“Let’s do it!” Sherry says.
I look at her, unsure if we should do it. It seemed so bad, and we always tried to be such good girls.
Click. Click. Click.
Someone wearing high heels walks by. Probably a teacher. I hear the chatter of little girls near the washroom entrance. A low male voice talks behind a closed classroom door.
Only Sherry and I stand in the dimly lit washroom. The orange stalls, covered in graffiti, remain empty as usual during recess.
Everybody loves using the newly built washrooms. Everybody except us. The old washrooms are our secret haven, a place where we could get away from the boring teachers and loud students. The beige walls and brown-tiled floor are the only things listening into our quite conversations.
And Bloody Mary, because rumor had it that she haunted the last stall. Not that it bothered us. Usually.
“But what if someone finds out it was us?” I say.
“Oh, come on! No one is going to know it was us! So many people write on the stall doors already. No one is going to know,” Sherry says.
“Okay, fine, but whose name should we write?”
“Hmm … how about Sally? She’s in our class, and she always uses the washroom during class, so she will definitely see it sooner or later. Come on, we’re in grade five. It’s our last year at this school. We have to do something funny.”
“Okay, but what do we write?”
“Oh, I know!” Sherry reaches into her bag and pulls out a black pen.
I watch as she goes to the nearest stall and scribbles something on the back of its door. I lean away from the bumpy cement wall and fast-walk towards her, pushing into the tiny stall. I look over what’s written on the walls. Big hearts with the names of their author and their BFFs, newly discovered swear words, and drawings of inappropriate male parts cover the chipped orange paint. Messages of love and hate hide between drawings, directed towards students and teachers alike.
And there, scrawled amongst the ancient writings, is our message.
“I Love You, Sally White!”
We giggle. I imagine Sally jump with excitement as she reads our message. She would immediately run off to tell all of her friends. All she could ever talk about was boys.
We continue to laugh on our way to class.
The next day, we nearly forget about the incident until two of Sally’s friends return from our washroom.
“Oh my gosh, Sally, you will never believe what we just saw!” says Sophie, one of her closest friends.
“What?” says Sally.
“In one of those old washrooms, someone wrote ‘I Love You, Sally White’ on a stall door! Someone has a crush on you!”
“Really? I wonder who it is. Must be some boy in our class,” Sally scans the room with squinted eyes, trying to pinpoint her secret admirer.
Sherry and I look at each other and smirk. We try to contain our laughter.
For the rest of the day, Sally and her friends sit huddled together, listing every guy they think who had even the slightest chance of being Sally’s secret lover.
They didn’t realize that it was a girls’ washroom.