©OrangeYouGlad Home ~ Contact

	the frightened boy alone in the cell flow through Mrs. Roivas.      It was a pity: she hadn't really punished a child for acting up in three years. The last one who misbehaved was that naughty girl, Teresa.      Mrs. Roivas goes to one of the equipment closets. She unlocks the sliding door and gets a metal box from the top shelf. She unlocks the box, undoes the latches and opens it. Mrs. Roivas peels open the colored tissue paper inside, then lifts up the rack of knick-knacks she gives to the students who get ten gold stars.      There are three emptied and cleaned paste bottles in the box. Mrs. Roivas picks up the first cylinder. She unscrews the cap and peers at the cylinder's contents. Inside, there is a shriveled piece of flesh no longer pink. Teresa talked all through the week Mrs. Roivas substituted. Teresa was first punished in the Box, and now her tongue was in the collection box.      The second cylinder contains Phillip Gardner, Mrs. Roivas' first. Phillip distracted her with his endless nose picking and ear-digging. She couldn't concentrate while the obnoxious boy went at it. She examines the pinky bone in the cylinder. A thrilling shiver runs down her body.      She grabs the final cylinder, her pulse increasing. That was seven years ago, but the best experience of the three. Johnny never paid attention, always staring out the window. Even when he was moved, he simply looked at the posters on the wall, rather than her. She took his eyes. One had burst. The liquid was		all over the bottom of the plastic jar. The second floats in this mess, no longer perfectly spherical.      Mrs. Roivas restores all the lids and returns the paste bottles to the toolbox. Half the box is empty, but not for long. If Max keeps it up, he'll spend his Christmas vacation in the Box. If not by then, there's always Easter break. He will starve there, clawing at the tiles. Then she would go in the day before classes, claim her prize, and fire up the furnace.      She feels her body flush with excitement, images of sawing off a hand titillating her imagination. She gives a last glance at her collection, little tokens that empower her so her students don't talk, or daydream, or finger their nostrils. Soon, hair pulling would be added to that list.      The box closes. Mrs. Roivas locks it. She puts it away in the closet.      Mrs. Roivas goes to her desk and makes it tidy. This calms her down, eases the blissful sensations. She goes over tomorrow's lesson plan, wanting to be prepared as always.      Finally serene, she leaves her classroom and locks the door. As usual, she's last out the school and has to secure all of the small building's entrances. Mrs. Roivas gets into her car and hurries home to cook the Thursday roast for her husband Donald and their son Richard.