Fume

“Fume?” she whispered, audibly.
As the recipient of said whisper exiting my colleague’s classroom nodded ever so gently, it piqued my curiosity. I stepped inside my classroom, that place where I occasionally mused learning took place, placing the observation in some subtle recess of the subconscious, to be recalled at a later date.
Fortunately I had a spy, a double agent on my side, in the non-verbal war of teachers versus students. They thought we knew nothing of them, and we thought they knew nothing of us. Both sides, it turned out, were totally in error, forever denying that, fixed in a position of see-all, know-all from ego and misinformation. But such is a human folly to be forgiven, par for the course in meanderings of stupidity. Or to put it more colloquially: We’re not as smart as we think we are.
My spy was a wonderful charming blabbermouth, once accusing me of knowing too much, all the while she being the source of the very information I knew too much of. Who was dating who was only the innocent stuff. Other tidbits were far more revealing of 80s adolescent culture, not significantly different than my own 60s adolescent culture. But she didn’t know that. I wasn’t quite up for being the return blabbermouth. Student-teacher confidentiality ruled the day, fortunately for the spy. I think our friendship could have been whacked upside down.
But one day after her initial gossip rant, a pause lead to recalling ‘fume’. I never refused an opportunity to learn. “So what exactly does ‘fume’ mean?” I asked, in real interest. (As opposed to feigned interest, the catalyst for my spy’s top quality rants.)
“Oh … that,” she laughed. “That’s our signal.”
“Signal for what?” I asked, suspecting drug dealing or worse.
“Mrs. _____ ‘s mood. If she’s fuming, I let Jenny know. If she’s not fuming, I say nothing.
“Smart,” I said. “I’ll watch for it. Maybe then I can avoid the staff room at recess.”