The Substitute

The substitute teacher smiled at us with too many teeth. Not literally—I counted, and there were exactly as many as there should be. But somehow, there were too many. "Good morning, class," she said, writing her name on the board: Ms. Holloway. "Your regular teacher, Ms. Park, is out sick. I'll be filling in for her." No big deal, right? Substitute teachers were common at Jefferson High. But there was something off about Ms. Holloway. She wore Ms. Park's sweater—I recognized it because Ms. Park had worn it the day before. She sat at Ms. Park's desk with Ms. Park's coffee mug. And when she spoke, occasionally her voice would catch, like she was remembering to sound different. "Today we'll continue with our unit on identity and self-perception," Ms. Holloway said, and I noticed she didn't need to check the lesson plan. She just knew. My friend Jake leaned over and whispered, "Weird, right? She even has the same perfume as Park." I nodded, but most of the class didn't seem to notice. They just pulled out their books and started the assignment. But I watched Ms. Holloway, and I saw her studying us too. Her eyes would linger on each student, like she was memorizing everything about them. The next day, Ms. Park still wasn't back. Ms. Holloway was there again, but now she wore Ms. Park's glasses. She'd styled her hair the same way Ms. Park did. She even had the same habit of tapping her pen when she was thinking. "Is Ms. Park okay?" I asked after class. Ms. Holloway smiled that too-many-teeth smile. "Oh yes. She just needs a bit more rest. I'm taking good care of her class." She paused. "Taking care of everything, really." By the third day, Ms. Holloway looked exactly like Ms. Park. Same height, same build, same face. If I hadn't been paying attention, I wouldn't have noticed the switch. But I had been paying attention. I'd seen the gradual transformation, the way she'd slowly become Ms. Park, piece by piece. The administration didn't notice. When I went to the office to ask about Ms. Park, the secretary looked at me confused. "Ms. Park? She's in her classroom, dear. Are you feeling alright?" "No, the substitute—Ms. Holloway—" "We don't have any substitutes scheduled. Ms. Park hasn't missed a day all year." I went back to the classroom, my mind racing. When I looked at the teacher's name written on the board, it said "Ms. Park" now, in Ms. Park's handwriting. The sweater, the glasses, the voice—it was all Ms. Park. But I remembered. I remembered Ms. Holloway, the substitute who had slowly replaced her. No one else did. That night, I checked social media. Ms. Park's account was active, posting about her day, her lessons, her life. But I looked at the photos closely. In the reflections—in windows, in mirrors, in glass surfaces—I could see something else. Something that wore Ms. Park's shape but wasn't quite right. The too-many-teeth smile. I was the only one who remembered Ms. Holloway. The only one who'd watched the replacement happen. And I realized with growing horror that Ms. Holloway was still there, wearing Ms. Park perfectly now, and no one could tell the difference. Except I'd started to forget too. Details were slipping away. What had Ms. Park really looked like before? What had her voice sounded like? The memories were being overwritten, replaced with Ms. Holloway's version. Then Jake didn't show up to school. A new student was in his seat. His name was Jordan, and everyone acted like he'd always been there. He had Jake's backpack, Jake's schedule, Jake's friends. But he wasn't Jake. I could see it in his eyes—that same studying expression Ms. Holloway had worn, like he was learning to be Jordan. "Where's Jake?" I demanded. Everyone looked at me blankly. "Who's Jake? You mean Jordan?" "No, Jake! Jake Morrison! He sits right there!" The student in Jake's seat smiled at me. Too many teeth. "I think you're confused. I've been here all semester." I ran out of the classroom, my heart pounding. This was bigger than just a substitute teacher. Something was replacing students. Replacing people. And making everyone forget the originals ever existed. I started documenting everything. I wrote down names, descriptions, took photos. I had to remember who was real and who was a replacement. Each morning, I'd check my notes, and each morning, more of it didn't make sense. Names I'd written down were crossed out in my own handwriting, with notes saying "never existed" or "always been this way." I was being made to replace myself. To forget who I knew was real and accept the replacements. More students changed. Sarah became Serena. Marcus became Mark. Subtle shifts that no one else noticed because the memories changed too. Only my written notes stayed the same, and even those were being altered when I wasn't looking. I tried telling my parents. They listened with concerned expressions and made an appointment with the school counselor. The counselor was someone I didn't recognize, but everyone acted like she'd been there for years. "Tell me about these people you think you're losing," she said, pen poised over her notepad. "They're not gone—they're replaced. Something is taking their place and making us forget." "And why do you think you're the only one who notices?" "I don't know. Maybe because I was paying attention when it started? Maybe because I saw the first replacement happen?" She smiled. Too many teeth. "Or maybe, dear, you're the one who's different. Have you considered that?" I ran from her office and kept running. Home, where I locked myself in my room and tried to think. But thinking was getting harder. Memories were slippery, changing when I tried to hold onto them. Had there really been someone named Jake? Or had it always been Jordan? No. I looked at my notes. Jake Morrison. Sat in the third row. Wore a green jacket. Liked skateboarding. It was written in my handwriting. It was real. But the ink was fading as I watched. I realized then that I couldn't win this fight. Whatever was doing the replacing, it was too thorough, too patient. It would replace everyone eventually, rewrite every memory, until the originals never existed at all. The only question was: would I be replaced, or would I be one of the replacements? That night, I looked in the mirror and practiced smiling. I counted my teeth. The right number. But were they my teeth? Or were they someone else's teeth that I'd learned to think of as mine? How much of me was still original? How much had already been replaced? I didn't know anymore. The next morning, I went to school. Ms. Park smiled at me as I entered the classroom. Jordan waved from his seat. Everything was normal. Everything was as it should be. And I couldn't remember why I'd been worried. There was a notebook in my bag filled with names and descriptions, but they didn't mean anything to me. I threw it away during lunch. Just nonsense I'd written during some stress episode, probably. The school counselor had helped me understand that. Everything was fine. Everything was normal. I smiled at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Just the right number of teeth. Just enough. [Note found in Jefferson High's yearbook archives: In the 2024 junior class photo, seventeen students are listed who don't appear in any other school records. No birth certificates, no previous schools, no parents. They exist only in that one photo, smiling at the camera with perfect, identical smiles. The yearbook advisor who discovered this discrepancy went home sick and never returned. The substitute advisor insists the records are complete and always have been. There is no discrepancy. There never was.]