In the 4th grade we had an intern that sent all of the girls into a flutter--almost certainly, we all thought that he looked just like Marky Mark or JTT. (Actually, since we all spoke almost exclusively in Baby-Sitter's Club slang, we probably thought that he was totally "cushee". Lord.) Everyone did their best to be the one to get the intern's attention, mostly by gathering in groups and giggling and then running away which, it should be noted, is still my primary tactic when confronted with a cute boy. Some girls brought him presents or gave him their lunch cookies or wore the dresses that, at any other time, they would fight their mom to not have to wear. We weren't sure what to do, but we felt in our bones that we should be doing something.
This was the same year that one of the girls stole a Playgirl from her mom, and we would all huddle around it whenever we could, intrigued and repulsed. None of us were sure what we were supposed to do with all of that information, but if it was something moms were hiding then we definitely wanted to know. A bunch of us got caught with it one day and it was confiscated, but by then we pretty much had it memorized. (Also, the year that I was mayor of Enterprise Village. It was a big year.)
Anyway, everyone had a plan to get the attention of the intern. My plan was genius. I would write the intern a story. And then he could keep it forever, and always remember me. So I did--I wrote the intern a story about a group of kids who get lost in the woods and come across a cave inhabited by some number of people on PCP. History doesn't record either the outcome of the story or the intern's reaction or, for that matter, just how I knew about PCP in the 4th grade.
Still, it just goes to show that I have always been like this.