I’d had my first dirty dream. I hid my then fourteen-year-old face behind my locker, willing the blood to drain from my flushed cheeks. But as I ambled down the hall and through a cloud of Tommy Girl perfume to first period, new but not-unwelcome sensations spider-walked their way across every nerve ending. For the first time, my body felt awake, like my entire childhood had been a nap Mom insisted I take.

The bell rang for English Lit, and you were seated two rows up. So I did what any normal teen would do since cell phones weren’t allowed in class: wrote a note. I jotted down the dream, sparing no details. I even included his name, even though I knew you’d give me shit for it. The teacher droned on about the second act in Hamlet while I folded the paper in half, then neat thirds, securing the tab with a sloppily-scrawled pull. When our teacher pivoted to address the other side of the class, I tapped the person in front of me, then wordlessly gestured to you. In hindsight, I should’ve known that, based on the sloppy hand-off, things would go awry. But I held my breath anyway as she followed orders with that precious white rectangle. As soon as your fingers clenched around it, our teacher barked out your name like police would a fleeing suspect. In two strides, he claimed my deepest, darkest confession. He asked if he should read it aloud, and in true Claudius fashion, the entire class betrayed me. Beyond the first line, however, he ceased his audible humiliation. Pulse pounding, I watched his tongue wet his chapped lips as he skimmed the remainder of the note. It wasn’t until his greedy eyes found mine, his middle-aged pupils blown with desire, did I feel like the dream was, in fact, dirty.