Gas Mask

Every so often I get a class after lunch that is goofy and full of---air. Smelly air. Flatulence. Gas. OK---farts.

Being juniors, one would think they could handle themselves in a mature manner and do what most adults do: breath shallow until the odor subsides and, in the mean time, SHUT UP ABOUT IT.

But, no. This goofy bunch kept it up, no matter how hard I tried to change the subject:

"Do you smell that?"

"OMG. Who did it?"

"It wasn't me."

"Yeah, right."

"It came from over there. I know it did."

"OK, let's get busy on the quiz," I interject.

"Jeez, that's disgusting," Maria says, tucking her nose inside her sweatshirt.

"No kidding. Somebody let another one. It can't be the same one."

"It was you, wasn't it Jerry?"

"No, really it wasn't. I like to claim these kind of things, and it wasn't mine."

"All right, you guys. That's enough. Get busy and finish your quiz and turn it in, OK?"

They hand their quizzes in and everyone navigates around the smell as they come to the front of the room.

"I just went by it. Stay away from Monty. He did it, didn't you?"

Monty grins.

I stay in the front of the room where it's safe. And here I was worried about the spread of H1N1.