The Ms. Shirley Stare by Mindy

Underneath the table upon which are scattered various elementary projects —maps, bead frames, timelines—Rayven is kicking Bryce.  In a shocking display of maturity, he ignores it, keeps working.  I stand a few feet away, coffee in hand.  It’s what I’m trained to do.  Blend in to the environment.  Allow the children a chance to work things out for themselves.  On the wall is the worst picture of Dr. Montessori ever taken.  A 16x20 sepia print shows her frowning, chin in hand, eyes cast down.  It’s terrifying.  When I look it, I feel like I did as a child during mass when I’d look up at the crucifix and feel small and shamed.  I imagine the words “you suck” floating through the air in a direct path from the picture to my ears.  

I stare at Rayven’s narrow eyes.  She stares back.  What’s supposed to happen next is that she look away and get back to work.  I call it the Ms. Shirley Stare, the single most valuable disciplinary tool offered when she trained me years ago.  No shouting, no distraction, no embarrassment—just a look, for as long as it takes.  “The drift will be caught, my girl,” she said to me.  

Three minutes have passed.  Still staring, I raise my eyebrows.  Rayven raises hers.  I tilt my head to the right.  So does she.  I walk toward her.  She stands up.  When I lean my head in a little, she slowly crouches to the ground.  I follow her.  There on the linoleum we are huddled in this ridiculous contest. Four more painful minutes pass. Suddenly the door opens to reveal the school secretary giving a tour to an interested family.  The blast of cold air and the shard of sunlight on her face rattle her.  She loses her balance and falls back.  I walk away while my hand races to cover my smile with my coffee mug.  I think to myself, The Ms. Shirley Stare will always have sway, my girl.