Sneaky as you thought you were, Coach Njordhagen, your math teacher, saw you shove that wad of one-ply paper towel into your mouth and he's coming straight for you. You non-so-deftly shove the straw grasped in your hand into the only hiding spot you can think of - the crack of your butt, exposed by your ill fitting trousers - and pull your shirt down over the top. The cool, smooth plastic in between your cheeks lends a tingle of depraved sensual excitement to an already tense situation.
"The hell is that in your mouth Jeremey?" Coach Njordhagen growls. He grips the edges of your desk and leans in close to your face. His cheap aftershave barely masks the smell of even cheaper whiskey on his breath.
You maneuver the wad of soaked paper under your tongue before mumbling a low "nothing."
"That's a spitball, Jeremy. Let me give you a sound piece of advice from a man who's been where you are and made the wrong choice. Ive seen ruined hair, plugged ears, and places of learning reduced to pulpy messes. I've seen men blinded, sometimes semi-permanently, by the horrors of all-out wet paper war. Don't do it boy. You're think you want this, but you don't."
You spit out the wad of paper and place in the trash can. The straw can stay a little longer.