Miss Andrea Richardson was the scourge of kindergarten. First graders spoke of the previous year in hushed whispers, their eyes haunted by memories of school days past. Second graders nodded sympathetically and tried to help the First graders deal with it all. Teachers refused to discuss her, embarrassed to think someone like her had ever become a teacher. Parents complained, and the new principal listened helplessly, bewildered as he tried to understand how someone like her had ever managed to get tenure.
Four year old Nakita Chekov glared up at her teacher from the chair where she sat with her arms crossed over her chest. Her teacher, Miss Richardson, stood towering over her, hands on her hips, glaring back, though not quite as fiercely.
Struggling to speak calmly, the red faced teacher jabbed a finger at several papers on the child's desk. "You can copy your alphabet like everyone else, young lady."
"No." Retorted the young girl. "I won't."
"Then you can stand in the corner." Miss Richardson informed her.
The girl shook her head fiercely, brown hair coming loose from her braid. "No." She repeated.
Her teacher picked her up and promptly set her down in the corner. Nakita glared at her, eyes flashing and fists clenched.
She stayed there until Miss Richardson turned her attention back to the other students, and then defiantly walked back to her seat.
Miss Richardson picked her up and put her in the corner again.
She didn't stay that time either.
Miss Richardson had had enough. "You can either stay in that corner," she informed the little brat sharply, "or you can go to the principal's office." She waited while the child actually appeared to think it over.
"No thank you." Nakita finally replied. She didn't move.
Miss Richardson had to practically drag her down the hall and into the office. When they stopped outside their destination, the girl stared up at her teacher with wide eyes. Then she opened her mouth and started screaming.
Her teacher merely stared at her. "Do I need to call your father?" She asked, and the child instantly stopped screaming and stuck out her tongue.
"I hate you." The child declared. "I never want to come back here again. I hope something eats you."
* * *
It didn't take long for either Principal Martin or Miss Richardson to realize that the dark haired man of obviously Asian descent was not Mr. Chekov.
"May I help you?" The man asked politely.
"Who are you?" Miss Richardson demanded bluntly. Principal Martin winced, but the man before them didn't seem to notice.
"Hikaru Sulu." He replied easily. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Were you looking for Pavel?" He asked.
"Uh, yes." Martin replied awkwardly. "Is the the wrong number, or-?" He trailed off uncertainly.
"No, sorry. We share an office." Sulu explained. "I'm afraid he's not in at the moment. May I take a message?"
"When will he be back?" Miss Richardson demanded, and again, Martin found himself wincing.
Sulu frowned. "Is this some sort of an emergency?"
"It's about his daughter." Miss Richardson snapped.
Something in Sulu's demeanor changed, but his voice remained even. "I'll let him know you called. I'm sure he'll be over as soon as possible." He said this almost pleasantly. The screen went blank.
Sulu had cut off the connection.
Principal Martin stifled a sigh. He had been hoping to iron out everything without bringing the parent here, or involving the child in what would undoubtedly end up being a shouting match.
He wondered why he'd ever agreed to take this position.
Thirty-five minutes later Pavel Chekov walked through the front door. He made a beeline straight for Principal Martin. "Vhere is she?" He asked shortly. "Vhat happened?" Martin wondered about the man's accent. The daughter seemed to speak without one.
"I'll tell you what happened!" Miss Richardson cut in before Martin could say a word. "That little brat of yours refuses to listen to a word anyone said, and then when she ended up being sent to the principal's office she started screaming and when I threatened to call her parents she said to go ahead and that she hoped something ate me."
Mr. Chekov eyed the woman with bewilderment. "And who are you?" He asked.
"Her teacher." Miss Richardson retorted. "And if you ask me-"
He waved her off. "I didn't ask you." He turned back to Principal Martin. "Vhere is my daughter?" He demanded.
"In the office." Martin replied wearily. "Now I'm sure we can all sit down and-" Chekov was already gone, disappearing through the door to his office.
By the time Martin and Richardson had caught up with him he was on his knees, arms wrapped around the little girl.
"Papa, I am alright!" She protested. "I'm okay."
Chekov looked her over before releasing her. "What happened?" He demanded, turning back to Martin. "Sulu said-" Martin realized what had happened.
Sulu had taken Miss Richardson's reply as confirmation that there was, in fact, an emergency. Martin groaned, and Chekov's eyes narrowed in response.
"There was a misunderstanding." He tried to explain. Chekov just stared at him. "Your daughter is fine. Miss Richardson just wanted to address some discipline issues she's been having with her."
"Oh?" Chekov replied, and Martin was suddenly worried. "Vhat sort of problems?" He asked, fixing his gaze on the child's teacher.
Miss Richardson was not about to be intimidated. "She refused to do her work. I told her several times to do it, and when she still refused I told her she could do it or stand in the corner. She refused to stay in the corner after I put her there, so I brought her here. Then she started screaming, so I threatened to call you. She said I was welcome to."
"I did not!" The child insisted hotly. Chekov turned his attention to his daughter as she continued unabashedly. "I told her I hated her and never wanted to come back here and I hope she gets eaten by something. And I stuck my tongue out at her."
Martin stared as the child's father replied mildly. "That's not wery nice."
"But it's true." The child retorted.
"Have you ever seen anyone be eaten alive?" Chekov asked. The child looked up at him for a minute, then shook her head. He continued. "Vell, I have, and it isn't pretty. I know you better than that. You vouldn't vant anyone to be eaten alive. Besides, it's rude to tell people you hate them."
"But she picked me up and dragged me here." The girl complained. "And she kept shoving me in the corner. I don't even know her, and she thinks she can carry me around like she was family or something."
Something flashed in Chekov's eyes, but the man continued calmly. "But if you had listened in the first place, none of that would have happened." He told her.
Nakita scowled at her father. "But she wanted me to draw my alphabet letters and the ones on the paper weren't mine. And anyway, it's not the right hand." She insisted.
Martin noticed that this time, at least, Chekov was as confused as the rest of them.
"Vhat?" He asked.
The child sighed. "I'll show you." She said. "Come on." Chekov followed her, leaving the other two no choice but to follow him. She lead them back to the classroom, where Miss Richardson's aide was just taking all the other children outside for recess.
Nakita led her father over to her seat and held up the paper. "See? They aren't mine. They're Uncle Sulu's" Understanding seem to dawn in Chekov, and her father groaned.
"I'm an idiot." He announced. "Come here." He said, sitting down cross-legged on the floor. Nakita promptly climbed down out of the chair and into his lap. "Now." He said, taking the paper and her abandoned pencil. He quickly drew some of the strangest symbols Martin had ever seen on the back of her paper. "This is your alphabet, right?"
"Right." The child confirmed.
"And this other side," he continued, "is Sulu's, right?"
"Right."
He smiled down at the child. "So vhere do people use your alphabet? Do you remember?"
"Course." She replied. "Where Granpa lives."
"In-" He prompted.
"Russia."
"Right. Now vhere do people use Sulu's alphabet?" He asked, and Martin's jaw dropped as he began to understand the problem.
"In lots of places."
"Like?"
"Like the United States." The child supplied.
"And vhere is your school?"
"In the United States?" She asked hesitantly, looking up into her daddy's eyes for confirmation. Chekov nodded.
"So vich alphabet vould people in your school use?"
She was silent for a moment, thinking. Then her eyes went wide. "Oh." She said softly. "But it's still not the right hand."
Chekov frowned. "I don't understand." He said bluntly.
"The right hand." The girl repeated, taking the pencil from him, then putting it in her left hand to demonstrate. "It's not the right hand." She repeated, switching it back.
Oh, Martin realized. She was left handed. So was her father, he realized as the man also figured it out. He groaned as Chekov turned to eye Miss Richardson critically. This day was going from bad to worse.
"Honey," Chekov said finally, "next time you have a problem, vhy don't you try to explain it to your teacher so she can help you?"
"Okay." The little girl said.
"And listen to your teachers, right?"
"Yes, Papa."
"All right. Now do your vork."
"Yes Papa." The child sighed as Chekov turned and led the two adults from the room. He then carefully closed the door before advancing on Miss Richardson.
In less than a second he had backed her up against the wall and was standing with less than two inches of space between them. His expression was dark and his dark eyes were furious. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Miss." He said, his voice low and hard. "That girl in there is the only child I have, and if you ever, for any reason, so much as touch my daughter again, you'll wish you'd never been born."
And about the time Martin started wondering if he should step between them, the man took a step back.
"You can't threaten people like that, you know." Martin felt obliged to inform him, for Miss Richardson's sake. "I have to report this."
To Martin's surprise, Chekov turned to face him, a look of complete innocence on his face. "Report?" He repeated, questioning. "Report vhat?" His expression hardened. "The teacher who grabbed a child by the wrist roughly enough to leave a bruise? The misunderstanding that caused a professor at Starfleet Academy to cancel classes so he could deal with whatever emergency he thought was affecting his daughter?" He smiled again, sweetly, except for his eyes, which remained as angry as ever. "Your call." He turned, then, and strode quickly down the hall, leaving Principal Martin to deal with Miss Richardson.
And he would certainly deal with her, he decided. None of this should ever have happened.
Disclaimer: Star Trek does not belong to me.