The Troublemaker

A teacher enunciated so crisply that she could break things.

Her students were all different ages — it wasn’t uncommon for younger and older siblings to sit side-by-side. The teacher instructed them in reading, writing, and arithmetic, as well as diction. Her students loved her trick. They pleaded with her to articulate.

“Please, teacher!” they’d say in unison. “Please do it!”

She never made any promises. She might perform her trick if they completed their lessons and behaved for an entire day, or she might not. Only when she was feeling generous would she signal for silence.

“Class,” she’d say. “Does everyone see the icicle outside?”

The icicle in question would be hanging from the eaves, outside the schoolroom’s window.

“Icicle,” the teacher would say, enunciating each syllable.

With a loud crack, the icicle would fracture. It would separate from the eaves and drop to the ground while the students cheered.

The teacher could break various things — icicles, yes, but also coatracks and yardsticks. Anything she broke would have to be replaced, but her students were engaged and earning good marks.

Every year the teacher had a troublemaker. Sometimes it was the same student from the previous year — sometimes a new student made a reputation for himself. The teacher had learned not to confront them. By drawing attention to the troublemaker she only encouraged his antics. The teacher understood the troublemaker was seeking validation, not to undermine her authority. Rarely did she take it personally.

One afternoon, when the teacher had a sinus headache, her most recent troublemaker invented a song. The song was short and repetitive, and the troublemaker sang it over and over again, with no signs of tiring. Soon the other students would join in, the teacher knew. She tried to distract the troublemaker without explicitly saying to stop, but he continued to sing. The teacher’s head was throbbing and she acted without thinking.

She enunciated the troublemaker’s name.

Something broke — the teacher heard the snap. It wasn’t a coatrack or a yardstick. Whatever she’d damaged, she knew, was inside the troublemaker’s body. Her other students were preoccupied with their assignments and unaware of his injury, but the troublemaker stopped singing. He looked confused.

“Please come to the chalkboard,” the teacher told him, trying to make her tone sound more genially. “You can erase the work from this morning.”

She watched him walk the length of the schoolroom. The troublemaker’s gait appeared to be normal — from this she deduced that his legs must be healthy. He didn’t place more or less weight on one foot or the other. Although she was sorry for what she’d done, she was relieved by his silence. Her headache was a little less painful.

The troublemaker took the eraser from her.

“Start at the top, please.”

The teacher observed as he erased the chalkboard. He had no trouble raising his arms over his head, nor any difficulty holding the eraser. A person’s hands contained over twenty bones, she knew. They all seemed to in working order. Maybe she hadn’t broken anything essential. What hadn’t she considered? The troublemaker’s ribs? His teeth?

His face was a troubling color — not red or purple, like he was holding his breath, but yellow, like an old bruise. His breath sounded wheezy. The teacher couldn’t remember the last time he’d been quiet for so long. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible, she thought, if the troublemaker learned to be better behaved. After all, a body suffered all kinds of slights and still managed to heal itself.

For the rest of the afternoon he sat quietly at his desk. When the teacher excused the students for the day, the troublemaker and his younger brother left together, as they always did. The teacher watched through the schoolroom’s window. The troublemaker was walking slowly. He seemed to be ignoring his brother, more focused on the task of placing his feet. The teacher was still watching when he collapsed to the ground. From where she stood, fogging the window, she could hear his brother repeating his name.