Mrs Fucking Bromley.

This bitch was my Year 1 teacher, and she was a fucking sociopath.

Mrs B would engage in little power plays with us 6 & 7 year olds. Regularly at the very end of the school day, she would sit us all on the floor and do a vocab test for 'early marks'. I had nothing to worry about, I'm hyperlexic (thanks aspergers!) so I was the star speller of the class (seriously, I wish my school had done spelling bees, I'd have been a fucking star). So, essentially, she'd start the vocab tests around ten minutes before the bell rang. She would call on us in alphabetical order, and if you spelled your word correctly, you could leave the room. If you didn't, you went to the back of the line and had to wait for another chance. She would give her favourite students easy words (like 'camel' and 'brown'), they'd be out the door and make it to their bus on time. She cottoned on to me pretty being pretty damn good and would throw me curve balls (hyphenated words, words with silent letters or dipthongs, or just ridiculous shit like "xenophobic") and would always grudgingly let me go. She had a special disdain for this poor kid, Todd, though.

Todd wasn't a great speller. The afternoon in question, Todd put up his hand before he was called on and asked to go to the bathroom ("I'm really busting, Mrs Bromley!" he begged). She told him sure, he could go to the bathroom, IF he spelled the next word correctly. She threw some bullshit at him like "necessary" and say back with a smug smile as she watched this poor dude squirm. Todd attempted it a couple of times, but couldn't quite get the C's and S's and R's right. You could see this kid actually holding his crotch, trying so hard to hold it. He eventually gave up and started crying. I thought she was being nice when she told him if another kid could spell it he could go to the bathroom - at this point it was five minutes past bell time and Todd had already missed his bus home.

I threw my hand up but she just looked past me like i wasn't there. The bitch wanted him to piss himself.

None of the other kids would volunteer - they knew she'd keep them back and they'd miss their buses too (some of these kids lived an hour away, the level of anxiety in the room was fucking ridiculous).

I couldn't handle it, I felt so bad for Todd. I jumped up and shouted "N-E-C-E-S-S-A-R-Y NOW LET TODD GO TO THE TOILET!"

And that was it. She fucking LOST it, screeching at me, threw her fucking roll call clipboard at me, tossed my backpack across the classroom, called me a "know it all cow", then started in on Todd.

I was in tears and he was paralysed from fear. I got up, grabbed his hand and ran from the classroom. I was looking for my big brother, figuring he could protect me, and bumped into The Man, Mr Morrison. Mr Morrison was the best teacher I never had. He was that teacher that every school has - the teacher who wears cargo shorts and knee high atheltic socks with white sneakers, a polo shirt and a moustache, who wears gold rimmed aviator style reading glasses and sports a comb-over. You know the one. He took one look at us and signalled the principal to follow him to the classroom. I don't know what went down in there, but the last few captives of Herr Bromley came running out, and for the rest of the term Mrs B never again pulled her vocab-for-knock-off bullshit.

Mr Morrison, you were a fuckin' boss.