Written By deontistic

Kelly is my little girl—she’s six. I first became aware of the problem about a month ago when she brought her progress report home from school. She’d received an N in conduct—which stood for Needs Improvement—as opposed to the E for Excellent she’d usually received.

Naturally, I was concerned, so I scheduled a meeting with Kelly’s teacher, who told me that recently Kelly had become a disruptive force of sorts in the classroom. She’d become rather bossy toward the other children; and oddly, the other children couldn’t seem to help but do what she’d tell them to do—and that some of the behavior was—well—rather dangerous.

I suggested that Kelly’s conduct grade being based on the behavior of other children was hardly fair, and I drew the letter E on the desktop with my finger. Kelly’s teacher nodded, said I had a point, and changed Kelly’s conduct grade to an E.

When I made it home, I found something rather odd going on in the backyard. Kelly had set up her easel and blackboard on the patio, and she was lecturing about the letter A—not odd in and of itself. The odd thing was that sitting around her in a semicircle, giving her their full attention, was our dog Rex, the little neighbor boy Billy, his cat Sly, a raccoon, two rabbits, and another dog I’d never seen before. Billy was only three—and the rest of the animals, they were all natural enemies—yet there they all sat, peaceful as could be.

I’d suspected what was happening after I’d spoken to Kelly’s teacher; but after seeing this spectacle in my backyard, I was certain. She was becoming. Kelly was going through the change.

I’d gone into the kitchen, worrying over the conversation I’d soon be having with her; this was something we’d have to keep hidden from everyone—especially Kelly’s father. He wouldn’t understand. Just then, though, I heard Kelly’s little authoritative voice through the window say something like No, Billy—you have to use the pointy end of the knife, and you have to jam it up under the ribs so it’ll reach the heart—like they do on the television.

“NO!” I screamed, and I flew through the backdoor and onto the patio. What I saw there was—how can I say—chilling on a number of levels. Little Billy had a knife in one hand and was poking it at his cat, which he was holding down with the other. The animals were gathered ‘round, watching, like they might’ve been observing a fellow student dissecting a frog in biology class.

I snatched the knife away from Billy, and the animals all scattered. It occurred to me that Billy had a little sister, and I pondered how much of a distinction Kelly actually made between reality and what she saw on the television.

“Sweetie,” I said, trying to balance the pride I felt against the obvious danger, “we need to talk.”