Yesterday, my Mom had lunch with some old friends who used to live in Verona. Their son, who was visiting from Washington with his wife and child, happened to be sitting next to her. "Do you remember him?" she asked me. Of course. We were in the fifth grade together. He was very popular, on the soccer team. I was a complete geek with glasses, corduroy pants (thanks Mom) and unruly hair (wait a minute, minus the corduroy, things haven't really changed that much.)
Anyway, she was calling to tell me that at the table he had confided to her: "Back in the fifth grade we couldn't wait for friday afternoons because Jennifer used to read mystery stories she had written at home to the class. She used to choose the names of the characters from the students and we all wanted to be in those stories."
Really? Part of me feels elated that anybody would remember (and the cool boy at that), another part feels like I kind of should be writing mystery stories right now. Or that at least my Mom could have replied: "Well, you may have heard of The Da Vinci Code?"
"Omg...she wrote that?"
"Sorry, not at liberty to confirm..."
Keep the mystery alive, that's all I'm saying.