Writer's Co-op Publication | The End of the Cycle

She dashed into Room 319, kicked away the wooden stop propping the door open, and shut it closed with the weight of her body, leaning against the window. Leigh looked up, and taking deep breaths, tried to think. They had brought dogs with them. That meant that they were almost certainly looking for drugs. And given how Flora DeCroix had caught her smoking behind the school that afternoon, and given that Flora DeCroix was one of those girls who had fluffy blond hair and several credit cards stuffed in a pink pleather wallet that was stuffed in a genuine Gucci handbag, the chances that the school had called officials to sniff out Leigh’s stash was high.

They looked the same way they looked when her friend was expelled. Like they were angry, and wanted to ‘apprehend’ her. Apprehend. That was the word Principal Moore used on the intercom when giving those bogus anti-drug speeches. “Any students we find using or in possession of drugs will be apprehended.” She always imagined him taking off his idiotic glasses and rubbing at the already-spotless frames at that pause. Then she imagined him putting them back on. “But let’s make it a great day here at J. T. Lennerman today. Alright, kids?”

Then the entire class would repeat in their stupid little voices, “Yes, Mr. Moore.” And then Leigh would gag. Tired of pressing her weight against the door, she found the lock, a small round button in the handle, and stood up. The first thing she looked at was the turtles.

Reggie and Croy sat on their rock above the water, grey turtles that were known for being boring during the number of Ms. Jaia’s science classes. Leigh checked the stagnant pool, her reflection a miniature of the real thing. The dark made it hard to see the exact color of her eye makeup, which was a pity. ‘Kill’em’all Red’ was her new favorite shade, though her mother had shouted at her for five minutes about it. Leigh didn’t remember a lot of it except that the word ‘slather’ was used a lot. Then her mother went off on a tangent about how she wished Leigh would grow her hair out, it was such a pretty blond color, and how did she expect to get a boyfriend if she insisted on looking like a tramp?

Reggie moved his front leg slightly. Croy stuck out his tongue, as though he knew what Leigh was thinking about. She smiled, then walked over to the jars of various organs Ms. Jaia kept on her shelf, next to the date written on the blackboard, 12/19/11. The green fluids were soothing to her, which was probably enough to send her to a mental institute. A heart there. An eye next to it. Leigh couldn’t imagine anything inside of her besides blood and vague mushy things, however. Not the perfectly organized, thought-out machinery Ms. Jaia taught about in class.

Although looking at Ms. Jaia, you wouldn’t believe she knew anything about science. That’s why Leigh liked her. Her outfits were wild; a knee-length beige skirt that ended in fringes, and a plain white tank top and denim jacket. And those weird necklaces that she wore; huge circles, covered in weird markings, that hung by her navel on a gold chain. Ms. Jaia liked those old, ancient things. She talked about them in class a lot; Leigh remember how on the first day of spring, Ms. Jaia had spent ten minutes telling the class about the old civilizations that measured time by the sun’s position in the sky, when she was supposed to be teaching about the anatomy of a frog’s thorax.

She was also nice, not one of the teachers who judged by appearance. “Another perfect score,” she’d whisper, handing Leigh her graded assignment. And she rode a motorcycle, which in itself made a teacher gold.

“Ms. Harding?” Leigh turned around from the jars, and on first impulse grinned to see her teacher there, holding a book to her chest like it was a precious jewel.

“Ms. Jaia? I was just thinking about you. Listen, I wanted to talk to you.” She paused, seeing the strange look on her teacher’s face. “Oh. Did they tell you that I was… They don’t know what they’re talking about. Flora DeCroix was mad at me for making this joke, so she must have told one of the teachers that she saw me smoking pot or something. But she’s a liar. Ms. Jaia?” It wasn’t a disapproving look she was getting from Ms. Jaia, Leigh realized. She was an expert on those kinds of looks. And it wasn’t sadness either. She had seen that on her guidance councilor’s face last week. It was almost blank. Which was a pity, since without some kind of enthusiastic expression on her face, like when she taught classes, Ms. Jaia’s face was… not so pretty. The eyes were small, the lips were too wide, and her dark hair was frizzy. Not frizzy; gnarled. It wasn’t pulled back in a ponytail like usual, Leigh noticed. “Ms. Jaia?”

“Ms. Harding? May I talk to you?” ‘Ms. Harding’ was what the other teachers called her. Never Ms. Jaia. But Leigh walked over to her, her past history with her favorite teacher overriding her odd behavior now. “It’s almost 2012,” she was saying, that blank expression carried into her voice, along with a slight tremble. “It’s almost over… the cycle is almost over…”

Leigh was afraid for a moment, afraid that her teacher was going into a seizure or something. Or maybe she was having a bad trip. She wouldn’t have tagged Ms. Jaia as someone who used crack, but hey, who was Leigh to judge? But the fear was replaced by anger when Ms. Jaia grabbed her by the arm. “What the hell!” Leigh said, jerking her arm back. “Look, I know the police are here for me, but…” The sharp pain cut off her rant as her teacher grabbed her hair, enough of a fistful to create pinpricks of pain on her scalp. She let out a long, piercing scream, one that had served her well twice in these kinds of situations.

Ms. Jaia didn’t respond to the shrill note. “You don’t understand. Nobody in this century would understand…” She slammed Leigh’s frail body against the blackboard. “Xilbalba will fall apart! Nobody would escape the evils contained there… famine, plague, corruption…” Her left hand dug into the pocket, and pulled out a silver scalpel.

“You’re talking crazy,” Leigh said, gritting her teeth. “You’ve been sniffing formaldehyde.” She looked at the book her teacher held; an old paperback book, its spine fraying. The language wasn’t English, though, but an old sequence of strange pictures, almost like hieroglyphics. Ms. Jaia showed it to the last class yesterday, she remembered, talking about the Mayan calendar. “Or reading too much…”

“Shut up!” A flash of silver, and Leigh could feel the warmth of blood down her neck, a stinging in her earlobe. “If there isn’t a sacrifice in time, the entire world will be destroyed!” Ms. Jaia… or whoever she was… said. Leigh looked up at the teacher, and pushed away from the wall, reaching for the book. Ms. Jaia snapped away, holding the book from Leigh; Leigh smiled. The book was her weakness. Mayan… didn’t they perform sacrifices, bloodlettings, sometimes?

“You’re not Ms. Jaia.”

“Observant.” Another slash at Leigh, this time one that she was able to dodge. “You realize, your attempt to escape will lead to the death of the Earth?”

“I’m not especially fond of the Earth right now.” Seeing that Ms. Jaia, preoccupied by trying to find an opening for attack, was holding the book closely, Leigh jumped for her.

Ten minutes later, the police came into Room 319 followed by Principal Moore, their dogs wagging their tails from having pleased their masters, finding the Ziploc bag of white powder in Leigh’s locker. One of the officers opened the door to a sight of crimson on the linoleum, the dead teacher on the ground, and Leigh smiling, scalpel in hand, eyes closed so that the Kill’em’all Red was visible on her eyelids. “Safe for another cycle,” she was saying. “Safe.”