Poop Period

The atmosphere in Room 304 was about as cheerful as a funeral in a downpour.

Mr. Carter, a man whose face seemed permanently fixed in an expression of mild disappointment, stood behind his desk with a stack of papers in his hand that might as well have been execution warrants.

He was a thin fellow, with spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose, and he had a way of clearing his throat that sounded like gravel being dumped onto a tin roof.

"Now," he began, his voice a monotone drone that blended with the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. "Let's go over the results of last week's test on the French Revolution."

He paused, peering over the rims of his glasses, allowing the silence to hang in the air, thick and suffocating.

A prim, proper redhead named Penelope straightened her already impeccable posture. The rest simply stared at the clock, trying to will its hands to spin like a top.

Mr. Carter let the silence stretch until it was taut enough to snap.

"As you all knew," he said with a new, excited note entering his voice, "on this test we'll be having a corrective measure for... academic underperformance."

He set the papers down and picked up a single, sleek black folder from the corner of his desk. He opened it slowly, as if revealing a state secret.

"The System."

The words hung in the air. They didn't land; they just sort of hovered there, like a bad smell nobody wanted to claim. For a full five seconds, the only movement in Room 304 was the slow, methodical sweep of the second hand on the clock.

Even Penelope looked concerned, her brow furrowed in a way that suggested intense, strenuous anxiety.

Mr. Carter adjusted his spectacles, a small, smug smile playing on his lips. He enjoyed this. He enjoyed the confusion, the dawning horror. It was the most engaged the class had been all semester.

"The System," he repeated, savoring the words like a fine wine. "Our automated, objective, and entirely impartial faculty assistant. Some of you are familiar with it. The System will provide immediate consequences for whoever had the lowest score."

He tapped the black cover with a single, bony finger.

A few students glanced up.

The ceiling of Room 304 was the same bland, acoustic-tiled expanse as always—except for the tubes had appeared over the summer, embedded in a neat grid in the tiles above each desk.

Nobody had paid them any mind.

Now, they looked like the open muzzles of a firing squad. Plastic, sterile white, and with a flared nozzle aimed directly at their heads.

Mr. Carter looked down at the folder, then back up at the class. He cleared his throat again, that wonderful gravel-and-tin noise.

"Michelle O'Malley."

The name hit the room like a rock through the window, and for a second, nobody moved. 

Then, all twenty-four heads swiveled in unison to the third row by the window, as if yanked by invisible strings.

Michelle O'Malley did not look like someone who should be in trouble.

She looked like someone who should be on a postcard for a small, cheerful town where nothing bad ever happens. Her hair was the color of corn silk, pulled back in a loose, messy ponytail. A few stray strands framed a face that was all wide, earnest blue eyes and a slight, perpetually surprised-looking pout.