Left to Wonder...For Twenty Years

This is being submitted for the 2020 Valentines Day contest. Your votes are appreciated. Thanks.

*

Kimber Bessette was only eleven years old but she remembers. The year was 1999, a Friday, two days before Valentine's Day. Her sixth-grade class at Wellwood Elementary School was cutting and pasting, making their own valentines. The idea was to stuff the valentine in an envelope and then give it to someone you liked, someone who you wanted to be your valentine. But there was a catch: you couldn't reveal the source; you could only reveal the kid you wanted to receive it as marked on the envelope. After that, it was up to each kid to tell at their leisure. Or not. The choice was theirs.

Kimber didn't have to think twice about her intended, Mark Cooper. He was cute and nice and smart. Even at eleven, he attracted a lopsided share of female attention. She knew that he'd receive more than one valentine; hers would be just one among many. She wondered how many she'd receive. She'd consider herself lucky if she got just one, while Darla McKim, the prettiest girl in class, would probably need another backpack to carry all of hers. If only she looked like Darla or Patti Solomon or Lindy Harper or Heather Fleischmann. If only she didn't have hair that refused to cooperate with where she wanted it to go. If only she wasn't so skinny. If only her nose was smaller, her legs bigger. Her eyes were the only feature she felt proud of, her big brown, puppy dog eyes that her parents and even other kids complimented her on, the nice kids who wanted to make her feel better about her plain Jane image.

Mrs. Richmond, her teacher, had her class pile the envelopes on a desk. Then, one by one, she handed them out. As expected, Darla and Mark received more than the other kids. Kimber, to her surprise and relief, got one. Of course, she wondered about the source, about what boy in her class of close to thirty kids thought enough of her to want to give her this. Plus, this was no ordinary homemade valentine, pasted with red hearts and scribbled with cliched phrases. This boy took the time to get creative, to write romantic couplets of rhyme:

When I get older, about to retire, I'll still remember the girl I admire

Who's sweet and cute, and smart to boot

Who doesn't gossip or make trouble

Who's there when you need her, right on the double

Who's now left to wonder who sent her this greeting

What comes next and where it's all leading

But one day this boy might finally reveal

It's his heart on this day that you managed to steal.

She WAS smart, practically a straight-A student, a math whiz. He got that right. But cute? Was he being sarcastic? And she couldn't imagine stealing any boy's heart. Must be a joke. Or, maybe not. Would she ever find out? Would the boy who wrote this ever reveal himself to her? She tried to guess. Bobby Sherlis? Jon Miller? Chip Fryan? Michael Fields? Mark Cooper?! Yeah, right. Her valentine to Mark was simple, expressing light affection but nothing more. She didn't want to overdo it. She'd never tell him it was from her. She was much too shy for that. Besides, she didn't think it would mean much coming from her.

Days went by, then weeks, then months. By spring, she had lost hope of ever finding the giver of her valentine. Must have been a joke after all, some wise-ass playing games, playing with her feelings. She almost threw the valentine in the trash. Almost. Then she decided to keep it as a memento of her grade school years. She stuffed it in a dresser drawer, buried it under socks and underwear.

She moved on to middle school, then high school. By her md-teens, the skinny plain Jane had filled out. Her legs, still long, were now shapely, almost muscular from playing girls' lacrosse. Her face got fuller and her nose smaller, thanks to her parents who paid for a nose job when she turned thirteen. Her hair, well, she still wrestled with the kinks and curls; hair relaxer helped. She added some highlight, too, became a dirty blond with longer locks. If the once plain Jane didn't morph into a swan, she at least become a gazelle, lithe and graceful. Guys noticed and asked her out. Her confidence grew. And every once in a while, in wistful moments, she'd take out that valentine, still wondering who the sender might have been.

*****

Fast-forward to 2019. Kimber Bessette is now thirty-one and doing quite well for herself. She's got a degree in mechanical engineering and a good job with an established firm. Although not married, she's had a couple "steady" relationships. She's in no hurry. She's healthy and happy, enjoying life. Through Facebook, she keeps in touch with old classmates from her prep high school, college and even Wellwood, the public school she attended before her parents sent her to the private Bryn Mawr. She's still got that valentine, though she seldom looks at it these days. But then she receives notice that her Wellwood class of '99 is having a twenty-year reunion, unusual for an elementary school. She's excited to go. Out comes the valentine. For the umpteenth time, she reads the poem once again, then voices her own couplet: "Whose words these are, I still don't know, these words set down so long ago."

The reunion is set for the third Saturday in May, one o'clock at Canton Crossing, a trendy restaurant near Baltimore's Inner Harbor. She debates whether to bring the valentine. She's tempted. But then what, go around to each guy there, asking if he's the one? Or, even more daring, address the group, read the poem and then say, 'Will the person who wrote this please come forward.' She laughs at that bizarre scenario. She wonders who'd be more embarrassed, her or the guy who wrote it, assuming it's a guy, assuming he'd fess up, assuming he'd even be there.

*****

Kimber dresses semi-casual per what the invitation recommends. 'Casual chic,' she calls it. She wears tapered, leg-hugging khaki slacks with cuffs wrapped around her small ankles, a white blazer over a white and tan, windowpane pattern blouse and spikey heels. She parts her hair in the middle, then lets her curly-wavy locks drop just below her shoulders. She parks her blue Nissan Altima on the lot, then checks herself in the mirror and applies a thin coat of light pink lipstick. Then she proceeds into the restaurant, with her old valentine tucked inside her small black purse. She hasn't decided what to do with it, if anything.

As she wades into the crowd of close to thirty of her old Wellwood classmates, thoughts about the valentine get lost in the excitement of seeing people she hasn't seen in two decades. Bobby Sherlis greets her with a hug and a "you look great." Kimber and Darla Sizemore, ne' McKim, come face to face, then embrace. Darla's still so pretty, Southern Belle pretty, with her radiant, honey-blond hair, blue eyes and near-perfect proportioned Barbie doll kind of figure to match. Darla's wearing a sleeveless yellow dress, two-tone yellow-black high heels and holding a glass of Zinfandel. "Mark's here, you know," she says, all excited and pointing to Mark, standing in line at the open bar. "I remember that you had a crush on him. We all did."

Kimber nods and looks over, sees him standing behind tall Lindy Chandler, ne' Harper. Mark's dressed in business casual, khakis and a tan sports jacket over a striped red and white button-down shirt. "Talk to you later," Kimber says, and then jumps in line, four people behind Mark. She peeks around the guy in front of her to get a better look, sees he's making animated conversation with Lindy. She heard through the grapevine that Mark married young, then divorced before he turned thirty. He's about an inch shorter than Lindy, maybe five-nine, close to Kimber's height. She catches his profile, then sticks her arm out and waves, trying to get his attention. "Hey Mark." He looks back, his blue eyes narrowing, as if he's trying to guess who she might be. "Kimber, Kimber Bessette," she says, raising her voice.

He grins and snaps his fingers. "Right, of course. Didn't recognize you at first. Guess it's the hair. You wore it short and curly back in the day."

She smiles and nods. "Well, you haven't changed a bit." He's still got that cute impish grin and that thick mane of light brown hair that sweeps across his forehead. He grins, gives her a thumbs up and then resumes his talk with Lindy.

Bloody Mary in hand, Kimber moves away from the bar to mingle. She spots her former teacher, the statuesque Mrs. Richmond, looking great for a middle-ager, and still teaching. She wears a plaid skirt, white blouse and heels. Her straight hair is still as brown as it was back in '99. Short and chic, it drops to the base of her neck, then sweeps across one side of her low forehead, covering half her left eye. "You're an engineer? Well, I'm not surprised," she says. "I recall your math skills very well, and how you tutored some of your classmates."

They make small talk before Kimber moves on. She's seen some of these people on Facebook, while others, like Mark who avoid that site, she's seeing for the first time since June of 1999. About half are married, a few divorced. Like Kimber, most of them work in jobs that require a college degree. No surprise, Wellwood served kids from the well-to-do suburb of Wellwood Valley Estates.

Minutes later, she's seated at one of the two long tables that Canton Crossing reserved for the reunion, with a view of the brick promenade that winds around the harbor shoreline. Waiters serve the meal of surf and turf, one chicken breast and one crab cake per plate, along with sides of asparagus and backed potato. While reminiscing with her former classmates, Kimber's thoughts once again turn to that valentine. No one has yet mentioned that day they were all cutting out those red hearts and then pasting them onto a sheet of paper, leaving enough room to write something. Now might be a good time to bring it up. She turns toward Mrs. Richmond who sits at the head of her table, close to Kimber.

"Yes, I do," she says after Kimber asks if she remembers that assignment. "I did it with all my six-grade classes." Kimber then reveals her experience, that nobody had come forward to claim the one valentine that she had received that day. Her former teacher chuckles. "Really? Well, after all this time, do you have some idea who it might have been?"

"None, I'm still stumped," Kimber admits, then takes a sip of her Bloody Mary. "But I'd sure like to find out."

Mrs. Richmond talks as she looks down while slicing a piece of chicken breast. "Well, you can ask around. But I'm sure that valentine is long gone by now."

Kimber grabs her purse. She hesitates. Then: "Actually, it isn't." She snaps open the purse and pulls out the envelope, the one with KIMBER printed in the upper-right corner. "I've kept it all these years."

Mrs. Richmond, holding a piece of chicken on her fork, lapses into a jaw-dropping freeze. Then she says, "Oh, my, Kimber, this obviously meant a lot to you."

Those in proximity begin to take notice. They stare at the envelope with amused curiosity.

Mrs. Richmond chews her piece of chicken, then asks Kimber if she can see it. "But if you'd like it to remain private, I understand," she says, noticing Kimber's reluctance.

"It's okay," Kimber says, and hands her the envelope. Silently, Mrs. Richmond reads it. Then she reads it a second time, then a third. "You know, I might have an idea who gave you this."

"You do?!"

"Yes." She hands it back to Kimber who places it back in the envelope. "Well, I'm not a hundred percent sure. But I take special note of students who possess a skillful way with words, and some of them I remember."

"Okay, so who do you think it might be?" Kimber feels a bit uneasy from the rapt attention she's now getting from those nearby.

Mrs. Richmond smiles and takes a sip of her wine. "I think you'd have more fun tracking down this secret admirer yourself. Like I said, I'm not one-hundred percent sure. In fact, if memory serves me right, it could be one of maybe three or four boys that were in your class."

Kimber frowns. "Looks like I'm back to square one."

"Not necessarily. Look, I've got an idea, though it will take a bit of nerve on your part to pull it off. You don't seem like the shy girl you were back then. But still, it's something that most people might shy away from."

"I'm listening." And so are those former classmates seated near her, though Kimber is now too intrigued to care.

Mrs. Richmond puts down her knife and fork. "Okay, here goes. You take that valentine. Then, after getting everyone's attention, you tell them you're on the hunt for the giver. You then read the poem, followed by a request for this person, a guy presumably, to come forward."

Kimber flashes a bitter pill type look, feels something drop in her gut. "I was afraid you'd suggest something like that." She pauses for the chuckles of those around her. Then: "Although, I can see where it might be fun. Kind of like the charades we used to play in class."

Janice Kirsh, one of the never married women here, gives Kimber a gentle nudge. "Do it, Kim. It WOULD be fun, watching the guys here look at one another, wondering who it might be."

Mrs. Richmond lifts her wine glass. "There you go, Kimber." She pauses, nods with a closed-mouth grin. Then she says, "Maybe I can help. If you'd like, I'll do the introduction. Then you'll come up and read your poem. Sound like a plan?" She takes a sip, keeping her eyes on Kimber.

Kimber and the others laugh when Chip Fryan, seated next to Janice, says, "Let me state unequivocally that it wasn't me. Not that I didn't like you. And still do."

Janice prods her again. "Go on, Kim, this should be interesting."

"Yeah, Kimber, do it," a dark haired, chubby woman says.

Mrs. Richmond joins the chorus. "I'm curious myself who it might be—if for no other reason than to confirm my hunch."

Amid a growing chorus of "go on Kimber," she raises her arm. "All right, guys, let me think about this. At least through dessert and coffee."

She does, sipping her decaf and spooning her orange and pistachio sherbet served with a vanilla cookie. She came this far, bringing her valentine and revealing her conundrum to her former teacher and then, unintended, to those around her. Will she be laughed at, ridiculed? Or will they laugh with her, as Janice and Chip did? Only one way to find out. She turns toward Mrs. Richmond. "Okay, I'm in. That is, if your offer's still good."

Mrs. Richmond looks around, then gets up, tugs at the hem of her tight skirt and then faces her former class. ""Wellwood graduates, may I have your attention please." People stop talking and look up.

"Don't tell me you've decided to keep us after class," Jeff Randleman, the class clown, cries out.

It gets a laugh from everyone, including Mrs. Richmond. "Only you, Jeff. See me in my office in thirty minutes!" When the laughter dies down, she launches into her intro. First, she reminds them of that Valentine's Day assignment, then asks if there's anyone here who still has their valentine. Nobody raises their hand, including Kimber, at least not right away, not until Mrs. Richmond turns toward her, dragging the eyes of the assembled with her. Warily, Kimber raises her arm. "It looks as if Kimber Bessette still has hers," Mrs. Richmond says. "And she might have something to say about that. Kimber, you have the floor if you'd like."

Kimber knows things have reached the point of no return. Heart pounding, stomach churning, voice shaking, she stands by her seat. "Yes, I still have my valentine," she begins. "Um, well, I received only one that day, and never found out who sent it." She clears her throat, trying to quell the falsetto quiver in her voice. "Hopefully, the boy who sent it—and I'm hoping it came from a boy..." She pauses for the subdued laughter. "Anyway, I'm hoping he's here today, because he wrote quite a lovely poem that I'd like to read." Her hands shake as she pulls the valentine from the envelope, unfolds it and then begins. Already, she can feel her eyes tearing up.

"When I get older, about to retire, I'll still remember the girl I admire

Who's sweet and cute, and smart to boot..."

She blinks, struggling not to break down.

"Who doesn't gossip or make trouble

Who's there when you need her, right on the double..."

She wipes her eyes, looks up and tries to laugh. "I'm sorry. Geez, I didn't expect to get so emotional reading this." She takes deep breaths, fans herself. "Okay," she quivers, "moving right along."

"Who's now left to wonder who sent her this greeting

What comes next and where it's all leading..."

"Ohmygod...I'm so sorry...I guess all that emotion I felt twenty years ago just came bursting out." She chokes back sobs, flicks off a teardrop that falls on the valentine. She feels like she can't finish, feels like crawling into a hole somewhere. Being the center of attention sucks. 'Damn it, why did I commit to this?' she thinks, pawing at her eyes. She feels like sitting down. Or, running out of the room.

In fact, she's about to when she sees a guy from the next table stand up. In clarion voice, he recites the final two lines: "But one day this boy might finally reveal, it's his heart on this day that you managed to steal."

Kimber isn't the only one shedding tears. Mrs. Richmond and many of the women wipe their eyes after Mark Cooper completes the poem. They watch as he steps over to Kimber's table, embraces and then kisses her on one of her tear-stained cheeks.

The room erupts in cheers and applause. Mrs. Richmond walks over and drapes one arm around Mark, the other around Kimber. "Well, class, it looks like a twenty-year old mystery has now been solved." She whispers in Kimber's ear. "My hunch was correct. Mark's now a successful freelance writer, you know."

Kimber smiles and wipes the last of her tears. Then, in mock anger, she cries, "Damn it, Mark, why didn't you say something? Back then, I mean."

He takes her hand. "Actually, I was going to. Today. Before you got up." He reads her 'sure you were' look of doubt. "Look, we'll talk when we get some privacy, after this is over."

She shrugs. "Whatever."

*****

Kimber climbs into Mark's Rav 4 parked on the black asphalt lot of Canton Crossing. The party ended only minutes ago. She and Mark both shed their sports jackets and roll down the windows. She leans back against the door and says, "So, as you were saying about not telling me about the valentine. But before you answer that, how the hell did you remember that poem? You wrote it, I know, but hey, it's been twenty years."

He pushes locks of his hair across his forehead and over his right eyebrow. "Believe it or not, I kept a copy. Not a bad piece of writing for an eleven-year old, if I do say so myself. Call me egotistical."

"How about cute. You were then, you are now." Especially when he smiles, because his smile reveals those cute wrinkles of skin around his mouth, wrinkles that offset his otherwise seductive boyishness. And speaking of seductive, his blue eyes alone are working wonders.

"Well, I think you're pretty cute yourself," he says. "It's in the poem. What beautiful chestnut eyes you had—still have—little Red Riding Hood. And I can see that under those sexy, form-fitting slacks is one sexy, shapely bod. What happened to the skinny girl in sixth grade?"

"She grew up and got wise. Well, wise-er. But back to the poem, because you also wrote that I stole your heart. Really, me, when I'm sure you received valentines from the class beauties, Darla and Lindy and Heather?"

"Darla and Heather did send me one. I remember because they said something. Lindy, no. Remember, Mrs. Richmond said we could give only one valentine apiece. You got mine."

"Of course, I'm flattered—even if it did take twenty years to find out. But I'd still like to know why you didn't say something sooner." She rolls her eyes, thinking that she's just as "guilty." After all, she never told him that her valentine was among the ones he got from those girls. "Look, I'll confess. You got one from me also. But I was so shy back then. Plus, well, I didn't think that a valentine from me would mean much to you. I figured you'd just brush me off."