The Girls' Bathroom

I race down the landing, leaping down the stairs—three at a time—missing my turn, looping around the group of tables near the window, ricocheting off the wall and into the bathroom.

            My bladder feels like it’s about to explode as I throw open the first stall only to find—someone didn’t flush.

            “REALLY?” I shriek, zipping in and out of the next three stalls, finding the same result.

            I heave my self against the door of the fourth, in the same fashion Coach taught me in Powderpuff practice. It’s—miraculously—pristine.

            After a brief moment of euphoria, I know what I have to do. I jab my hands under the faucet, dry them on my jeans, and swivel around to face the three sullied stalls.

            I give the first one a square kick right in the middle, causing it to fly open, bounce off the wall, and shut itself again. I look around, but there are no witnesses, so I gently push the door open again, and move inside.

            This is disgusting. Who forgets to flush? It should be habit by the time one reaches high school, and yet only two of these five stalls are usable. So it’s up to me, the Magical Flusher—yet again—to make the bathroom a place where five girls can use the toilet at the same time without fear. This is why the line to the girls’ room is always so long. There’re always those few losers who decide not to clean up after themselves and leave a few stalls out of commission. And no other girls can deign to flush unless it’s their own.

            I grimace, as my foot wavers over the flusher—I’ve flushed enough of these to know its technical name. Not only are these girls disgusting, they’re also stupid criminals. They do realize that they have just left a bowl full of DNA for anyone to find them…

            A sort of smile breaks across my face. I could find these girls. I could make them pay. Better yet, I could make them flush.

            But first, I need gloves, tongs, three test tubes, and a different identity. The Pee Detective? The Urine Sleuth? I’ll get to that later.

            I exit the restroom, and creep towards the science building, glaring at each girl who passes me. You could be my culprit.

            Since it’s Tuesday, Mr. Huntington is hosting the Science Bowl in his classroom. He always leaves his clean test tubes outside to dry on sunny days, so I feel free to take a few. Tongs and gloves were going to be a different matter. Every other science teacher was either watching the Science Bowl or too busy not caring, so I had to somehow decide which rooms were locked and which were unlocked. I try Mrs. Jones’ door, and find it unlocked.

She is sitting at her desk, reading Cosmo, clearly not caring about the Science Bowl next door. She finishes reading her article, and then looks up at me, raising her eyebrows. That’s her usual greeting.

“Can I borrow a pair of gloves and some tongs?”

She blinks a few times. “Why?”

I figure I probably shouldn’t lie to a teacher about my detective duties, so I say, “Well, in the bathroom, there’s—”

She shakes her head, crinkles her nose, and flails her hands. “I don’t need to hear anymore. Just take them.”

I grab them out of the supplies cabinet before she can change her mind, and skip back to the bathroom.

The evidence is still there, so I snap on my gloves and prepare to get to work. As soon as I filled the test tubes, researched a DNA testing facility, and got the results back, these girls would be toast.

I hear the bathroom door creak open, and five or six different voices fill the air. I ignore them, locking the stall, and returning to my work.

“Yuck, who forgot to flush?”

“This one is clean, Monique.”

“No, that’s okay, I’ll just flush this one.”

I drop test tube number one in the toilet as I throw open my door.

“Don’t flush that toilet!”

They start at my sudden outburst. Then one says, “Oh, I’m sorry janitor-lady, did you want to do it?”

“It’s evidence,” I explain. “I need to gather a sample from these stalls to find out who’s been neglecting to flush.”

The corners of her mouth tug downwards. “So, you mean we can’t use those stalls? We have to wait here ‘til you’re done?”

“Yes, but in five to ten days, we’ll have an absolute idea of who’s been dirtying our bathrooms and holding up our lines!” I give her a smile and thumbs-up.

“You’re holding up the line,” she says.

I look around the bathroom at the six girls. Some are standing with their arms folded across their chests. Some have their hands on their hips. One is tapping her foot on the damp linoleum.

All of a sudden, two of them leap at me, weaving their arms underneath mine. They hold me with a firm and strong grip, dragging me toward the bathroom stall. The rest of them surround the doorway, as I feel a fistful of fingers in my hair, and my head is thrust closer and closer to the precious evidence.