The Substitute by S. Craig Renfroe Jr.

The substitute does not know our names and refuses to learn them—she calls us “Sir” and “Mademoiselle.” She clicks when she walks. She points when she calls on one of us, and if we do not respond right away, she refers to us as unruly.

She abandons the Pledge of Allegiance. She asks us to start the day in prayer. Each day we pray to a different god—today is Set, god of necessary chaos.

The substitute ends naptime. We must learn industry. By tomorrow we will run out of the big-ruled paper. Our hands are numb and the #2 pencils leave indentations on our thumbs and index fingers—calluses on our middle fingers.

When one of us breaks down, she stands over the crier and asks that he or she come along quietly. She escorts one of us to the back of the room where we are now forbidden to look. There is a noise like the creaking of a wooden ship. When she returns with one of us, all is well.

The substitute does not sit behind the desk. She leans against the front of it, where she rubs her legs together like a cricket.

She bans Dr. Seuss. Gone are Dick and Jane. She burns in the trashcan the Berenstain Bears. Reading is a practical matter. She reads to us Poor Richard’s Almanack and excerpts from the Analects of Confucius.

The boys will naturally fall in love with her, she says. They will feel their first sexual stirrings. They should embrace these feelings and channel them into working harder—try to impress her, win her favor. Some of the girls will see this power she wields and want to emulate her—a living blueprint. The other girls will feel jealous—they might even challenge her. These girls will fail at life.

The substitute substitutes beets for sloppy joes. She tells us that abundance will be our enemy.

The substitute lets her teeth fall out. She removes the dentures, upper and lower, sets them on the desk beside her. Her maw, open, contains the secrets of adulthood. We stare into her.

She looks at me. I see you, she says.