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Finish reading the first half of the story. Prepare to explain what exactly is happening to the teacher
“Tomorrow,” she pronounced clearly. “Robert, you will please use the word tomorrow in a sentence.”
Robert frowned over the problem. The classroom was hushed and sleepy in the late-September sun. The electric clock over the door buzzed a rumor of three o’clock dismissal just a half-hour away, and the only thing that kept young heads from drowsing over their spellers was the silent, ominous threat of Miss Sidley’s back.
“I am waiting, Robert.”
“Tomorrow a bad thing will happen,” Robert said. The words were perfectly innocuous, but Miss Sidley, with the seventh sense that all strict disciplinarians have, didn’t like them a bit. “Too-mor-row,” Robert finished. His hands were folded neatly on the desk, and he wrinkled his nose again. He also smiled a tiny side-of-the-mouth smile. Miss Sidley was suddenly, unaccountably sure Robert knew about her little trick with the glasses.
All right; very well.
She began to write the next word with no word of commendation for Robert, letting her straight body speak its own message. She watched carefully with one eye. Soon Robert would stick out his tongue or make that disgusting finger-gesture they all knew (even the girls seemed to know it these days), just to see if she really knew what he was doing. Then he would be punished.
The reflection was small, ghostly, and distorted. And she had all but the barest corner of her eye on the word she was writing.
She caught just a flicker of it, just a frightening glimpse of Robert’s face changing into something... different.
She whirled around, face white, barely noticing the protesting stab of pain in her back.
Robert looked at her blandly, questioningly. His hands were neatly folded. The first signs of an afternoon cowlick showed at the back of his head. He did not look frightened.
Imagined it, she thought. I was looking for something, and when there was nothing, my mind just made something up. Very cooperative of it. However…
“Robert?” She meant to be authoritative; meant for her voice to make the unspoken demand for confession. It did not come out that way.
“Yes, Miss Sidley?” His eyes were a very dark brown, like the mud at the bottom of a slow-running stream.
She turned back to the board. A little whisper ran through the class.
“Be quiet!” she snapped, and turned again to face them. “One more sound and we will all stay after school with Jane!” She addressed the whole class, but looked most directly at Robert. He looked back with childlike innocence: Who, me? Not me, Miss Sidley.
She turned to the board and began to write, not looking out of the corners of her glasses. The last half-hour dragged, and it seemed that Robert gave her a strange look on the way out. A look that said, We have a secret, don’t we? The look wouldn’t leave her mind. It was stuck there, like a tiny string of roast beef between two molars — a small thing, actually, but feeling as big as a cinderblock.
She sat down to her solitary dinner at five (poached eggs on toast) still thinking about it. She knew she was getting older and accepted the knowledge calmly. She was not going to be one of those old-maid schoolmarms dragged kicking and screaming from their classes at the age of retirement. They reminded her of gamblers unable to leave the tables while they were losing. But she was not losing. She had always been a winner.
She looked down at her poached eggs. Hadn’t she?
She thought of the well-scrubbed faces in her third-grade classroom, and found Robert’s face most prominent among them.
She got up and switched on another light.
Later, just before she dropped off to sleep, Robert’s face floated in front of her, smiling unpleasantly in the darkness behind her lids. The face began to change…
But before she saw exactly what it was changing into, darkness overtook her.
Miss Sidley spent an unrestful night and consequently the next day her temper was short. She waited, almost hoping for a whisperer, a giggler, perhaps a note-passer. But the class was quiet — very quiet. They all stared at her unresponsively, and it seemed that she could feel the weight of their eyes on her like blind, crawling ants.
Stop that! she told herself sternly. You’re acting like a skittish girl just out of teachers’ college!
Again the day seemed to drag, and she believed she was more relieved than the children when the last bell rang. The children lined up in orderly rows at the door, boys and girls by height, hands dutifully linked.
“Dismissed,” she said, and listened sourly as they shrieked their way down the hall and into the bright sunlight.
What was it I saw when he changed? Something bulbous. Something that shimmered. Something that stared at me, yes, stared and grinned and wasn’t a child at all. It was old and it was evil and…
Her head jerked up and a little Oh! hiccupped involuntarily from her throat.
It was Mr. Harming. He smiled apologetically. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Quite all right,” she said, more curtly than she had intended. What had she been thinking? What was wrong with her?
“Would you mind checking the paper towels in the girls’ lav?”
“Surely.” She got up, placing her hands against the small of her back. Mr. Harming looked at her sympathetically. Save it, she thought. The old maid is not amused. Or even interested.
She brushed by Mr. Hanning and started down the hall to the girls’ lavatory. A snigger of boys carrying scratched and pitted baseball equipment grew silent at the sight of her and leaked guiltily out the door, where their cries began again.
Miss Sidley frowned after them, reflecting that children had been different in her day. Not more polite — children have never had time for that — and not exactly more respectful of their elders; it was a kind of hypocrisy that had never been there before. A smiling quietness around adults that had never been there before. A kind of quiet contempt that was upsetting and unnerving. As if they were...
Hiding behind masks? Is that it?
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