In sixth grade on Valentine's Day, I got a valentine from Ritson Smart. Only it wasn't just a valentine, it also had a stick of gum, Fruity Stripes--the cherry one. We weren't allowed to chew gum at school, so I had to put it away for later. When it came time to compare our valentines, we girls sneaked to a hidden alcove in the bathroom. We called it the Bippy Corner. Whenever there was something special to share, we would cram ourselves in. It was important to be one of the first to the bathroom to get the best spot.
That February fourteenth, as we huddled in the Bippy Corner, we learned that Curt Turner had given everyone heart candies that said things like, "Be Mine," "Yes Dear," or "True Love." And Matt Hodapp had given Kim Ferguson an adult valentine, not one from the department store packs, but a card store valentine. All of us ooh'd and ahh'd and felt a twinge of jealousy even though it wasn't much of a surprise. Two weeks before, at morning recess, Matt and Kim had professed their liking for each other.
When it was my turn to share, I hesitated. I wasn't sure how a red-striped stick of gum would compare to a fancy card from Hallmark. But the girls crooned their encouragement, and I pulled out the stick of gum. There was a moment of silence, a reverent moment like we'd just unearthed the Shroud of Turin. And then the chatter started.
"No one else got gum."
"Ritson must like you."
"Do you like him?"
And from Kim: "It's just a stick of gum, it's not even the whole pack."
Of course she was right, and everyone was silent again until Terri Fisher said, "Yeah, but it's the red piece. Everyone knows the red piece is the best one."
Terri Fisher had been my best friend for two months, ever since we discovered we were the only two girls brave enough to do the flip-over move on the horizontal monkey bars. It was a scary move when you were eleven. You had to trust your arms would be strong enough to hold you. You laid flat on the top of the bar, reached under, grabbed the bars your belly rested on, and then rolled off the bars in a sort of somersault move while still holding the bars. It wasn't considered successful unless you could hang with your feet dangling above the ground for five seconds after the flip.
And in the bathroom that day, Terri Fisher proved once again how brave she could be. It was very risky to go against anyone who had a two-week relationship going. Kim had been our heroine, the girl we all wished we could be, for more than a week. But Terri had faced up to her.
Later, when we were back in class, I couldn't help but glance at Ritson. He looked the same as always--blond shaggy hair, brown eyes, and two light brown moles on his left cheek--but suddenly he was the cutest boy in the whole world.
He caught me looking at him, and I thought I would die sitting right there in Mrs. Wisecup's class. My cheeks burned and my sweaty palms could barely hold my pencil. And then he smiled. Not a huge show-all-your-teeth-smile but a half-smile that still caused his eyes to crinkle. My belly shuddered like I'd just gone over the hill of a roller coaster.
At afternoon recess, Terri Fisher and I were back on top the monkey bar. We elaborated on the flip-over move, by adding a song. "On a high tin roof Del Gato sat..." When the song called for the cat, Del Gato, to tumble off the high tin roof, Terri and I would do the flip-overs. We didn't have a huge audience, but a few kids stood around, and we performed for them.
As we were belting out, "meow meow meow" for the third time, a group of girls, led by Kim Ferguson (Kim was the leader in most ranks) marched to the monkey bars.
"Ritson Smart likes you." This came from Kim, only she said it in a way that led you to believe it wasn't a happy proclamation.
I wanted to ignore her, but then I remembered how my belly felt in class when Ritson smiled at me, sort of like doing a flip-over. I couldn't resist answering.
"How do you know?"
Kim looked around. I was sure it was to see if she had everyone's attention before proceeding. When she was satisfied, she said, "Because I asked him."
The crowd gasped. Kim Ferguson had just done something no one had dared to do before. That kind of information was saved for secret notes or second hand news from other boys. But I wasn't impressed. I was embarrassed. Now instead of covert glances in a classroom, Ritson and I would be placed under the tightest scrutiny. Boys would watch Ritson. Girls would watch me. And all to see if either of us gave away some hint of affection. And while my heart screamed, "He likes me!" the unwelcome attention and embarrassment made me say "So?"
Kim harrumphed and then turned, with gang in tow and went straight to Ritson who was playing football with the boys.
Terri howled out the next line, "He went there to read a letter, meow meow meow, where the reading light was better, meow meow meow..."
The few kids that had been watching our performance drifted away until it was just Terri and me for the flip-over finale.
When recess was over and we were lining up to go back inside, I stole a glance at Ritson. He looked at me for a brief second and then quickly looked away. No smile. No crinkly eyes. Two days later, Kim Ferguson and Matt Hodapp broke up because Kim had a new boyfriend: Ritson Smart.
* * *
When I was seventeen and Valentine's Day rolled around, I had a steady boyfriend, Woody Hall. Woody and I were both in the High School band. He was a senior and played drum. I was a junior and played clarinet.
Our relationship started on a Friday night in October. The band was traveling to an away football game, and I was running late. I parked my car and sprinted to the bus. Mr. Foiles was standing at the top of the bus steps as I hurried to climb aboard. He waited until I was standing at the top of the steps and then yelled.
"It's very inconsiderate of you to keep everyone waiting!"
I wanted to find a seat and sink into oblivion, so I slumped into the first available spot. Woody Hall was the other occupant. At first, we sat mute, afraid to draw more attention our way. But by the time ten minutes passed, the bus still hadn't moved, and conversations popped up all over. Woody leaned over and whispered.
"Mr. Foiles is such an old fogy."
And I smiled.
Woody's shoulder touched mine for the entire trip, and I learned to love the combined smell of Brute cologne and Dentyne gum.
After the game, when it came time to load back onto the bus, Woody asked if I'd sit next to him on our way home. I hurried to tell Terri Fisher, and we both giggled with excitement. His shoulder didn't lean against me on the return trip and his Brute had been washed away by the cool night breeze, but twice Woody's thigh bumped against mine, and by the third time, he didn't bother to move it away.
Because Woody and I were in different grades, we didn't see much of each other during school hours. But every Friday we sat together on the bus or in the stands at the football game. At one especially close game, our mighty Bucs scored a late quarter touchdown that gave us the lead. The bleachers were filled with hundreds of ecstatic fans. Woody and I were among them. In the thrill of the excitement, Woody hugged me to him and kissed me. His lips were dry and cold, and they only touched mine for milliseconds, but I was warm the rest of the night.
When football season was over, Woody and I still spent Friday nights together at the movies, or the arcade. I played Centipede; Woody played foosball. Or we'd stay at my house with my parents and watch "The Odd Couple" and "Love American Style." When we were alone, Woody would hold my hand and kiss me over and over--warm, moist kisses that were nothing like the kiss at the football game.
On Valentine's Day, Woody made special plans for dinner. When he picked me up, he was dressed in gray corduroy Levi's and a buttoned- down shirt that was open at the collar. He handed me a heart- shaped box full of chocolate covered mints, creams, and cherries and told me how much he liked my burgundy wrap- around dress. I tipped up to kiss him above his open collar and inhaled the woodsy smell of Brute.
Dinner was two towns away at the Carousel. The restaurant set high atop a hotel and revolved, so the view during your meal alternated from city lights to distant mountains. There was no menu. Instead, the waiter recited the selections. When he'd finished, I wasn't sure what to order. He resented my hesitation and brusquely told me they didn't serve hotdogs. I ordered shrimp.
Woody said he wished we were old enough to order wine, but I wasn't disappointed. Being alone with Woody in a different city and sharing the magnificent view with him was intoxicating enough.
