Insufferable

     In my first elementary school I met this teacher, a young and blond woman by the name of Denisse. She was the prettiest teacher at the school, everybody always praising the beauty of the teacher at the end of the building. She had a hook for a nose, and an ugly sneer that turned her angelic face into that of hag.

               Not that anybody saw that, mind you.

     Her classroom was right across from my Dad’s. She would often stand at her doorframe and smile prettily at him, with that flirtatious smile only mermaids have. She was nice enough to me, as long as somebody could see her good doing. Nobody ever saw the young, beautiful, kind Miss Denisse doing any wrong.


Nobody but me.

                                                                                  1.


     The first time I met her, my Dad had dragged me into her classroom. I didn’t complain. For my dad seemed too happy to show me his friend. Miss Denisse stood from her place on her desk, a soft smile gracing her features and came close to me.

I gagged.

       You see, everybody has their own feeling, their own essence that helps recognize their presence. But hers…. She felt wrong. The same feeling that the old abandoned house at the end of the street had, the one the old lady at church dragged along with her crumpling body. I did not like that feeling, it feel wrong and made me nauseous. I almost pushed her away when she kissed my cheek, but only whimpered as she did.


      My dad had to drag me way, for I couldn’t move, and he apologized profusely for my behavior as he took me outside. He scolded me for my attitude once I calmed down enough to talk. I said nothing, only thinking of the strange face she had made when my Dad turned away. It would take me years, but I would later learn to recognize the feeling Miss Denisse had.

                                         
                                                              It was the feeling of Death.




                                                                                    2.

          She taught second grade the year I started first grade. My teacher, a young and dark woman by the name of Sandra, was her best friend. Miss Sandra carried with her a strong, bitter feeling, like the first bite from a green apple. She hated me for some reason, often lecturing me and screaming at me if I so much as dared to speak in her class. She gave me extra work, and complained twice to the Principal about my ‘Insufferable Attitude’.


 Miss Denisse only smiled when she saw me.




                                                                                   3.

           My first year was the year the rumors started. They came from everywhere, whispered in the corners of the school, written on the doors of the bathrooms. Kids on my class would look at me in pity, their not so hushed whispers carrying words such as ‘I heard her Dad is going out with Miss Denisse’ ‘Did you see them kissing?’ ‘Poor girl. She probably doesn’t know’. My mom cried every night, when she thought I was sleeping in my room. My parents fought, often and loud enough to worry our neighbors.


Miss Denisse only smiled