They call her "The Troll"

Her nose is a skier's dream. It stretches for what seems like miles, curving back and forth. Moguls upon mogules. And at the end? A perfectly pointed jump. A skier's dream.
She’s got a mass of curly brownish-blackish hair that somehow, despite its curls, looks anything but bouncy. It sits there like sludge. Thick, brackish tendrils of head sludge.

She follows me around, too closely. Invading my bubble. I can smell her. She hints of kitty litter. Day old tuna sitting in the garbage can. Pickle brine. I am polite. I smile, offer things for her to do, things that involve moving away from me. She sticks like a leech. If I turn around too quickly, I’ll run right into her, I just know it, so I move slowly, inching down the board, away from her, as I write.

Finally, she tires of me and away she wanders. I start my science lesson. Across the room, she sits there, staring into space. I wonder what she’s thinking about. Minutes pass. The lesson continues. She’s still not doing anything! I drop a few hints, hoping to edge her into productivity, but it doesn’t work. Instead, she does something else. She falls asleep.

What?! She’s fallen asleep during my science lesson! Here I am, bouncing around the room, drawing pictures on the board, singing about chemical weathering for the love of pants, and she’s asleep! I can’t believe it. Am I that boring? Am I? Am I failing? Oh god, I’m a failure. I’m a failure and she’s sleeping.

The class starts to giggle. They’ve noticed her, sleeping over there in the corner. Her head does the little bob-jerk thing, and she wakes up. Peers around like “did I miss anything?” Blinks slowly.

In my head, I purse my lips. I want to shoot The Look of Total Disapproval at her, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be nice. Or professional. So I continue teaching. Hopping around like a flea on speed. And the kids are shouting out answers! Hands and voices fill the air! They sing my song, do my dance. Hurray! They get it! They’re learning!

I glance over.

Damn it!

She’s ASLEEP AGAIN!

The bell rings. Class is over. The kids gather their things and make for the door, shouting and carousing like only 6^th graders know how.

She scoops up her things and follows them along, taking quick little steps to the door. Like a penguin. An excited penguin. Before exiting she looks up at me briefly, eyes sparkling and alive.

“Good day,” she comments.

The substitute teacher.