The Hamlet Project

In those giddy years, the ones when love rushes in like water and just as indiscriminately, there were probably more conversations about boys than anything else. What they said and then what I said and then what they said and what I did then, etc. Reporting on romance (or almost romance, or wished for romance, or imagined romance, or suspected romance, or uninvited romance) was nearly as exciting as the romance itself. In many cases, definitely MORE exciting than the romance itself.
I remember impassioned storytelling in Chemistry class, when we ought to have been practicing our equations but instead could not keep ourselves from the reporting of the daily love news with tremendous urgency. Every attempt from Mr. Jones to shut our giggling journalism down only managed to press it down for a moment before it would rise up again at the nearest opportunity. It was like pressing on a water bed, wherever you applied pressure created a swell somewhere else. Knowing what was said, what happened was urgent. It would not wait until after school.