No Room for Two Teacher’s Pets

You sat up front with glasses that could decipher movement of clocks and spelled ‘reptilian’ correctly to beat me in the spelling bee, so I knew I had to uproot that smugness, blacken it sour, so I stole your lunch and you cried, but the damn teacher gave you her sandwich, so I upped the ante, poured water on your crotch and everyone laughed, thought you peed your pants while you wailed and the teacher shooshed all of us, hugged you, and I laid in bed that night and sobbed because I was out of the running and loved you.

Meg Tuite‘s writing has appeared in numerous journals. She has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. She is fiction editor of Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press, author of Domestic Apparition (2011, San Francisco Bay Press), Implosion (2013, Sententia Books), and her chapbooks, Disparate Pathos (2012, Monkey Puzzle Press) and Reverberations (2012, Deadly Chaps Press). Her blog:

Photo Credit: Don Shall

3 Responses to “No Room for Two Teacher’s Pets”

  1. Tunde Farrand says:

    SO perfect! The ending was so emotional. Thank you for this!

  2. Jules Archer says:

    this is fabulous, meg. a burst of flashy goodness. and that is not a euphemism.

  3. Surely 100 words can hold no more than this piece manages. Bravo.

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