rest of the day dawdled. When the last bell rang, Mrs. Biddle picked up her already packed bag and strode to the front office, replaying the scenarios she’d spent the remainder of her class periods been contriving.

She’d walk into the conference room. The department chairs would be seated around the long table, some of them smiling, a couple with tight mouths and crossed arms. Resentment. Especially that Ms. Whitis. But someone needed to teach that boy a lesson. He’d clearly never seen the right side of a back hand. Of course, in her class… The negligence of these teachers was criminal. Letting students eat in class like a bunch of farm animals.

She pushed the thought away and re-immersed herself in the story.

They’d stand when she approached the table, compelled by respect, grudging or not. The principal, Ms. Apperley, capable enough, though a little on the lenient side, would walk up to her, hand extended, a broad smile on her plump face. She would congratulate her on her contributions to the school, citing all the ways she’d added to the education of the young people in her charge. How she’d even shown the teachers the right way to discipline kids and teach them manners. How she’d only wished there were more teachers like her.

Maybe there’d be a cake with “Congratulations” written on the top in neat cursive.

The thought of her old certificate flashed into her mind, buried in a filing cabinet at her house, a large red “REVOKED” stamp across it. That whole business had been such bunkum. A bunch of bleeding-heart ninnies who didn’t know what was good for young men and women.

Of course, she hadn’t mentioned it when she’d applied as a substitute the year before. She knew it would come up eventually, but she hoped to have proven how invaluable she was by that time.

When she pushed open the conference room door, she was met with six dour faces. Ms. Whitis rudely stared down, intently focused on her notepad. Mr. McKinley looked at some invisible thing of interest near the ceiling. Ms. Abdzel and Ms. Hunt whispered to each other, stealing glances at her. And Mr. Chowder had his eyes locked on her, his expression serious. He was gunning for Ms. Calcedony’s job as vice principal. It was obvious.

Ms. Apperley motioned for her to sit down in the chair opposite them, isolated. They were trying to make it seem official, she supposed. Hope wasn’t something Mrs. Biddle liked to indulge in. Certainty was more her speed. And she was certain that things were about to go her way.

She sat, the swiveling leatherette chair squealing beneath her.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Biddle,” the Prinicpal began. “I’ll get right to it.”

Mrs. Biddle felt her pulse quicken. She sat up a little straighter, if that was possible.

“In light of last week’s incident. And the other, more minor ones before…”

Mrs. Biddle cut her off. “Incident?” She was genuinely baffled.

Ms. Apperley cleared her throat. “To put it mildly.”

Mrs. Biddle glanced across the department chairs’ faces. They all looked at her now. Ms. Whitis, that hussy, looked like a dog caught digging through the trash. One corner of Mr. Chowder’s mouth turned up smugly under his moustache. Who did he think he was? She’d have his job before long.

“After some serious deliberation amongst ourselves, and Ms. Calcedony, who unfortunately couldn’t be here, we’ve decided it would be better for us all if…”

Here it was. The offer. Mrs. Biddle’s thoughts landed momentarily on Ganymede Junior High, that arrogant principal, Mr. What’s-his-name, thinking he knew better than she did what was good for her students. Going to the police. The nerve of that man.

“…if you didn’t substitute here anymore.”

Mrs. Biddle’s mouth fell open, something she would never tolerate in her students. But she was flabbergasted.

“We don’t want to escalate the situation, and thankfully, Skye’s parents agree.”

Skye. That orange haired little shit deserved more than he got. Mrs. Biddle shocked herself with the vulgarity of her thoughts.

“We do thank you for your service, but,” Mr. Chowder brushed his moustache thoughfully, “it’s just not a good fit.”

---

Mrs. Biddle opened her front door. A huff of dank air greeted her. Not dust. There would be none of that. But emptiness. The house was silent.

She’d thought about getting a cat, but they were too untrainable. Walking on the counters, sleeping where they like. She’d considered another dog, but the one she and Mr. Biddle had together always cowered in the corner, shivering when she’d walked by. For a moment she wondered if it was still alive.

At the couch’s end table, she switched on the old tiffany lamp and picked up the photo of her and Mr. Biddle. It was taken by a Chinese tourist on their honeymoon trip to Niagara Falls moments before her hat had blown away. The man had cut the top of Mr. Biddle’s head off, but it was still her favorite photo. She kissed his face and promptly wiped the smear off the glass with the cuff of her sleeve.

Things hadn’t been the same since he’d been gone.

She took off her loafers and set them neatly in the shoe rack by the door. Her body was heavy with exhaustion. For the entire bus ride back home, the day’s events had replayed in her head. Those words echoing in her head. It’s not a good fit. Her certainty, dashed. She’d never forget that Chowder’s face as he said them. He clearly hadn’t had a teacher like her.

Once Mrs. Biddle had changed into her evening clothes and house coat, she pulled a square of lasagna from the fridge, unwrapped the clingfilm, and put the plate into the microwave.

Her lasagna was Mr. Biddle’s favorite. She was sure the other Mrs. Biddle didn’t make lasagna like hers. Most likely used the kind from the freezer section. She would’ve bet money. Not that she was a gambler.

When the microwave beeped, she took her dinner to the table. As she chewed, she ruminated. People these days. When she’d been young, kids did as they were told. They respected their elders. They had a sense of duty. And if they didn’t, well…

A ghost of her mother passed through. She shuddered.

That was what none of them understood. Not the Ganymede Junior High administration. Not the police. Not those parents, crying over that snotnose brat when she’d only given him what they should have given him at home. Not the review board before they took her certification. Not even Mr. Biddle.

She sighed and forced her thoughts away from her husband. Ex-husband. He’d promised for better worse, but that hadn’t held water, had it?

When she’d finished eating, she washed her plate, set it in the rack to dry, and went to pull the couch out into a bed.

Once she’d done her nightly regimen, she slipped under the covers of the sofa bed and smoothed them over her. She flipped on the television, letting Andy Griffith play in the background as she studied the paper bus schedule. There were three other middle schools on the bus routes in reasonable distance. She circled them with a red pen. The orange light of the setting sun creeped in through the window above her, moved up the wall, and then faded to dusk.

She’d have to stop at the library to make copies of her resume. Of course, some changes would need to be made first. It occurred to her that East Ridge Middle School actually hadn’t been a good fit.

Her eyelids grew heavy, and she didn’t fight them. She’d be needing her rest. Tomorrow would be a big day.

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* 95% of this story was written during a planning period and lunch break as I substituted at a middle school. I am not Mrs. Biddle. If anything, I’m more of a Ms. Whitis. And I certainly don’t know any other subs or teachers who are like Mrs. Biddle. I used the middle school setting to explore harmful educational and child-rearing practices that are so deeply ingrained, people who have received and practiced them can’t see them for what they are — abusive.

Photo by Autumn_ schroe on Unsplash