It was one of those school celebrations that I both dreaded and anticipated - Valentine’s Day.
If you came from a family like mine, your mother made sure that you knew who was in the class and that you made Valentines for each member and the teacher. It did not matter if you liked them or not, you did the Valentines. Others did not play so fair. Maybe, they did them at home. But they did not get put into that big red Valentine Box all covered with paper doily hearts.
For days, it seemed, The Box stood in the classroom and, as we got older, in our homeroom. Each of us would go and deposit cards and notes until at last it was Valentine’s day and with fanfare, and with heart shaped, red-sugar covered cookies, the contents of The Box were distributed to the class members. I both anticipated the cards and dreaded the experience.
I knew that I was not popular. I was the quiet kid, sitting toward the front who wore glasses and wasn't athletic, hadn't any brothers or sisters and seemed, instead, to memorize the encyclopedia. But I would dream of heart shaped, fancy Valentines with mushy messages of undying love, especially that day in the eighth grade.
I’d been putting my cards in, a few at a time. But carefully, as I had been taught, to everyone including my teacher, Mr. Brown. My anticipation was running high. And the love of my life was in the class. He ignored me; I pretended that he secretly cared. Really I knew that he loved another (also in the class) and told myself that I would just have to wait.
That Valentine's Day I had to stay home. I'd caught some type of flu or something. I thought about my cards waiting for me at school. Wondered how high the stack would be. Chastised myself for even thinking of getting presents (even cards) because that was not nice. As the day went on, the size of the stack awaiting me swelled and shrunk and swelled again. I thought of my classmates getting their Valentines and trying to figure out who had sent the cryptic ones.
Those cryptic ones were of three kinds: from you best friends playing games with you, from a truly secret lover who couldn't afford to give his name, or from the shy nerd lacking courage. Those last ones usually were accepted with a “yuck.” We all got some of those. I had decided that the one from Martin, my love, would be anonymous. With his declared girlfriend in class he could not afford to sign his name. But it would be a beautiful Valentine, floral, satiny, and sappy.
The next day I went back to class, to my homeroom. The attendance was taken, notices read. It was usual. The beautiful red Valentine Box was gone, put away for another year. Mr. Brown did not come over to speak to me. With greater and greater trepidation I waited for the end of class, then went to his desk to ask about my Valentines. I asked.
There were none.
