Plastic. That is how I'd describe her. Like a Barbie doll with fake boobs and slinky plastic legs that never need shaving. The perfect Barbie doll right out of the box before it gets handed to the doctor child holding the scalpel, scissors, and pruning tools awaiting surgery. She walks on stilts that crane her ankles to precarious heights where they struggle for air. Her skin is tanned and turkey basted to a perfect roasted brown. Her lips bleed rose-red to match her perfectly shaped fingernails, giving the impression they've been stained by the raw red meat she just tore apart. Her fangs must only come out at night, but I know they are there. My vampire teacher sucks the blood out of us and paints her nails with it at night in her musty black cave.

We sit in her dungeon room with no windows and listen to her silky voice speak her insincere assurances that we all won't fail. Sometimes she falls off the tightrope shoes, and we all struggle to muffle the volcanic laughter threatening to erupt. No one dares break the thick stale air with laughter for fear of the walls crumbling from such unfamiliar rumblings.

Her benign name belies her poisonous bite. Miss Collins will gnaw at you until you want to scream. She'll gnash at your brain until you spill its contents, hoping to find the answer amidst the mush. And, if you are lucky, she'll only make you write the answer a thousand times until your hand turns to stone and your fingers cramp into permanent curly fries that she'll want to eat next.

"Jonathan." "How are you coming with your creative writing?" She asks in her fake southern drawl to soothe me into showing her my paper. "Almost done, Miss Collins," I reply in my super sappy, 'gotta love me' voice. She doesn't buy it. She's coming over. She's reaching out her wretched claws as my essay hurriedly retreats from the desk. She's snatching it from my gr---------------asssss------pppppppppppp. Too late.