Adios Senora

Today I sat sown in my British Imperialism class like I do every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 1:30 pm. I was rockin' out, within range of my headphone of course, to a little MJ and Heart, whatever came up on shuffle, really. This very Latino looking lady walked into the class, very authoritative, and started to rearrange everything, and trying to get the computer and the class room's sound system to work. Once she got it working, she used said sound system to play some Spanish music, very loudly, and began to sing along. So loudly, I could definitely hear it above the wonderful lyrics of "Alone" streaming into my ears. The 5 (sometimes there are more, sometimes 13) of us in class were trying not to laugh as we glanced around at each other in confusion.
Our normal teacher, tall, funny hair, glasses, green shirt and Christmas plaid tie (yes, it is February 11) walks in, and is stunned. "Please turn that off!" he nearly shouts. She does, starting to look a little nervous. "What are you doing here!?" he once again yells, "I need to teach a class here! At 1:30! Right now!" She starts shuffling through her papers, "Is this room 201? I am substituting for someone in room 201." She says quite politely. "Yes this is 201! You obviously have the wrong room." My teacher says a little more nicely, but still with an edge in his voice. I, Kamille, pulling out my earphones say, "I'm pretty sure there is a Spanish class right across the hall." (and I mean right across the hall, not a normal hall of six feet, but a side hall of Old Main that is maybe 2 1/2 feet, and very inconvienent). "Oh my goodness, she must have given me the wrong room number. I'm so sorry! I was just following her directions." The lady said with nervous laughter. "It's alright, it's alright, these things happen." My teacher says, acting like he is the most understanding person in this building. "Just make your way across the hall." And then he pulled out the old overhead projector, and taught us about farming in 18th century Britain. -At least he didn't read us another one of his short stories about George Fridrech Handel.