Difference of Opinion

Miss Fenster

Miss Fenster came into school early Monday morning, as always. Most days it was seven thirty. She walked through the school gate, her skinny heels trembling over the concrete. The school always looked like a little town to her, and she liked seeing it before everyone arrived. She felt as if she were strolling through its stable ruins; just for a moment, it was all hers, her own private home. The waking sky began to sharpen the buildings; deep shadows loomed against them, but golden light began to appear, slowly outlining the shape of the classrooms.

She made her way to her own classroom. It was quite a long walk every day. It was especially so as she noticed every dim classroom through its window in passing; the desks laid out, with no children behind them. There was a metal sink near the window. A fat mug was plopped onto its rim; dried spikes of brushes stuck up in the air. Near the back of the room was a slouching table, from books towered on it. It was a Friday afternoon's leftover mess. The teacher was outside the walls, not in them.

The walk brought in her a guilty kind of loneliness. She could feel herself passing through an invisible group of children, wearing wide-brimmed hats and yellow t-shirts, as she marched on. But as she became taller, climbing the chunky steps to class, her heel snapped. She stumbled, gripping onto a beam, then slipping out of her shoe. She observed its flat bottom and the lone heel was lying on a step.

"That's a first," she said, limping to pick up the pink heel. There was no point in trying to glue it back on. She only wanted it out of the way of children. Something so sharp and unusual could turn into a weapon or even a dangerous toy.

She hobbled the few paces to her classroom, since she didn't like the prickly wood against her feet. However, she was relieved nobody else was there to see her. She knew teachers always had an upright, professional walk. They were used to being tall—with or without heels—but a swift walk was a teacher's only regular, but brief performance.

Miss Fenster pushed herself through the door into the cloak bay. She felt as if she were a drunk teen sneaking home in the middle of the night. Though the sky was now beaming, the inside bay was still gloomy. Instinctively, she slipped her broken high-heel back on. She put her left foot—the good heel—in first. But it quickly got wedged in the tight gap of the door frame, as her right foot flung forward, so she stumbled inside, just catching her balance to avoid falling.

"Are you having a bad morning?" a young voice asked.

Miss Fenster promptly straightened. But her bare right heel made one side of her body slump, though she squeezed, with all her might, to keep her weight in her toes.

She saw a young man, seated, barely seated, in the little white cubby. He was skinny, probably quite short and had a nervous, swallowed expression. His body was consumed in a fully buttoned, firm striped shirt and his black pants were a few sizes too small.

He shot up after a few seconds, realising it was probably most respectable. He hoped he was early enough, or maybe he was too early. Teachers appreciated time courtesy, didn't they?

"I suppose you could say that," Miss Fenster replied. "It's Monday morning, not much else to expect." She tried to walk steadily in.

"Do you need any help?" he asked, hurrying over, clutching her forearm.

"It's just a broken heel," she responded with a laugh. "It's not as if I broke my ankle."

"Why don't you take your shoes off?"

She hesitated, falling silent.

"... I suppose," she agreed, laying her arm on his shoulder, as she slipped off each high-heel. She was still taller than him, but only slightly. The soles of her feet felt flat and even against the floor.