Two girls I don't know (they're always in pairs) come into my room at lunch. One asks if she can use my microwave. Another teacher sent her to me. Sure, I don't care.
She pops her Chick-Fil-A bag in, and no one notices or remembers that those bags are lined with aluminum foil.
As soon as the Start button is pushed, the bag begins to spark. I call to her to shut the oven off, and she is trying to push the wrong side of the door release button, and the door won't open. By the time it finally opens up, the tinted glass is lit up from the inside because the bag is on fire.
A tiny puff of smoke curls out the top of the oven. When the bag comes out, my aide blows it out like a birthday cake. We're all laughing hysterically; everyone except the poor girl, who thinks she just fried my microwave. We put the chicken sandwich on a paper plate and finish the job, joking about the "what if"s of fire alarms and thirty-five hundred students out on the field because of a chicken sandwich.
It could happen, but I wouldn't want to explain it to the principal later.
1 comment:
Hello! Thank you for popping by my blog.
It's interesting to read the tales of a teacher of older (and indeed, American) children, as the ones I teach are rather older, and indeed, British. Happily, they have never set fire to my room. Yet.
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