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.
I 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.
‘Nothing.’
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
‘Miss Sidley?’
Her head jerked up and a little Oh! hiccupped involuntarily from her throat.
It was Mr Hanning. 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 Hanning 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 –