In second grade, all the girls in my class had crush on the same boy. My friend and I were always competing for his affection. When Valentine’s Day came, we were all required to get Valentine’s Day cards for the members of our class. At the time, my friend and I decided we would know who he liked by what he wrote on the card. If he gave you really good candy, wrote a heart or “love” or just his name in the card, then we would know. Turns out, it didn’t clarify much.
In fourth grade, I wrote Valentines to every girl in my class and one to the boy I had a crush on. My teacher saw me and made me sit down in front of the class and write heart-shaped cards for every boy in the class. After writing cards that said “you stink” and “I don’t like your hair,” this teacher made me stay in for recess and write real Valentines to them.
In the second grade on Valentine’s Day, I decided I was going to chase the boy I had a crush on down until he would hug me. When I ran up to him after school, he turned around really quickly and elbowed me in the face and I got a fat lip.
When I was in seventh grade, a boy in my science class (who I was texting and kinda liked, I don’t even know what was happening) bought me a box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day and I promptly threw them in the trash in front of a crowd of our classmates. And him.
Anonymous “Big ‘n Dorky”
Alright, I gotta good one. I’m in eighth grade and in the full swing of puberty. I basically look like one big zit with long hair. It’s the Friday of Valentine’s Day and a group of us head to the movies to see something forgettable and probably terrible. At the time I was talking (texting, God forbid I muster up the confidence for any human to human interaction (it was middle school, cut me some slack)) with a specific lady. We had texted for a couple weeks now, most of which consisted of song recommendations and questions about homework — you know, real love. Anyway, said lady is in the group heading to the movies. It’s me and my boys and her and her ladies. It just so happens that when we get in the theater, lady and I are seated next to each other. I make my moves and chat her ear off for the entire duration of the film. At one point we even placed our hands on the armrest. Briefly, stopping my heart. So, the film ends, we all walk out as a group and as we’re heading out, lady heads back into the theater, as if she had forgotten her purse or something. She comes out, smiling, blushing and running to the car with her friends. Then, out from the blackness of the theater comes my best friend, smiling sheepishly. They had kissed. They were now boyfriend and girlfriend — apparently this was confirmed through text message during the terrible film I was lost in. That night I slept over at my best friend’s house, rolled up in a sleeping bag, full of ice cream and pizza, and thinking of how best to commit murder.
Sixth grade. I decided to put my future English major “skills” to the test and wrote him a letter telling him how cute I thought he was. As if this wasn’t bad enough, I had my friend Rohan go up to him at recess and ask him if he had read it. He said he had. He threw the note away. That was the most damaging left swipe I had ever received.