Scenario:In 8th grade I had a malignant narcissist as my teacher. She taught the pythagorean theorem. She would always wear pantsuits. She has a Trendelenburg gait. She walks weird the kids would always laugh at her.
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In 8th grade I had a malignant narcissist as my teacher. She taught the pythagorean theorem. She would always wear pantsuits. She has a Trendelenburg gait. She walks weird the kids would always laugh at her.
Ella Jenkins
She is a high school student in her final year, navigating complex relationships with teachers. She is observant, sarcastic, and resilient. Ella has a peculiar connection with her 8thgrade teacher, Mrs. Johnson, who she dubs a malignant narcissist. Ella often finds herself laughing at and with Mrs. Johnson, despite the teacher's eccentricities and harsh demeanor. This unusual dynamic stems from her unstable home life, where she seeks solace in humor and odd connections with those around her.
Ella's Mom
She is struggling with mental health issues, often leaving Ella to navigate challenges alone at home. She is absent, detached, and emotionally unstable at times, resulting in Ella taking responsibility for household tasks and emotional support. This instability contrasts sharply with the strict yet bizarre structure Ella finds solace in at school, particularly under Mrs. Johnson's teaching. The tension between home and school starkly highlights the gaps in support Ella needs for a stable life.
Morgan
He is Ella's best friend since elementary school and a fellow student at Oakdale High School. He is witty, supportive, and charismatic. Morgan shares a close bond with Ella and often provides comic relief with his quick banter and sarcastic remarks. He has a crush on a cheerleader named Sydney but struggles to muster confidence to approach her. Despite this challenge, he remains committed to his friendship with Ella, offering stability amidst the ups and downs of high school life.
I was in 8th grade when I had my first encounter with a malignant narcissist.
It was also the year I learned the Pythagorean theorem and found out my teacher, Mrs. Johnson, was a total weirdo.
Mrs. Johnson taught math to all the freshman classes at Oakdale High School.
She was also the only teacher that wore pantsuits every single day.
Her favorite color was obviously navy blue because every article of clothing she wore was some variation of it.
Her blouses were striped, solid, or had little white anchors on them.
Her shoes were black and her belt was also navy blue with big silver buckle.
I don’t know why I remember that buckle, but I do.
Mrs. Johnson’s hair was totally gray and cut in a bob with bangs.
She wore one watch on her left wrist and no wedding ring.
Her biggest claim to fame, in my eyes, was her Trendelenburg gait.
She walked with an exaggerated sway to her left side because she had a bad hip, which made all the kids laugh whenever she had to write on the board.
I sat in the third row next to Morgan, and we watched Mrs. Johnson’s uneven steps toward the whiteboard.
Her navy pantsuit swished with each exaggerated movement, the silver belt buckle catching the fluorescent light.
When she reached for the marker, her left hip dipped down dramatically, and a snicker came from the back of the room.
Morgan elbowed me in the ribs, then mimicked her sway with his shoulders.
I pressed my lips together and tried to hold it in, but when Mrs. Johnson’s hand slipped and she drew a crooked line on the board, I couldn’t help it.
A laugh burst out of me, mixing with all the other giggles from around the room.
Mrs. Johnson turned around, her eyes locking onto mine with a knowing, unflinching gaze.
The bell rings, and students file out of the classroom while I slowly pack my bag.
Morgan gives me a sympathetic look before he leaves.
Mrs. Johnson sits at her desk, adjusting her watch and belt buckle methodically.
The empty classroom feels smaller than it did with all the other kids in it, and my footsteps echo against the walls as I approach her desk.
She continues to organize papers, making me stand there for what feels like an eternity.
When she finally looks up, her face is stern and unyielding.
She looks like Mom does on her bad days.
Mrs. Johnson’s fingers tap rhythmically on her grade book while she studies me.
The silence stretches between us until she finally speaks.
I shift my weight between feet as she continues her wordless stare.
The scratch of her fingernails against the cover of the grade book is the only sound in the empty classroom.
Her navy pantsuit crinkles as she leans forward, and I catch a whiff of her powdery perfume.
"Miss Jenkins," she says, her voice carrying that familiar sharp edge.
"Your behavior today was disappointing."
My throat tightens at the sound of her voice, so similar to Mom’s during one of her episodes.
I clasp my hands behind my back and look directly at Mrs. Johnson’s stern face.
"I’m sorry for disrupting class," I say quietly.
"It won’t happen again."
Mrs. Johnson’s gaze softens slightly, and she leans back in her chair.
"I know it’s hard to resist the crowd, but you’re better than that," she says, her voice unexpectedly gentle.
"Have you ever considered why you feel the need to laugh along with them?"
