Stephen King – Suffer the little children
Suffer the Little Children
Miss Sidley was her name, and teaching was her game.
She was a small woman who had to stretch to write on the highest level of the blackboard, which she was
doing now. Behind her, none of the children giggled or whispered or munched on secret sweets held in
cupped hands. They knew Miss Sidley’s deadly instincts too well. Miss Sidley could always tell who was
chewing gum at the back of the room, who had a beanshooter in his pocket, who wanted to go to the bathroom
to trade baseball cards rather than use the facilities. Like God, she seemed to know everything an at once.
She was graying, and the brace she wore to support her failing back was limned clearly against her print
dress. Small, constantly suffering, gimleteyed woman. But they feared her. Her tongue was a schoolyard
legend. The eyes, when focused on a giggler or a whisperer, could turn the stoutest knees to water.
Now, writing the day’s list of spelling words on the board, she reflected that the success of her long teaching career could be summed and checked and proven by this one everyday action: she could turn her back on her
pupils with confidence.
‘Vacation,’ she said, pronouncing the word as she wrote it in her firm, no-nonsense script. ‘Edward, please
use the word vacation in a sentence.’
‘I went on a vacation to New York City,’ Edward piped. Then, as Miss Sidley had taught, he repeated the
word carefully. ‘Vay-cay-shun.’
‘Very good, Edward.’ She began on the next word.
She had her little tricks, of course; success, she firmly believed, depended as much on the little things as on the big ones. She applied the principle constantly in the classroom, and it never failed.
‘Jane,’ she said quietly.
Jane, who had been furtively perusing her Reader, looked up guiltily.
‘Close that book right now, please.’ The book shut; Jane looked with pale, hating eyes at Miss Sidley’s back.
‘And you will remain at your desk for fifteen minutes after the final bell.’
Jane’s lips trembled. ‘Yes, Miss Sidley.’
One of her little tricks was the careful use of her glasses. The whole class was reflected in their thick lenses and she had always been thinly amused by their guilty, frightened faces when she caught them at their nasty
little games. Now she saw a phantomish, distorted Robert in the first row wrinkle his nose. She did not speak.
Not yet. Robert would hang himself if given just a little more rope.
‘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 comer of her eye on the word she was writing.
Robert changed.
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.