On one of the last days of sixth grade, I watched a classmate empty a large collection of folded notes from her girlfriends into the wastebasket.
Most of them were folded into those origami triangles girls that age seem to like. They were easily passed from one hand to another, folded to protect from prying eyes, conveniently concealed. Yeah, sort of like drug bindles.
When Sharon left, I casually wandered over and stuffed my pants pockets fore and aft with the notes for the purposes of future ...
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