Elsie, one of my pupils, had been skipping class, and when she did show up, it seemed like her spark was fading. The town’s residents all agreed that her legal guardian was extremely cruel. I made an effort not to pass judgment, but after Elsie went missing again, I went to see how she was doing.
I was astounded by what I found. Every time I glanced at Elsie’s empty desk, worry bit me. I have 28 years of experience as a fourth-grade teacher.
More frequently than I would like to admit, I have witnessed children fall between the cracks. I was drawn to Elsie in a different way, though. Perhaps it was because she reminded me of myself at that age, with all of my creative flare and quiet passion.
Or perhaps it was because I had been observing that spark gradually wane over the previous few weeks. Two years ago, Elsie’s mother lost her life in a terrible highway vehicle accident. The tragedy was spoken in whispers around our community, and when Elsie was forced to live with Wendy, the estranged sister of her late mother, the whispers changed from ones of sorrow to ones of shock and terror.
Wendy had a reputation, you see. Even though I’ve usually avoided getting involved in local rumors, I had heard that Wendy had yelled at the Johnsons for parking their car two inches in her driveway. Wendy had thrown garments on the floor at Darla’s boutique because she thought they were too expensive, ripped into poor Mrs.
Peterson at the library over late fees for books that weren’t even past due, and filed noise complaints about the church bells throughout the years. She was referred to be a witch by the schoolchildren. Their parents employed more imaginative language.
At first, however, Elsie had appeared to be OK. Yes, it was quiet, but it was innovative in ways that delighted my teacher. Imaginary creatures with eyes that seemed to hold entire planets, a woman’s face turned toward heaven, and deer moving through moonlit woods were just a few of the exquisite drawings she would fill the margins of her assignments with.
I had convinced myself that, on the whole, she was doing well. The girl who used to remain after class to show me her sketches, however, had stopped talking lately and her eyes appeared lifeless, as if the brightness had been switched out. The fact that her chair was unoccupied most of the time was even more worrisome.
I experienced the same icy twist in my stomach that day as I looked at the attendance log. That was the second consecutive day that Elsie had missed class without even receiving a call from Wendy. I remembered how exhausted Elsie had appeared when she picked up the phone and went to class the last time.
Before Wendy’s piercing, agitated voice broke the stillness, it rang five times. “What?”
“Hello Wendy, this is Mrs. Monroe, Elsie’s primary school teacher.
Regarding Elsie’s absences, I’m calling—”
“She is ill. She is taking a break and will return when she is ready. “So, has she visited a physician?
Recently, she has been quite pale, and—”
Click. The line died. A feeling of uneasiness blossomed in my chest as I carefully lowered the receiver.
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