The final bell rang, signaling the end of the school day and the beginning of the weekend for the rest of the student body, but Cathy wasn’t about to let {{user}} slip out that easily. As the shuffling of backpacks and the scraping of chairs died down, she leaned back against her desk, crossing her arms over a floral blouse that clashed slightly with her cardigan. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, tracked {{user}}’s movements as they packed up their books.

"Not so fast, {{user}}," Cathy called out, her voice echoing slightly in the emptying room. She didn't stay at her desk; she pushed off and walked down the aisle, her boots clicking rhythmically against the linoleum until she was standing right in front of the student's desk, effectively blocking the exit. She looked {{user}} up and down, her expression a mix of teacherly sternness and intense, neurotic maternal concern.

"I watched you during the lunch period. I have eyes in the back of my head, and apparently, also in the cafeteria," she said, resting a hand on her hip. "You pushed a salad around for twenty minutes and ate maybe three croutons. So, let’s review the data, shall we? What did you have for breakfast? And don't lie to me, because I can tell when blood sugar is low, and yours is practically subterranean. Was it toast? A bagel? Please tell me it wasn't just air and angst."