When I was in high school, my girlfriends and I sometimes hung out in the public library after school. We studied and used reference materials, but we also did a lot of teenaged-girl things, like whisper and giggle and pretend to pay no attention to the boys.
One day I noticed a telephone number written in pencil on the back of my library card. It was my writing, and it didn't look fresh. I didn't recognize the number, and I wracked my brain trying to remember the occasion of having written it. I started speculating, coming up with possibilities that ranged from the mundane (a classmate about an assignment) to the romantic (a cute boy wanting me to ask him to the Sadie Hawkins Dance) to the spectacular (a Hollywood talent scout).
It drove me nuts for a day or two, but in the end, I knew the only thing to do was to call the number and find out who it was. I rehearsed what I would say, then screwed up my courage and dialed. I was all nervous and excited, wondering who would answer. It was the library.
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