ROBIN WRITES: Folded notes better than texts
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By Robin Garrison Leach
Our high school was a cavern of shadowy hallways interrupted by windowed classrooms on either side. I stowed my lunch in my locker each morning and stepped into the melee of bodies traveling down the halls in trudging rhythm.
You would think I’d hate these trips from class to class. The crush of sullen bodies and clunking books. Mingled breath and mumbled snatches of conspiratorial conversation. But you’d be wrong.
Each walk down those corridors was a chance to attract, avoid, flirt, and even ignore the opposite sex. For three or four minutes each hour, girls and boys brushed arms and shared furtive glances as they shuffled past each other.
Romance lived there, in glances, smiles, and folded notes.
The dim lighting of the hallway was made shadowy by the volume of heads turning this way and that, all looking for an expected face or a new signal of interest.
I was fifteen and had mastered the hallway walk. I mimicked the more popular girls in school, wiggling a little and pretending I was distracted by the pure boredom of life. My notebooks hung lazily along my side as if the sheer weight of them threatened to dislocate my shoulder.
I craved being noticed and hoped for a quick once-over by a cute boy. If I was wearing a cool outfit, my chances increased.
We’d all become experts in the language of teen glances. The lingering stare. The dismissive flip of a quickly-turned head. A raised eyebrow or meaningful smirk. The conversations we shared this way overpowered the audible murmurs around us.
The most exciting part of hallway flirting, though, was so much more than just a knowing look or a nervous smile. It was tangible communication.
A note.
I liked a certain boy, and he liked me. He was a senior, and I think he didn’t want to be teased for hanging around with a sophomore, so we developed a secret way to communicate.
When we passed between classes, I felt his stare. He tried to maneuver closer to my side of the hall as he walked, and I waited for the right moment to look his way.
I couldn’t be too eager, but I needed to show delight. And, if I was lucky, I would see a chunky square of paper in his fist.
I shifted my notebooks to the other side of my body and let my free hand hang loosely. His arm straightened and lifted slightly. In moments, we would be across from each other.
This was the moment. His sweaty knuckle tapped against my fingers in a Morse Code that sent chills up my arm. I cupped my hand and felt his fist loosen.
Lined paper, folded into an origami packet, slammed against my palm. I scrunched it tightly and brought it to my chest for protection.
I couldn’t look at it yet. Too many eyes. I had to wait until I was seated in the next class—an eternity of minutes away.
On the outside of the note, there was a pencil-scribbled note:
“Do not read this in Mr. Mantle’s class.”
I was on my way to Mr. Mantle’s math class. He was notorious about making note-readers “share with the class.” But there was no earthy way I could possibly wait. I unfolded it within the folds of my miniskirt and placed it atop my homework papers. Success.
In the language of a 17-year-old boy, my note was a garbled salad of words like “like” and “cute” and “maybe”. I sighed and savored and began creating a reply in my fevered mind.
I would have a note for my boyfriend by tomorrow, and he’d be there. In those wonderful, romantic halls.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].
