When, in the course of bodily events, it become paramount that a teacher use the indoor outhouse to release fluids that have built up since mid-morning, with no break in sight until the 2:56 bell...
She does not welcome with open arms the 15-minute student consultation in the hallway outside her door right after the final bell. Oh, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom welcomes the student. Discusses the issue. Science is important, you know. Let no discovery go undiscovered. But she does not open her arms. Instead, she crosses her legs. Because she knows that any second, the confab will be done, and she can scoot off to ascend her throne.
Except that second is prolonged when a youngster walks up and stands, expectantly, though stating he expects nothing, he is just standing, listening, rubbing three dollars between his palms, until the consultee tells him that it's a confidential matter, sorry, of which he has no input.
Wrapping up the conversation, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom drags herself on tired feet up to the teacher workroom, her oasis, the location of her relief station. Oops! Two students linger just inside the door, just outside the door of the faculty women's restroom. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not keen on excusing herself between that testosterone-charged duo, so she heads for her mailbox, just to check, planning to make a return trip to the facility as those boys exit.
Slowly she turns...and sees a smidgen of a girl dash inside that faculty women's restroom, apparently privy to the privy through blood relations with a faculty/staff connection. Foiled again! What could such a youngster be doing in the faculty women's restroom? It's not like one so short in the tooth needs to apply hair dye, or shampoo her locks before a tresses-trimming appointment.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom stumps all the way back to her room, plops down, and listens for the slam of that door upon Juvenilelocks's exit.
Some days, it just doesn't pay to be all proper and crap.