Angel Boucher

An absolutely true and deeply unnecessary tale

’Twas the day before Fall Break,
and all through the school,
not a teacher was thriving.
We’d run out of fuel.

The children were feral.
The teachers were fried.
Our patience had packed up,
clocked out,
and died.

Caffeine in our bloodstream.
Delusion in our eyes.
Just make it to the bell, Lord.
That was the prize.

Tick.

Tick.

TICK.

And then—

A thought.

A memory.

A whisper from the void.

The tortillas.

There were tortillas
IN. MY. DESK.

Why?

Irrelevant.

Don’t ask questions
you aren’t prepared
to hear the answers to.

I looked at the tortillas.

The tortillas looked at me.

And somewhere deep inside my exhausted teacher brain,
a single remaining neuron whispered:

Do it.

So I did.

FLAP.

A tortilla sailed majestically
across my classroom
like a gluten-based bald eagle.

The children froze.

“WHO THREW A TORTILLA?!”

Chaos erupted.

Accusations flew.

Civilization collapsed.

And there I stood—

their teacher,
their trusted adult,
their supposed role model—

covering my mouth
because I was approximately
0.3 seconds away from SNORTING.

“Guys,” I said calmly.

“Settle down.”

They brought me the tortilla.

Their first mistake.

I took it.

Stood up.

Walked toward the door.

Opened it.

Looked left.

Looked right.

And then—

SPRINT.

Across the hallway I flew,
powered by caffeine,
bad decisions,
and the spirit of Fall Break.

I reached Mr. Taylor’s door.

I crouched.

I aimed.

I YEETED.

FWOOP.

Tortilla under the door.

SPRINT.

Back across the hallway.

Door shut.

Innocent face.

My classroom?

ABSOLUTE SHAMBLES.

Children wheezing.

Me crying.

Someone probably questioning
every life choice
that brought them and me to seventh grade.

“ACT NORMAL.”

And somehow—

THEY DID.

Silence.

Beautiful, suspicious silence.

But alas.

One tortilla victim
was not enough.

For I had tasted crime.

And crime tasted
like flour tortillas.

So a few minutes later—

I DID IT AGAIN.

Another teacher.

Another tortilla.

Another deeply questionable
professional decision.

She knew.

Oh, she KNEW.

But we said nothing.

Because snitches get stitches
and apparently teachers get tortillas.

Then—

THE BELL.

Doors opened.

Children flooded the hallway.

And suddenly:

“MS. BOUCHER!
SOMEONE THREW A TORTILLA
UNDER OUR DOOR!”

I summoned every ounce
of acting ability
I possessed.

“WHAAAAAAT?!”

pause for dramatic effect

“THAT IS WILD.”

My students—

my beautiful little accomplices—

immediately joined the conspiracy.

“SOMEONE DID IT TO US TOO!”

Oscar-worthy.

No notes.

Then the other teacher said,

“Yeah…
someone threw one
under my door too.”

We looked at each other.

Mistake.

Because we knew.

She knew I knew.

I knew she knew.

The kids knew nothing.

And now we were standing there
biting our lips,
avoiding eye contact,
trying not to collapse,

while CHILDREN
began conducting
a full-scale investigation

into—

THE GREAT TORTILLA TOSSING OF 2026

CSI: MIDDLE SCHOOL
was officially underway.

And then—

someone spoke the words
that would end
my criminal empire.

“Mr. Taylor texted Mrs. Cross
to check the cameras.”

…

The.

Cameras.

Apparently Mr. Taylor had said:

“I guess they forgot
we have cameras.”

Sir.

My students PANICKED.

“THEY’RE CHECKING THE CAMERAS?!?!”

Other children:

“YES! IT WAS SO WEIRD!”

Meanwhile I’m standing there
having the sudden realization

that somewhere
on a security monitor

there exists footage
of a grown woman

SPRINTING THROUGH A MIDDLE SCHOOL HALLWAY

with a tortilla,

crouching at a coworker’s door,

launching said tortilla,

and fleeing the scene

like the world’s dumbest criminal.

My life of crime was over.

I slipped into the classroom.

And confessed.

“It was me.”

Silence.

“I’m the Tortilla Tosser.”

CASE CLOSED.

Mr. Taylor immediately texted Mrs. Cross:

“Never mind.

It was Boucher.”

But unfortunately,

the story did not end there.

Because I had to tell Ms. Tucker.

I found her.

I explained the tortilla.

The hallway.

The children.

The lies.

The investigation.

The cameras.

The confession.

The text.

And then—

we made eye contact.

GAME OVER.

We LOST.

OUR.

MINDS.

Not giggling.

Not chuckling.

Not polite teacher laughter.

I mean—

TEARS.

RED FACES.

NO OXYGEN.

BENT OVER.

CAN’T SPEAK.

CAN’T BREATHE.

TRYING TO RECOVER.

FAILING.

One of us would finally calm down.

Then we’d look at each other.

And—

RIGHT BACK TO CHAOS

And that,

ladies and gentlemen,

is how we survived
the day before Fall Break.

Some teachers do yoga.

Some meditate.

Some journal.

Some practice mindfulness.

And apparently—

I weaponize tortillas,
recruit seventh graders into organized crime,
frame an unknown assailant,
trigger a security-camera investigation,
confess under pressure,
and laugh until my respiratory system
files a formal complaint.

Was it professional?

Debatable.

Was it mature?

Absolutely not.

Would I do it again?

…

I have been advised
not to answer that question.

—The Tortilla Tosser 🌯

September 25, 2026
Never Forget