It was three in the morning and I had to go, bad, number two. Someone had stuffed rolls of toilet paper in the men’s toilets, the room was flooded. I stood outside the door of the women’s bathroom and listened, then peeked inside. It was empty. The doors hung open on all the stalls. I picked one, closed the door, and sat down.

Three girls entered, chattering. I recognized their voices, the three meanest girls in the dorm. They stood at the sinks. I waited, holding back, consumed by the pressure building in my rectum.

“I have to pee,” said the leader of the pack. All of the stall doors were open except for the one occupied by me. Which one did she choose? Yup, she pushed on the door. “There’s someone in there,” she whispered.

They stopped talking. The door on the stall next to me opened. I heard her step onto the toilet seat. She jumped down. “It’s a man.” They screamed and ran out the door. I pulled up my pants and headed for the exit. The door swung open. There I was, standing face to face with the meanest girl in the dorm. She screamed. They ran shrieking back to their rooms. I ran the other way, back to my room. You’ve heard the term, scared shitless. I was.

It was the afternoon of the next day. I was sitting at my desk with door open when she barged in. Her two cohorts stood in the doorway. I had felt the sting of her tongue before, for a minor infraction. I was prepared for the worst. “You actually study,” she said. She looked at my desk and picked up a paper. It was a test from a class we shared. It was a tough class. “You got a 97. I got a 94. How is that possible?” She set the paper down.

“The men’s room was flooded.”

She glared at me. I shut up.

Her eyes bore into me. “Don’t do it again,” she said, and left.