We had three minutes to move from class to class, giggling and jostling into one another. We learned early, as this was our building for 7-12, which hallways were busy, and which ones we could move quickly through, threading our way from room to room. I knew which classes someone else had at a given hour so that I could make sure to see them in this designated shuffle, or not -- a quick brush of the hand, a glance from the corner of his eye, the crush as three or four tried to move should-to-shoulder together -- not wanting to be apart for a moment more than necessary, part young, intense friendship, another part wild insecurity that if not bodily present the conversational gossip would turn. And in those moments of movement, a note would pass, furtively written during the past hour, containing random information and acronyms that we thought no one else would know, heartbreak or hope, conversation snippets. Written and then folded, notebook fringe still attached, into a small square or triangle, and palmed to that best one, containing secrets and plans and phrases that fluttered our hearts or made us blush.
We were taking notes on all around us, learning as we went along, notes to be hidden in a shoebox, slid under a bed, uncovered years later to reveal poignant messages bewteen friends, more-than-friends, hoped for romances, trite arguments, bitter words that make mindful scars.