The Sarcastic Teacher

The Sarcastic Teacher

Miss Sharp had never actually wanted to be a teacher. When the Careers Adviser at her high school asked if she’d like to go into nursing, she’d replied, “Making beds and cleaning up puke?

“Alright, what about floristry?”

“Achoo,” she quipped.

“Hospitality, animal husbandry, science?” When he mentioned science, she mussed up her hair and mimicked a mad professor stirring a beaker.

“Alright Beatrice. How about teaching?”

“Yeah right,” she said, and the Careers Adviser took it as a yes, enrolling her in Teacher’s College.

In her first year out, she was given Kindergarten, which wasn’t too bad. Her sarcastic remarks went straight over their cute, little heads.

“Beautiful,” she commented on the messy writing. “Oh, how clever,” she cooed when the wee boy managed to hop twice on one leg. The children lapped it up.

No … the trouble began with middle school.

Incorrect answers were met with, “Brilliant," accompanied by an eye roll or, “Aren’t we the organized one?” when a child forgot her homework. During art lessons it was, “And what’s that supposed to be?” To the smallest boy in the class, she told him to stand up straight and then added, “Oh you are.”

At first there were tears but by mid-term she had mutiny on her hands. She begged to be returned to kindergarten, but the parents wouldn’t have a bar of it. None too popular with staff either, she continued to wound and belittle throughout her career.

Morale in the school was low. The buildings, old and shabby, were in desperate need of maintenance. Air conditioners that broke down in the middle of Summer were seldom fixed or replaced. In response to his staff’s complaints, Mr. Skint, the principal, cited lack of funds as the problem, endlessly reminding them to turn off the lights.

“Gee … that should solve the problem,” Beatrice scoffed.

The situation deteriorated to such an extent that the children’s playground area needed to be cordoned off as unsafe: the slippery dip was rusted through, the swings hung askew, the merry-go-round no longer turned.

“There’s not even enough money for books, let along computers,” the teachers bewailed, desperate for ideas to generate income.

“How about a talent quest?” suggested Idy Bright, the head of the Parents and Teachers Association. “We could charge an entry fee.”

“The community will be busting down the doors to see that,” Beatrice said but the motion was carried nonetheless, though precious few candidates volunteered from her own class.

“This is a talent quest, remember,” she said to those brave souls who auditioned. “Look it up if you don’t know what it means.”

“When am I supposed to laugh?” she asked Fred the comic. “Is there insanity in your family?” She accused Kevin of impersonating a frog when he sang and wondered out loud if there was an earthquake while Cindy pranced and twirled her heart out.

All the same, the concert drew a huge crowd. Buoyed by their success, teachers, parents, and children alike anticipated spending their well-earned cash on coveted, new resources. Mr. Skint, however, threw cold water over their plans. “

“I think not,” he announced, declaring that the money should be allocated to repairing broken windowpanes and leaking ceilings, as the order of priority.

With the event of his retirement fast approaching, plans were made to give him a farewell party. There was discussion about whether to hold it in the staffroom or whether they should book a fancy restaurant for the occasion.

“How about a phonebooth?” Beatrice suggested. There were definitely sniggers.

Mr. Skint’s departure necessitated finding a replacement to fill the principal’s position. Beatrice applied along with the best of them. Seated beside five other hopefuls in the interview room, her colleagues took bets on how long it would take before she put her foot in it.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the examiner apologized. “I got a bit windblown in the carpark.

At the sight of her ridiculous corkscrew hair, blown every which way, atop a green and red striped pantsuit, the others dropped their eyes but not Beatrice.

“No need to apologize. Your hair looks just wonderful. Love your outfit.”

The examiner beamed. When she outlined some outrageous changes proposed by her superiors, they all cringed but not Beatrice.

“That’s a great idea,” she enthused.

Throughout the interview, Beatrice scored points, astonishing her co-workers with her audacity. By meeting’s end she had the top job in the bag.

Her name and new title were duly embossed in gold lettering upon the door.

School Principal,

B. Sharp

Established in her private office, Beatrice began to thrive. No more dirty looks from fellow teachers in the lunchroom; no more lessons to prepare; no more idiotic projects to mark; no more racking her brains for complimentary comments to go on student’s report cards. She tossed her gold stars and smiley face stickers in the bin; having hundreds left over.

Pouring over the ledgers, she found that numbers were her thing. I should have been an accountant, she thought. Had the Careers Adviser even mentioned that one?

In balancing the books, she managed to procure enough funding for all the needed upgrades as well as the latest educational innovations. Morale in the school boomed.

“Looking sharp Beatrice,” she often heard from her colleagues as they passed her in the corridors. She particularly liked to hear it from the new year six, executive teacher, Mr. Darling. She knew she looked sharp. Along with her increase in salary, came an increase in fashionable clothes. She could even afford to wear stiletto heels now that she wasn’t patrolling the classroom or enduring the elements out on playground duty. She’d upgraded her old Mitsubishi to a snazzy, new Mazda too.

But the children still lived in fear of her tongue. Misdemeanors were dealt with harshly. Bullying, theft; even back-chatting were no longer tolerated. The culprits so dreaded to be sent to her office, that just the threat of it curbed their anti-social behavior.

Not only were the grounds and buildings in good repair, replete with the latest technology, but school discipline was under control. Everything was looking sharp.

But years ticked by and Miss West became Mrs. Jones, Smith became Brown, Dobbs became Barker. Beatrice’s reactions of: ‘You? Seriously? What was he thinking? Wonders never cease;’ could do nothing to stem the tide. Maternity leaves soon followed. The clock on her office wall began to beat intolerably loud.

“Why not try it yourself?” a staff member asked. “Make someone a happy man.” But Beatrice knew a sarcastic comment when she heard one.

Despite Mr. Darling’s furtive looks at her legs, he had developed a severe, facial tic. “It’s more of a wince, I’d say,” said a colleague. “Happens whenever you speak.”

Oh bother. She was so looking forward to making Precious Little Darlings. But perhaps he feared raising Nasty Little Sharps?

The counsellor, Mr. Blunt was her last resort. Did she have any interests? Well yes, she liked numbers and knitting; something soothing about stabbing sharp needles into wool. Friends? None at all. Family? Can’t stand them.

As he clicked his tongue sympathetically, Beatrice mimed playing a violin and offered him her hanky.

He declined. “May I be blunt with you?”

“Can’t see how you could avoid that.”

“Quite so. Now let me be Frank.”

“Frank Blunt is it?”

“Now, now, Miss Sharp. Let’s take stock, shall we? You don’t have any friends; you don’t like your family. What about the children or your staff?

“Hate the lot of them.”

“Quite so. Therefore, I put it to you, that in actual fact, you hate yourself.”

She glared daggers at him but as her throat constricted, she realized it was true.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

“Ah, Miss Patience. Do come in.”

Entering with a full tray, the woman sat beside Beatrice and poured out some tea. Accepting a cuppa, Beatrice felt a tight knot in her stomach unravel, and then great big tears began to plop into her cup.

“Let it all out,” soothed Miss Patience, patting her on the knee, which unleashed a flood. Tears and tea sloshed into her saucer as she discharged a string of grievances.

Exhausting her impressive sounding list, she looked up at the blur that was Mr. Blunt.

“Well, well, well, what a storm in a teacup,” he tut-tutted.

Before she could douse him with said tea, he added, “But of course, now for the solution.”

Flicking a Bible open to Romans chapter two, he quoted, ‘You who pass judgement on others, do exactly the same thing yourselves.’ “If you want God to forgive you, Miss Sharp, the Lord’s prayer tells you to forgive others first.”

Tempted to shoot more daggers, she swallowed hard instead, and murmured, “Quite so.”

Miss Patience patted her on the knee again and poured a fresh cup of tea.

Somewhat blunted, she returned to school.

Mr. Darling finally lost the tic.

Miss Sharp became a Darling too, and hence the name of Darling grew.