The Problem Child

   The Problem Child

Suzanne Marsh

“Houston, we have a problem!” I cringed as I heard those few words uttered by Stacy’s teacher. Stacy is the youngest of three daughters; she has been problematic from her conception until now. My heart sank as her third-grade teacher, Sister Mary Margaret glared at me over the top of her wire rimmed glasses. Sister had known me as disciplinary problem when she had been a young novice and I had been her student. Ten years later, here I sat, those frosty blue eyes glowering at me once again. I wondered what Stacy had done this time. Sister paced the floor for several moments, before she began her lecture about Stacy’s unacceptable behavior. I was pretty sure at this junction my mother must have tried to shrink into her chair. I did not have long to wait:

“Mrs. Monte, Stacy has disrupted my class for the very last time, having you as a mother.

I can understand why the child is so undisciplined!”

That was a low blow even for Sister. I eyed her sheepishly wondering just what she was about to divulge:

“I was unfortunate enough to have you in my class; yes, I still remember the frog down

my back.”

I half expected to see some avenging angels come swooping down on me as she continued:

“Stacy, God help me, has made you look like a walk in the park. Do you have

any idea what she did this time?”

“No, Sister Mary Margaret but I am sure you are going to tell me sometime soon.”

That only served to make Sister angrier that she already was:

“Marsha, you, you,”

She was livid, I had a sinking feeling I had just sunk Stacy’s boat:

“I am sorry Sister, what exactly did she do? You have hinted but not told me.”

She waved her pointer finger in my face:

“I would not have even bothered to call you except that Stacy has created a bigger

problem than the sisters can deal with.”

I was getting somewhere now. Sister was beside herself, I almost felt sorry for her because Stacy was a handful. Once again Sister began to pace the floor, her white hair sticking out from under her black vail. I thought to myself: ‘my goodness is she getting white I could remember whisps of bright red.

hair when I had her as teacher years ago. I, no doubt, had caused some of those white hairs myself. I began to brace myself for Sister’s indomitable stare, the one that always gave me the creeps. The look is difficult to describe; a cross between a glare and you are done! I know Stacy had seen that look quite a few times recently. That thought brought me back to present. Sister, for all her patience had been pushed too far this time:

“Marsha, I survived you, frogs and mice; those were bad enough. Have you any idea where?

Stacy got a Glossy Snake from?”

I gulped:

“She had a what where?”

Sister, knew she had my attention:

“Yes, Marsha, you heard me correctly; Stacy brought in a Glossy Snake, put it on Sister.

Gertrude’s chair, where it was coiled. Sister pulled the chair out, saw the snake, screamed.

then fainted. The class thought it was hysterical. Stacy had her moment of fame.”

I wasn’t sure I was going to placate Sister; Stacy had been to three private all girls' schools in the past three years. I knew this would become the fourth if I did not do something about these stunts of hers and soon. Sister continued her reasons for Stacy being gone from my old alma mater:

“That Glossy Snake looked a great deal like a rattlesnake, Marsha. This is not going to do.”

I took a deep breath:

“Sister Mary Margaret, I truly am sorry for Stacy’s behavior, but she is a child and presumptuous

one at that. Please don’t expel her, you never know she could turn out to be another.

Einstein.”

Sister almost choked on that; my mind began to drum up ideas about why Stacy should stay:

“I mean after all; I turned out okay after two years of pranks.”

“Don’t remind me, I shudder to think of what Stacy will do next.”

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA came a sudden cry from out of nowhere. Sister Mary Margret was out the door before I could even react. The cry came from a classroom several doors down from Sister’s office or lair depending on what the circumstances were.

I somehow knew that scream had something to do with Stacy. I walked in the door of the classroom to see a nun of about fifty, standing on her desk screaming about a rodent that had attacked her. Stacy, with a smirk on her face thought it amusing. That was the thing about Stacy, she always had a smirk after she did whatever she had done. Sister Ann Mary was perched on her desk, it was then I noticed Gorgeous George, Stacy’s favorite black rat. Gorgeous George had crawled roughly about halfway up Sister Ann Mary’s leg. Her one shoe had already been flung across the room. The English class was in hysterics watching their teacher doing more or less a jig on top of her desk.

Once again, Sister Mary Margaret gave me the one-eyed stare; heaven help me, I knew she was going to read me the riot act about Stacy. She turned around in the doorway and motioned Stacy to follow us to her lair. This did not bode well at all. I could still visualize the day I found myself in there. I had glued one of the sisters to her chair. Actually, I thought it was funny however Sister Mary Margaret had other ideas.

Sister led us in single file, this really did not bode well at all. Her face was a brilliant scarlet, her blues eyes as frostily as I had ever seen them.

“I want Stacy out of her NOW!”

“Houston, we have a problem!”