I mean... the day of Parents' Evening for my son, David.
Don’t get me wrong. I know that meeting your child’s teacher is not a big deal. What harm could it possibly bring? People have been doing it for ages.
Therefore no objection from me. But I have a personal reason not to look forward to it. For tonight at least.
To my embarrassment, the meeting had been arranged by the school for those parents who, like us, were unwilling to, or even forgot to do it themselves.
Over the phone, the school secretary patiently explained to me that the meeting was quite crucial and unavoidable at this point of David’s life. We, as parents, must see how he progressed at school. Especially when our son has just started his school life.
Yeah, yeah, yeah… who should disagree to it? That’s why my wife Martha and I are now heading for the 6pm meeting.
I have been dreading this occasion for long.
From the moment I opened my eyes in our bedroom at dawn, I knew I was going to face the worst day of my life. All afternoon at work, I could barely concentrate on what I was supposed to do.
Instead, my head was full of excuses. Excuses I might resort to at the last minute. Shall I say I have a headache, so I won't make it? Or there is an emergency at work?
Any excuses for avoiding that dreadful meeting. More precisely... excuses for not seeing the horrible Miss Thunderbolt!
Yes, Miss Thunderbolt.
I still shudder at the memory of her. She was my teacher too when I was at the same school my son goes to now.
I'm now convinced that there is a conspiracy to destroy my life or deny my existence in this world. If not, how on earth the same terrifying person could happen to be teaching my precious son, after almost three decades?
Isn’t Miss Thunderbolt over hundred years old now? She looked seventy to me when I first met her. Surely by now she must retire and stay at nursing home or even be dead. Instead of teaching kids at that age.
How come the school keeps someone that old on the payroll? Not to mention of giving a job to such a maniac in the first place.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I received the invitation letter with that old bitch's name on it. The name that automatically turned the clock back and forced me to recall those dark days.
To my 6-year-old mind, the entire school was a horror house. Everywhere the monster-teacher was lurking around and catching any unlucky souls for disciplines, turning the classroom into battlefields and the school yard into minefields.
Basically, the teacher was too insensible to deal with young children. Coercing trouble makers to stand in a corner of classroom until they pleaded in tears. Shrieking at any signs of disobey.
Her voice was heard throughout the corridor and even outside. Mr. Pickle, the headteacher, whose office was located at the other end of the corridor, poked his head into our classroom to check if everything was ok.
She reminded me of an ogre with a deafening roar I had seen on TV shows. That’s how she got the name ‘Thunderbolt’.
Her real name is, ironically enough, 'Miss Angel'. No wonder that name had rarely been used among pupils that time.
We startled whenever Miss Angel addressed us, or more truthfully, shouted at us. The entire class suddenly went quiet as if we were swept away by huge waves. I got goosebumps every time her throaty voice boomed.
I hated everything about her, not just her horrendous voice. But her mismatching clothes and shoes. Her odd sense of humour. Yet, the way she called me was the worst of all.
“Hello, little James... oh... silly of me," that unforgettable voice beamed at me.
Not that silly name again please, Miss A. Can't you see? I'm not little any more, for God's sake!
I fought hard against myself not to think aloud.
"Please do forgive me, Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix," the skeleton-like figure apologized, ushering us inside, "Nice to meet you both at last.”
“Hello Miss Angel. You seemed to know my husband well?”
“More than that. I know him very well. He was at my class, like David. Hadn’t he told you about that?”
