I was in third grade before they made the rule that if you are going to bring Valentines to school, you have to bring them for everyone in your class.
And so, in second grade, I was devastated when my redheaded friend, Gina, had a valentine from Cory Measel and I didn’t. He was the quiet boy in the class, but he liked basketball, and so I had glued a basketball on the corner of my otherwise Lisa Frank covered shoebox as bait.
When my methods had failed me, I was nearly as heart broken as when a boy named Patrick made fun of my crowned cavities in first grade…but not quite.
I had grown up quite a bit by fifth grade when I let my friend, Randy, kiss my cheek for Valentine’s Day. He hadn’t ever kissed anyone but his mom, and he thought that maybe if he kissed my cheek, then we might find out we were meant to be more than friends.
We weren’t, we decided, and ended up jumping on his trampoline for a few hours that afternoon until my mom came to pick me up in our wood-paneled mini van.
I watched out the window as we drove away from his house and he waved real big with a goofy smile on his face. He was so relieved to know we wouldn’t have to mess things up with all that yucky love stuff.
