Original valentines

Garren McKelvy was his name. He happened to be absent on fourth-grade picture day, and I remember very little about his appearance, except that he evoked everything that is tall, dark and handsome.

I'd been patient all year, and my concealed feelings longed for an outlet. As Valentine's Day neared, I had a brilliant idea. This year, I'd create my own valentine cards, paying particular attention to the design and message of Garren's.

Most of the bright, construction-papered creations were warm but light-hearted and utterly cliché, informing my classmates that they were the cream of the crop or number one or a great pal. I saved Garren’s valentine for last. It consisted of two dark-blue hearts lovingly pasted together. I thought about using pink and red, but that seemed a little girly for him and too lovey-dovey. I needn't have worried about the color, though, considering the valentine’s not-so-subtle message, which I will never live down yet somehow don’t regret. "Dear Garren," it began, "One heart isn't big enough to hold the love I have for you. Happy Valentine's Day. From Evie."

Mercifully, the holiday fell on a Friday that year, so I didn't have to face Garren or the other boys in the class for a few days after the party that afternoon turned sour. Garren's reaction wasn’t what I’d hoped for, quite. I'd imagined him quietly pocketing the valentine greeting and finding me on the playground later, where he would reveal his own, corresponding affections, perhaps with a peck on the cheek or a confiding note. Instead, while my fellow students and I each sorted through our individual, decorated bags of obligatory valentines, a crowd of pint-sized gentlemen formed around Garren's desk. And before I could even guess at the topic of interest, one of the meanest ones suddenly cried, "Hey Evie, there's your lover boy!" Then they all laughed and I stared at my shoelaces, waiting for the bell to ring so I could sprint home and weep away the weekend.

I say I don't regret what I wrote to Garren, and I mean that. "Better is open rebuke than hidden love," a certain proverb insists, and I would have to agree. So would Saint Valentine. According to legend, this imprisoned Roman priest fell in love with his jailer’s blind daughter and miraculously restored sight to her eyes. When the romance was discovered, Valentine was sentenced to death. He sent the girl a farewell note on February 14, the morning of his beheading, signed, "From your Valentine." When I fear rejection, I can recall this original Valentine and find comfort in the notion that at least rejection is better than beheading.

Anyway, I've moved on to greener pastures, as you can see from this picture.