Ms. Walters: Mr. and Mrs. Feldman, as you know I’ve called you in because of your daughter. You see, she’s been causing trouble for the other children lately, and-
Mr. Feldman: Look, any drugs you may have found on her couldn’t have been mine. She was just holding them for a friend. He must have mistaken her Barbie backpack for my briefcase. You see, the unicorns on her backpack are a slightly different colour. It’s a pretty common mistake. Not mine.
Ms. Walters: This isn’t about turning your daughter into a drug mule, Mr. Feldman… it’s about something far worse. I think little Susie is a bit of a… special child. Are you familiar with chaos theory; the butterfly effect? It’s a theory that says that something as simple as a butterfly flapping its wings can trigger a typhoon on the other side of the world.
Mr. Feldman: That must be one fucking huge butterfly.
Ms. Walters nods, sagely.
Mr. Feldman: What does this have to do with little Susie?
Ms. Walters: Well, picture your daughter as that same butterfly, only bigger. Mr. and Mrs. Feldman, I’m concerned that your daughter has unusually high cosmic influence. Last Tuesday she sneezed, and through a complicated series of cause-and-effect relationships, the playground was levelled. Little Johnny Popalis had to get 15 stitches and a prosthesis when the jungle gym collapsed on him.
Mr. Feldman: Why, when I was a boy I would have killed for a robotic arm! Nearly did, once. Harrison Ford never walked the same way again.
Ms. Walters: Robotic arms are the least of our problems right now. We’re afraid that your daughter has come to learn of her magnificent powers. We have observed some of her other activities, and frankly, they are troubling. She was chewing gum in the hallway on Monday and the grade two art projects around her melted off the walls. Recently, she ate lunch in the cafeteria and less than fifty-six hours later the kitchen burst into flames. No one has taken responsibility.
Ms. Feldman: [gasps] What can we do? Oh honey, have we raised a monster? [She weeps]
Ms. Walters: Follow me.
Ms. Walters pulls on the “#1 Teacher” mug on her desk, and the bookshelf behind her spins to reveal a room filled from top to bottom with electronics. A young man bearing a striking resemblance to Keanu Reeves is typing furiously at a computer.
Ms. Walters: What’s the word, Keanu?
Keanu: We’ve analyzed her last 30 games of hopscotch and ran them through a reverse linear algorithm. We’ve done error calculations and verified our results with our health teacher Mrs. Henderson’s beehive. Based on our projections, we believe your daughter is planning to unleash a deadly cootie epidemic.
Mr. Feldman: Oh, so Keanu Reeves is a cootieologist now? Seriously, somebody should tell that man that not everything is like a movie. I’m pretty sure they don’t make movies about global epidemics or butterfly effects.
Ms. Walters: The danger posed by your daughter is just too great… she could bring down infrastructures, devastate metropolises, disrupt bus schedules-
Susie appears from the hallway, grinning impishly. She opens her hands to reveal a single butterfly.
Susie: Dodge this.
Keanu: NOOOOOO!!!
Keanu jumps for the butterfly, plucking it from Susie’s hand and rolling into the hallway. For some unbeknownst reason, the butterfly explodes and destroys the entire school, vaporizing everyone in the room and marginally diminishing Keanu’s heroism.
Ms. Walters emerges from the rubble, stroking her robotic hand. She deactivates the force field surrounding her and turns to the quivering form beside her.
Ms. Walters: Good work, Susie-Klatrukkinoq. You will be repaid with many fruits and amusing chained animals.
Susie-Klatrukkinoq: I understand if you must put me in detention for this. One must keep up appearances for the humans.
Ms. Walters: Indeed. Vive le Québec Libre.
Susie-Klatrukkinoq: Vive le Space-Québec Libre.
We gaze across the rubble of the school and focus in on a slightly burnt chair. The gum underneath has been rearranged into the shape of a fleur-de-lis.
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This would be a lot easier if I had a book of knitting recipes written by prostitutes. I’d just pick the cutest thing from that. I feel like I should knit a large piece for the Olympics, because I’ve only ever knit scarves and cozies and things. Then again, I do best with small goals. I will have to set very specific, piece-related goals for a large piece to remain unexploded in my face. I will need constant reminding to remember to get this done, which suggests the use of numerous post-it notes or perhaps electric shocks.
Nein, könnte ich nicht!!! 
