Class Routines: Spitballs

Kauthar had a problem. For the longest time, she had contemplated spitballing the back of her classmate Joseph's shiny bald head. It was the perfect target - so round, so white, and just a few rows ahead of her, at the centre of her vision.

He was that tall guy in her class whose shirt collars were for some reason always slightly too large, inadvertently showing a bit too much neck (no one wants to see that much man-neck). His smile was sharp, and it quickly transformed his eagle-like eyes into merry slits. His hands were small-ish thus not looking quite proportionate to his body, and his shoulders heaved awkwardly with heavy, gutteral laughter at every remarkably crude comment made by his classmates or teacher. That gummy grin and decently-coiffed beard were too much for some girls. They swooned, they flirted, they even fell in love with him. Silly tarts.

And yet today all Kauthar wanted to do was to spitball his head. Every class his seemingly-waxed head would mock her by periodically bobbing up and down, feigning note-taking whilst he was actually texting his girl of the hour.

She daydreamed of that moment; how the spitball would fly majestically through the air, hit the back of his ridiculous head with a gooey *smack* and stick there until he reached back with his somewhat effeminate hand to wipe it away. The thought made her chuckle internally.

The problem was, she didn't have a straw today. But she did have scraps of paper and her saliva all ready to go. The frustration at not being able to eject that perfect spitball ate away at her psyche all throughout the 2 hour class. It almost made her seethe with anger, and consequently a bright pink flush spread through her face.

At the end of her class, she gathered her things, noting that he was probably onto some other unsuspecting girl by now. She secretly vowed to bring a straw next week, silently rubbing her gloved hands with evil glee.