Notes From the Writing Chair is pleased to present the winner of the Notes from the Writing Chair short story contest:
The Favourite
by Almiria Wilhelm
They say a good teacher has no favourites, but that is not
true. Look at my students. Do you see how happy they are? I love them all. They
are my garden and I their gardener, equally watering and nourishing those that
will grow large and beautiful and those that will remain insignificant. Or
almost equally. A good teacher shows no preference, but in her heart every
teacher has a favourite, one that is dearer to her than the others—or maybe I
am not a good teacher. I don't know. I only know that my girls are happy, they
flourish and thrive, and they have grown used to the situation with Annika.
There is only one thing that I am not easy about in my mind.
I have never singled out any student for special attention. Never have I given
any one child all my attention, until Annika came along. I have never seen
anyone like her. I do not need to teach her to live and breathe dance. She does
this already. She radiates it. She never moves but she dances. Must I leave
this jewel unpolished, because it will shine brighter than the others? Must I
refrain from exerting myself on the hard surface of the diamond so that the emeralds
will not feel envy? So, I teach Annika privately. She alone commands my full
attention for a period every day.
At first it was difficult. Parents complained. Some of my
students lost heart and quit. Others, with wealthy parents, cried themselves
into being sent away, to a teacher nearer the Cultural Centre. Doubtless their
parents’ money would buy them anything they wanted until they were done with
their training.
But we weathered the storms, Annika and I. She clung to the
dance, not caring for friends. I tried to remain, in all other ways, impartial
in my treatment of my students, loving and tending them as before, and at last
the outrage subsided. Annika became a fact.
* * *
I was in the middle of Annika's lesson when Janni came
running in.
"Lady Teacher, the Cultural Centre is coming to
inspect! It's the Blue Council Teacher and she's looking mad!"
No one is allowed to disturb me while I teach Annika, but
Janni was so full of the idea that she brought me vital news—perhaps she
thought my private attention to Annika would enrage the Council Teacher—that I
let it go. A moment later the self-important woman from our Capitol found me,
settling in my studio with a heavy silence that I could almost taste. It
weighed on me, but not on Annika. She shone. She glowed. She danced with an
inner fire that would have kindled a response in anyone but the severe official
in the blue teachers’ wraps. When her lesson was done, I let Annika go and
braced myself for the usual argument on method and ethics, the Code of the
Cultural Centre, and accepted teaching practices. I know them well, these
practices. I spent ten years training at the Cultural Centre, where they do
their best to indoctrinate young teachers. But I saw things differently from
the Council. I saw their greed. I saw them give attention and privileges to
those with means. With money, you can buy yourself into almost any school, buy
yourself almost any prize. Almost.
You see, I know that once my students leave me, if they wish
to pursue this sublime and punishing art, the highest judges will not care for
anything but their ability. And because I live far out, where they have little
influence or control, the teachers from the Cultural Centre grumble, then go
away and leave me to my methods.
But this time the teacher said nothing about my methods. She
wanted to take Annika away with her. . .
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