Marianne Laucella faced the same difficulties as every attractive first-year teacher, and then some. She struggled to gain the respect of her students, who often attempted to treat the PhD candidate like a peer instead of an instructor. She realized that the first year is often accompanied by more stress than the already meager pay is worth. Beyond all of that, the hardest part of the job was just trying to wear clothes that prevented the students from staring at her with their eyes so wide and mouths so open that they resembled common fish.

She had tried sweaters, long dresses, cargo pants, and even, in the dead of winter, snow pants and a parka, but it seemed as if their imaginations worked harder than their brains. Eventually, she decided that her best bet was just to wear pantsuits every day until they got so desensitized to her that she might actually be able to teach some US history. The worst part about it all was that some of her classes were actually pretty great; the AP students were involved, they asked questions, and they even got to see a lighter side to the famously strict and no-nonsense teacher.

The honors class was a mixed bag, but it was really her seventh period, the small group of senior boys who had been placed in their own class by Principal Smith in an effort to “straighten them up on their path, ” that caused the trouble. It wasn’t that Marianne didn’t believe in the students; well, actually, it was. Just in the first week, she had caught Jose Hernandez, the leader of the group and the one Mrs. Laucella had personally suspended, taking pictures of her while she was writing on the whiteboard. Then, when she had gone to take a drink of her coffee, she had found alcohol in it. If it were up to her, she would’ve had them all expelled for the illegal possession of the substance and for trying to sneak it into their teacher’s drink. Unfortunately, after an investigation, they were unable to determine which student it had been, and Principal Smith insisted that they couldn’t expel all of them, so she had to settle for a generic apology.

But the break was over, and this time, Mrs. Laucella was determined to make a difference.

It was with that attitude that she found, on her desk Monday morning, a Teacher’s Guide to Being Helpful. Marianne rolled her eyes; another prank, she thought, except this one was a bit odd. Even though the guide seemed to be dedicated to a whole pamphlet of advice for teachers, there was only one rule in it:

Good teachers always try to help.

At least it was true. She wouldn’t have taken her job as an educator if she didn’t believe in the potential people had to always do their best. She took the strange pamphlet and placed it inside her right desk drawer so that she could forget about it until the end-of-year cleanup, where it would inevitably end up in the trash.

“Hey, Mrs. Laucella, ” said Jose as he swaggered into the room with his oversized hoodie and baggy jeans, which seemed to be the style of this generation. She didn’t care for it, as she thought it was quite unprofessional. Following Jose were the four other troublemakers in the class: Peter, whose wealthy parents had kept him out of trouble for the most part until this year; Lyle, a short kid without much of a brain; Terrence, one of the only students in the class she would consider possibly gifted, but who had zero drive; and Jackson. Jackson made a habit of attempting to use AI to complete personal assignments, but he was lazy about it. Mrs. Laucella had asked Jackson to write a personal narrative about his upbringing in their small town. He had turned in a generated essay detailing his childhood spent surfing the beaches of Malibu, California. It was a dead giveaway, considering Jackson had lived in this landlocked state his entire life and had never traveled west of the Mississippi. They were truly a helpless bunch, except, of course, she had to help them, as it was her job.

“So, for today’s lesson, we are talking about the state of modern America, ” she began. “How did we get here? Who are some of the biggest factors of the 19th century who have led us to this post-modern capitalist hellscape which seems inescapable?”

Lyle raised his hand and asked, “Is the 19th century 1900 or 1800?”

Terrence responded quickly, “It’s 1900, dumbass. You shouldn’t be in this course; they need to move you down a grade.”

Lyle responded, “Oh yeah? Well, we’re in the same class, so who does that make the dumbass? Dumbass.”

She slammed her hand against the table. “That’s enough! I will not have that language in my classroom. Do you both understand me?”

They all looked startled, which was the intended effect. So she got back to her lesson. “The late 19th century was a time of the relentless pursuit of ambition, wealth, and greed.”

Jose raised his hand in the back of the room. This ought to be good, thought Mrs. Laucella. She pointed at Jose, who lowered his hand slowly to the ground as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“I’m sorry, Miss, I’m confused.”

“What’s got you confused this time, Jose?” Besides how to dress properly, she thought to herself.

“Well, you had mentioned language earlier. Something about inappropriate language in the classroom. But I’m confused as to what counts as inappropriate.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Jose, ” said Mrs. Laucella. “I’ve heard the way you speak in the hallways. You know exactly what inappropriate is.”

Jose’s gaze was soft and sly as he said, “But seriously, Mrs. Laucella, I could really use some help.”

“Well, if you really need help, ” Mrs. Laucella said before stopping herself. She put a finger to her chin as if thinking, before finally saying, “Then you should have just said so. An inappropriate word is anything that we normally wouldn’t say in the classroom.”

Everyone looked slightly confused at her explanation. She was only trying to help, but there was only so much she could say within the confines of the classroom. They all looked especially confused except for Jose, and she assumed that they must’ve come to the same conclusion as her: that it seemed like a bit of a silly question. Still, she was an educator, so it was her job to help her student.

Jose said, “I’m still a bit confused. I think it would really help me if you said some of the words we weren’t allowed to say, and then we will know exactly what we shouldn’t say.”

“Well, Mr. Hernandez, if that’s what you really need.” She walked toward them, moving between her desk and their chairs so she would have their full attention. “I will say them once so you know which you cannot say, and then they are never to be said again. Do you all understand me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Laucella, ” they all said in unison. Mrs. Laucella was glad she had their attention; she would show them she was no pushover like most of their other teachers.

She said, “The inappropriate words are ass, bitch, shit, cunt, fuck, damn, and dick.”

They all started laughing, which made sense because it was unusual for their teacher to be cursing in the classroom, but she was just helping out a student. When Jose finished laughing, he said, “Excuse me, Miss, I didn’t get that one in the middle. Could you help me out and say it again?”

“Cunt, ” she said with a smile, happy to help.

The rest of the lesson went by as intended; in fact, the students seemed more engaged than they had previously, as they asked a number of questions. At first, it was mostly just Jose, but he seemed to start a trend as the rest of the students started asking for help as well. Between lecturing, reprimanding, and answering, the class flew by. She did have to help more than usual, though.

For example, on the end-of-class pop quiz, Lyle asked for help with the answer for number nine. She struggled to try and hint at the biggest reasons for the stock market crash, but she couldn’t find the words, so she ended up just whispering the answer to him directly because she couldn’t leave him without proper help. A similar situation happened with Jackson, who seemed particularly determined to drop his pencil as much as possible and was always asking for help as if it wasn’t right beside his leg. The worst of it was, of course, Jose, who kept forgetting the inappropriate words so much that eventually he asked if she could help him out by using one in a sentence. So, of course, she did, and the whole class seemed to get a kick out of it as their prim and proper PhD candidate teacher called Ma Ferguson a “fucking bitch.”

That night, she was just happy to get home to her husband, John Laucella, a lawyer working at the local Power Agency. They had met in the college library, where she had fallen in love with John’s dopey disposition that so often directly contradicted her own. The only time he ever showed any sort of backbone was when he was in the courtroom or after a courtroom loss, where he would bring his work back home with him.

Today had been a particularly bad loss, as Marianne had heard over text, but she wasn’t expecting him to walk into the room like Charlie Brown without even a hello, heading straight for the couch.

“Excuse me, ” she said, standing in front of him as he turned the TV on. “Your wife is wearing your favorite plaid pajama set, and I don’t even get a hello at the door?”

“I’m sorry, honey. You’re right. It was just a terrible day at work. To be honest, I could just really use a beer.” He put on a little pouty face, which she laughed at. She would never in her life grab him a beer from the fridge while he sat down, as if she wasn’t also working all day only to come home to work on her dissertation.

“Yeah, okay, and I would love a pedicure and a vacation to France. We both work so we can afford those things we love, just like you can afford to get up and get a beer. I had a hard day at work today too, but I came home and went straight to my dissertation.” She had already started walking away from him now. He sighed and put his head in his hands, realizing he had poked the hornet’s nest.

“Look, I’m sorry. I guess I was just saying that a beer would help, not that I needed you to get me a beer.”

She stopped where she was.

“Well, if a beer would really help...” She trailed off, her eyes glazing over slightly. She stopped, turned, went down the stairs, and, in a movement that would shock the world, brought a beer over to her husband, who sat with his legs up and mouth open. “Here. Just don’t make a habit of it, okay?”

“No, of course not!” he said, almost too quickly. “I mean, of course a beer a day would help anyone in a rough spot, especially handed by a beautiful lady like my wife, but I know not to count my blessings.” He took a deep swig, took her hand, and attempted to stare into her soul. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, ” she said as she turned to go work on her dissertation.

The next morning, Marianne woke up with a strange sense of clarity, though her memories of the previous evening felt slightly fuzzy around the edges. She moved through her morning routine with mechanical precision. She showered, brushed her teeth, and selected a navy blue pantsuit that was sharp, professional, and entirely unexciting. It was her armor, or so she told herself, against the chaos of seventh period. She poured her coffee into a travel mug, kissed a sleeping John on the forehead, and drove to school in silence.

When she arrived, the building was still quiet. She unlocked her classroom door and sat down at her desk, enjoying the few moments of solitude before the bell rang. Almost instinctively, her hand drifted to the right desk drawer. She pulled it open, intending to throw the silly pamphlet away, but instead, she found herself opening it. There, beneath the first rule about helping, a second line of text had appeared in bold, black ink.

Rule #2: A teacher never believes herself above her students.

The next morning, Marianne woke up with a strange sense of clarity, though her memories of the previous evening felt slightly fuzzy around the edges. She moved through her morning routine with mechanical precision. She showered, brushed her teeth, and selected a navy blue pantsuit that was sharp, professional, and entirely unexciting. It was her armor, or so she told herself, against the chaos of seventh period. She poured her coffee into a travel mug, kissed a sleeping John on the forehead, and drove to school in silence.

When she arrived, the building was still quiet. She unlocked her classroom door and sat down at her desk, enjoying the few moments of solitude before the bell rang. Almost instinctively, her hand drifted to the right desk drawer. She pulled it open, intending to throw the silly pamphlet away, but instead, she found herself opening it. There, beneath the first rule about helping, a second line of text had appeared in bold, black ink.

Rule #2: A teacher never believes herself above her students.

Mrs. Laucella scoffed at the rule. Same level as her students? She had wanted to be an educator all her life. She had been one of the top ten students in her class, maintaining a 4.0 GPA through college and her master’s degree in education. Now, here she was staring at a piece of paper telling her that a teacher never believes herself above her students. Obviously! How was she supposed to reach the students if she consistently thought of herself as better than them? After all, it was Einstein who said, “Everyone is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

In some classes, it was pretty easy to see the genius of her students. On that day, with the teacher’s guide placed back inside the desk, she was more appreciative than usual of her students’ specific talents. She made sure to elevate them all in conversation to ensure that they never felt like Mrs. Laucella was placing herself above them. She praised the AP students whenever they got answers right and even had them quiz her on some questions. Even with the students who didn’t do as well academically, she had been told by coaches that they were geniuses in their own sports. So, even when they didn’t get an answer one hundred percent right, she made sure to still praise them for their athletic achievements. She would say things like, “You may have missed that question, but I could never score a touchdown.” Her classes reacted with odd smiles. It was these reactions to her behavior that had Mrs. Laucella thinking that perhaps she had given these students the wrong impression previously by making herself out to be their infallible superior.

After all, everyone has their strengths and weaknesses, even a teacher like her. So when her troubled seventh period class entered, she was ready to elevate them all to her level. They were off to a good start, as surprisingly, for the first time, they were all in class early. Maybe things are really starting to change around here, she thought to herself.

“Good afternoon, everyone. For today’s lecture, we are going to do things a little bit differently. In an effort to elevate us all, we are each going to have the textbook, and we will take turns going around the room reading out passages for the whole class. Then everyone can explain piece by piece anything they are confused about or any important dates. I will serve mostly as a moderator to ensure that conversation and education flow smoothly.”

Jose looked confused, as if he was expecting something else. In the end, it was Jackson who finally spoke first. “Why are we switching things up? I really thought we had a good thing going with you talking and us kind of passively listening.”

“Look, let’s just give it a try, ” said Mrs. Laucella. “If it doesn’t work, we can try something else. I’m open to ideas.”

And so they did try, but she found a number of students, particularly Lyle, struggling with the passages so much that she had to take over even for concepts and vocabulary that she would have thought of as basic for a middle schooler. Eventually, Jose spoke up again.

“I’m sorry, Miss, I really just don’t think this is working. It’s just hard when you know so much more than us.”

Terrence and Peter both mumbled their agreement as she stared at Jose, considering his proposition.

“Especially Lyle. I mean no offense to him, but the kid’s an idiot, so having a teacher so smart can just be so intimidating for him.”

“Hey! I am not an idiot, ” Lyle said idiotically.

“How about you just shut your damn mouth, ” Terrence said.

“Hey, no cursing! We went over this yesterday.”

No one said a word as Mrs. Laucella continued to think. Jose had a point. Lyle was not the sharpest knife in the drawer; in fact, he was more of a spoon. It would be impossible to elevate him to the level of their PhD candidate teacher without extensive tutoring. However, the rule was clear. A great teacher never believes herself above her students. If she could not bring Lyle up to her level, there was only one other option to satisfy the rule. She had to meet him where he was. It made sense that she would have to believe herself below her lowest student so that she could best relate to her class. If Lyle knew as much as a middle schooler about US history, then so would Mrs. Laucella.

She straightened her blazer, smoothing out invisible wrinkles with a sharp, professional tug. She squared her shoulders and looked at Lyle. He is the standard, she thought resolutely. I must ensure I do not exceed his cognitive grasp, at least not when he is around. She took a deep breath, and as she exhaled, she let the complicated facts, the dates, and the polysyllabic words drain out of her mind like water from a tub. The concept of “nuance” evaporated. The definition of “economics” blurred until it was gone. She blinked, her expression remaining stern and composed, though the light behind her eyes had dimmed significantly.

“Excellent point, Jose, ” Mrs. Laucella said, her voice crisp and authoritative, retaining every ounce of her professional cadence. “And to be honest, I am as confused about this material as Lyle is.”

“Really?” asked Lyle with a smile that made Mrs. Laucella proud to be an educator.

“Yes. It is very complicated stuff, ” she said, and she truly meant it.

“Can we test that?” asked Derrick. “Maybe ask you some questions.”

“Well, as nice as that sounds, ” said Mrs. Laucella, “we still have to go over the textbook.”

“Really, Mrs. Laucella, ” said Jose, “it would be really helpful if we could ask some questions to you.”

“Well, I guess if it is helpful, fire away!”

Peter, who had been relatively quiet, spoke up first. “Who was the third president of the United States?”

Mrs. Laucella knew the answer like she knew the names and birthdays of all the other presidents that had come before or after, but in that moment, it didn’t matter what she knew as much as what Lyle knew. In her heart, she knew Lyle would not know the name of the third president, so the name escaped her and she took her best guess with what was left.

“George Washington! Wait, no, Lincoln!” She crossed her fingers, but the class just laughed.

“Man, Lyle, ” Jackson said, “you really did a number on her.” He shifted his pencil through his fingers dexterously. “Here is one. Who is the first president of the United States?”

Well, that was an easy one even for the worst of students, thought Mrs. Laucella, but before she could reply, Jackson continued. “But I want to hear from Lyle first.”

Lyle scoffed and shook his shaggy hair out of his face. He was probably the worst dressed in the class in a tank top and ripped jeans. “I know I’m not smart, but even I know...” Jose whispered something in his ear, causing him to look like he had the first clever thought of his life. “That the first President of the United States was George. Curious George.”

“Oh, ” said Peter. “Close, but oh so far. Mrs. Laucella! Your turn.”

A second ago she had known the answer quite clearly, but now it felt almost impossible. Curious George seemed like a pretty good guess all things considered. She knew he had some level of importance, so it was not unreasonable to determine that at some point he may have had a level of political influence. Based on what she knew, she made her deduction.

“George Lopez!”

She sat back smugly and fairly confident that she had gotten it right, especially when Lyle had given her a thumbs up to her response.

“She’s an idiot now, ” said Terrence.

“Young man!” she said with her full voice. “I am still your educator and you will not speak to me that way or you will be suspended. Do you understand me?”

Jose spoke up. “But it would be helpful for us if we didn’t have to fear punishment for our actions.”

He made sense. Obviously, those who live in totalitarian states are going to be afraid to express themselves and new ideas, so she couldn’t hold that same level of fear over her students, despite their disrespect.

“Okay, fine, no suspension. But the least you could do is show some respect and do what is appropriate.” She sat back down at her desk and went to look over the lesson plan for the day, but it seemed a little complicated.

“I have another question, ” said Jose. “What is appropriate attire for school?”

“Well, in my opinion, all students should have to dress formally in button-ups, khakis or dress pants, and loafers. I would completely ban sneakers outside of the gym. And then teachers would wear suits, pantsuits, and long dresses that go down to mid-calf at the highest.”

“Really?” said Jose, speaking like an equal. “So you would say people that dress like that are dressed more appropriately than students dressed like me or Lyle?”

“Of course.”

“So you would say you believe your outfit to be on a higher level than mine?”

And that was how Mrs. Laucella found herself at the mall alone that evening, staring into the fluorescent lights of a store that smelled aggressively of cheap cologne and rubber.

She felt entirely out of place in her navy pantsuit, clutching a pair of denim trousers that appeared to have been destroyed by industrial machinery. These are ruined, she thought, tracing a massive hole in the knee. One cannot wear destroyed clothing to a place of learning. But then the image of Lyle rose in her mind. Lyle wore pants like this. If she thought these pants were unacceptable, she was judging Lyle’s choices as inferior. She was placing her taste above his. She swallowed the lump of pride in her throat and draped the jeans over her arm.

Next came the shirts. She needed something that screamed “average intelligence” to match her new pedagogical approach. First she picked out some ordinary t-shirts that she would never have worn in a million years, and then Her hand landed on a bright orange t-shirt featuring a spiky-haired anime character screaming while surrounded by lightning. She held it up. It was a size small, likely cut for a junior. This is absurd, she thought, her lip curling in distaste. A cartoon shirt? This is something a child wears. This is completely below me.

As luck would have it, a student from the local high school walked by and grabbed the same T shirt. “Whoa, cool shirt!” He said as he put it on his shoulder.

Below me. The words echoed in her head, triggering a sharp, uncomfortable buzz behind her eyes. A teacher never believes herself above her students. By thinking this shirt was below her, she was breaking the rule. She was being arrogant. She was being a bad teacher.

She took a deep breath, letting her standards dissolve into the warm, fuzzy fog of compliance. If it is below me, then I must go down to it. She marched to the fitting room. The shirt was tight, hugging her ribs and large breast with an uncomfortable squeeze that she would usually deem inappropriate. She looked at herself in the mirror, the cartoon character stretching across her torso. It was unprofessional. It was ill-fitting. It was perfect. She nodded at her reflection, her face a mask of serious dedication. I will take it, she thought. I’m only being helpful.

John was shocked to say the least when he, once again sitting on the couch after another tough day in the courtroom, found himself face to face with his wife’s fabulous tits pressed into an anime shirt and a pair of jeans, and in between those huge globes was a Blue Moon, with an orange slice. “Wha- wh- ummm... what?”

”You texted me you had a hard day at work, and it’s always helpful to bring someone a beer when they’ve had a hard day.” She said as she sat beside him on the couch, reaching into her school bag to retrieve her laptop to get to work on her different lesson plans. Of course, they were rather hectic as each one was tailored to appeal to the dumbest student in each class since she never believed herself above her students. That meant her remedial class was going to be working on more basic material like the name of the country they lived in and what the system of power is that runs it. Of course that information is clear to her right now, but part of the beauty of teaching for Mrs. Laucella was the brains adaptability to change depending on which class she was in.

”And the outfit was supposed to make me laugh?” John said, smiling and also genuinely confused why his strict and proper partner was dressing like an alternative teenager, and bring him beer like a stepford wife.

”Well, ” she said, “No, but they might. This is just how my students are dressing and I would never dress like I’m above them because that’s not good teacher etiquette, and I always want to be as helpful as possible,

Something was off, and John knew it. Something he had learned in law school is to pay attention to every word as each one carries with it a certain level of importance, and in the is case that word seemed to be helpful as if everything in her brain was being reframed by that one single word.

“Marianne, ” he said, “I’m stressed out and when someone’s stressed out, it’s really helpful to give them a foot massage.”

”A foot massage? Can’t it wait until I’m done with this lesson.” But he had already started taking off his shoes, and if this works he would be convinced and know the truth that his wife had been effected by some sort of magic that made her want to be very helpful. And as he watched her thumbs dig into the soles of his feet, he knew it was true. All that he could hope for was that he figured this out before her students, and, of course, he would have to find a time to tell his wife eventually, but for now he let his head rest on their recliner and took a long swig of his beer.

If you enjoyed the story please reach out with comments and feedback at: badgerattack07@proton.me

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