Valentine Curse

As I walked out, Stu was saying, "Come on, Lonnie, we want you in the frat. It just that we've got to do something." Paul seemed puzzled when he asked Stu, "What the hell was that about?"

I went and pledged Lambda Chi and ended up an active there. Benton had become active at Rho Eta Pi. He was also a BMOC with his football scholarship and the fact he had lettered in football as a freshman.

I embraced my new brothers and avoided the old ones. Nothing against them, but I wanted to separate myself from Benton. As it was, he seemed to delight in calling out, "Hey, Loonie," whenever our paths crossed.

I'd also see Michelle around campus, but in the main I avoided her. I saw her at a Lambda Chi party, but when she saw me there, I turned and left. I thought it was probably best that way. I choked up whenever I saw her. She was a real beauty, and I envied the guys I saw her with. But I couldn't forget that first Valentine's day, although I kept thinking about the last one, when we'd danced.

So, I was surprised Junior year when I turned around in the library and found her standing in front of me. Her posture spoke of confrontational readiness, as her eyes focused on mine.

I turned and started to walk away, when I heard her ask, "Why do you hate me?" Her voice broke with the word hate, and it pierced my heart. I turned around and saw she had tears in her eyes.

"I don't hate you." I insisted.

"You treated me like shit in grammar school. You called me a 'freckled face frightening freak' and avoided me. You left whenever I came near you. You would get up and change tables if I sat down at yours at lunch." She glared at me. "You changed classes to avoid me! If you don't hate me, then why did you treat me that way?"

"You and your cousin. You humiliated me and laughed at me." I looked down, ashamed again, just having to recount the bitter episode.

"I never laughed at you. I never humiliated you. What are you talking about?" Michelle seemed puzzled.

"Valentine's Day," I began.

"First Grade?" Michelle gasped unbelievingly. "You're talking about first grade, when Bobby stole your cards? That's why you hate me? I never did anything to you." Tears traced their way down to her chin, seemingly unnoticed.

"You laughed at me. You and your cousin..." I stammered.

"If I laughed, it was because I was happy." Now she wiped at her tears. "I was so happy to get your card. It was beautiful. I'd made you a special card, too. I really liked you. Then you called me a freak. It hurt, Lonnie. It really hurt." She turned and started walking away. "And it hurt to be shunned, all those years ago, and now, here."

I was flummoxed. Michelle had been the girl I had really liked in First Grade. That's why it hurt so much when she laughed at me. Thinking back, I wondered if I had been wrong. She had looked so happy, so joyous. Had I blamed her unfairly for her cousin's actions? I thought I probably had.

By the time I figured it out, she was gone. I looked for her but couldn't find her. I called around campus, to various dorms and sororities, but no one admitted to knowing her. Freshmen were only required to live in dorms the first semester, after that they could move into sororities or even off-campus. I checked phone listings, but still had no luck.

I had hoped I would run into her around campus, but again, no luck. Finally, I gave up and returned to the Rho Eta Pi house. Some of my old brothers were there in the assembly room, playing foosball. They greeted me happily, without any of the awkwardness I had expected. They even said they'd missed me.

When things settled down, I asked if Bobby Benton was around. I was assured he was, and one of guys watching the foosball match went over to the stairs and yelled up, "Hey, Barbie! You've got a visitor."

I laughed at the Barbie nickname. Someone had the same thought process as me.

When he came bounding down the stairs, he pulled up short when he saw me. "Loonie, you asshole. What the hell do you want?"

Curious, I asked, "Why am I an asshole?" I refrained from adding, "Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?" I wanted a favor from him, so I refrained from taunting the bastard.

He continued down the stairs, "You stuck me with this Barbie nickname, you know. That was really an asshole thing to do."

"That from the jerk who's called me Loonie since first grade." I shot back.

He actually seemed embarrassed. "Yeah, I was always an asshole. Especially as a kid. I guess I owe you an apology." He held out his hand.

I mechanical took it. I was amazed. He genuinely seemed contrite. He was acting like a nice guy. Could he have changed?

"I really am sorry. I know I treated you badly, especially when you lost your parents. I wish I could tell you why I did all that. I've had bad dreams about it. But even with therapy, I still can't tell you why." He had trouble meeting my eyes.

"It's okay, Bobby. It hurt, but it was a long time ago. I've forgotten it." Like hell, but it sounds like he'd agonized over it enough. "But I came today because I'm looking for Michelle. Do you know where I can reach her?"

His face hardened when he looked up at me. "I don't know if I should tell you, man. The way you treated her, back in school, was about the only reason I really could identify as a cause for how I treated you. Mickie's a good person, and you hurt her. More than once. If I was an asshole then, so were you."

I admitted it. "I didn't realize it then. I thought it was different, I thought you and she were laughing at me..."

Bobby chuckled. "Laughing at you? She liked you. She tore me a new asshole, when I took your Valentines. Have you ever seen a pissed off 7-year-old girl? She was like the Tasmanian devil. Then you broke her little heart, calling her a freak. She cried for days. I hated you, big time." He stopped. "Maybe I do know why I was an asshole to you."

"Yeah," I countered. "But you were an ass before that, stealing my cards and calling me Loonie." He shrugged his shoulders, acknowledging that truth. "Bobby, I need to apologize to Michelle, but I understand your reluctance to give me her information. Give her mine. Tell her I want to talk to her, that I want to apologize. Put the ball in her court."

He agreed to do that. I held out my hand and he shook it. "Thanks for the apology," I said. "It means a lot."

After a week of silence, I figured that Michelle wouldn't be calling me, ever. I'd never get to apologize or make it up to her. Worse, I'd never get to see her dance again; never get her to dance with me, again.

Then one night, at 11:00 PM, my phone rang. When I answered, there was silence. I said, hello? Several times, but no response. Just before I hung up, I heard a whispered 'Bobby said I should call you.'" It was Michelle.

"Mickie!" I gushed. "Mickie, thank you for calling me. I really wanted to apologize for everything. I really liked you in first grade, which is why it hurt so much when I thought that you and Bobby were laughing at me. I lashed out because, well, because..."

There was silence for several moments, then she said, "It's Michelle, Lonnie. My friends call me Mickie." There was another pause, then "Thank you for the apology. Is that all?"

The rejection of me as her friend caught me off-guard. I was expecting a longer conversation and had hope for less hostility. "No, no I'd like to, to maybe get together. Can we have coffee? Or maybe a lunch, or even a dinner?" I just wanted some connection with her.

There was that silence again. Then she broke it, and I think my heart. "No, Lonnie. It's too late for that. Besides, I'm seeing someone now. Goodbye." The line went dead.

I stared at the phone in my hand, then slowly hung it up. She'd thanked me for my apology, but I don't think she had forgiven me. I hadn't realized how much I had hoped for that. I'd been remembering my dances with her and our talk on the deck the night of the Rho Eta Pi Valentine, now two years ago. I had been remembering all the times in grammar school, when I had secretly watched her, ever more beautiful every year, even though I protected myself by avoiding her. I didn't think those memories would go away.

Whenever I saw Michelle after that, she always seemed to be accompanied by a tall, blond guy, in a letterman jacket. Looked to be one of Bobby's football teammates. She looked happy, which made me feel sad. I avoided her proximity and never spoke to her again, at college.

Surprisingly, Bobby and I became friends. Not best friends, but we'd hang out at the local watering hole or double date, going to a movie or a bowling alley. He could still be a jerk, sometimes, but it was a funny jerk. He'd embarrass you for a laugh, but it never seemed mean spirited. Yeah, he still called me 'Loonie', but now I called him 'Barbie'.

It was he that told me about the 4F tag that followed Michelle all the way through high school graduation. That was her nickname. It was what the "Freckled Faced Frightening Freak" moniker had evolved into, apparently around fourth grade when kids began joining 4H. Bobby said Michelle hated it, but more kids called her that than by her name. One more thing for me to feel bad about.

When we graduated, I got a job in a factory in Atlanta, across the country from college, far away from everyone I knew. Well, almost everyone. Bobby got drafted by the Falcons. We ended up sharing a house there. I was amazed to find that, once I stopped being sensitive to everything he said and took his teasing with a grain of salt, Bobby was actually a pretty nice guy.

And having an Atlanta Falcon as a roommate didn't hurt my dating life. I was happy to get together with the groupies and wing-women who weren't on Bobby's radar. We had the perfect bachelor pad. I was living the life. Not bad for a foster kid.

But my heart was guarded. There seemed to be no room for anyone. Anyone but Michelle.

I tried not to ask about Michelle. Luckily, she never came to Georgia, but overhearing Bobby on the phone with her or other relatives, I was aware of her travels around the globe with "Willie", the blond jock I'd seen her with in college. Willie (what kind of name is 'Willie' for an adult? Yeah, I know, Lonnie is probably not much better, but I need to diminish the guy somehow) was now her fiancé, and apparently a gifted engineer. Michelle accompanied him to projects around the world, building roads, railroads, dams, mostly in the Third World. It wrenched my heart to hear that she was attached to such a loser. Love made me petty and delusional.

It really hurt to hear of the pregnancy scare. It brought home just how deeply she was in my heart. I mean, I knew she was sexually involved with Willie, but that rubbed it in my face. If I hadn't lashed out as a kid, or if I'd been decent to her later, maybe she would have forgiven me. I felt, down to the bottom of my soul, that this girl was the one. I realized that I had known it even back then. That's why my heart was crushed, pulverized in ways I still hadn't recovered from.

Bobby knew I was wearing my heart on my sleeve for Michelle. I think he purposely stayed near me when he was talking to her or about her, so I could hear. When he found me staring at the picture he had of her on the wall, he'd shake his head and say, "If only you hadn't been such an asshole to her, Loonie."

"You were an asshole to me, but I forgave you. Why couldn't she have forgiven me?" I heard the whine in my voice and cleared my throat a few times to try and disguise it.

Bobby gave me a pitying look. I hadn't fooled him. "You forgave me because you had the hots for me. Admit it, bro." He shoved me with a laugh. "I guess Mickie just doesn't feel that way about you."

I believed that she might have, once, but it was too late now. Why is it that the feelings you can't fulfill and the love that is unrequited, are the things that consume you. Sometimes, when I was alone and thinking of her, my chest would ache, and it would be hard to breathe. I mean, we'd never had any personal interaction, other than at the Rho house.

But in my memory, that interaction had been the most perfect of my life, until it wasn't. What I wouldn't give to have that feeling back.

When Bobby got his invitation to their wedding, he asked if I'd like to be his plus one. He meant it as a joke, but when he saw my face, he immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry, man. I knew you had it bad, but I don't think I ever realized how bad. I'm really sorry."

I just shook my head and walked out of the house. I drove up into the hills and parked at an overlook. If there was one thing I didn't like about Atlanta, it was the lack of water. Being able to look at the ocean, or a lake or even a river when I was depressed, calmed me. But in this town, you had to drive all the way up to Cumming to get a look at a big enough collection of water.

So, staring at the rolling hills of Georgia would have to do. But it didn't. I just fell deeper into depression.

When I got home, Bobby was frantically packing. "What's going on?" I asked.

"Mickie's in trouble, and her mom's asked me to go help." Bobby was making a mess of his packing. I grabbed his hand, dumped out his bag and started repacking. "Tell me what's happening."

"She's in someplace called Puerto Alvira. It's in Columbia. She's sick, really sick. Probably Dengue fever or maybe hepatitis, but from the garbled account that asshole Willie gave, it could be anything. But he didn't stick around to find out; he just left her there." I'd never seen Bobby cry, but there were tears in his eyes and a catch in his voice. I knew Michelle was important to him, but never guessed how much. "She sick, hurting and the bastard said he couldn't afford to stay there, that his engineering projects were too important. Too fucking important! More important than his fiancé! I'm going to kill the bastard."

I'd made quick work of his bag. He still had more to back, but I left him to it. "I'm going with you," I stated. "I'm going to pack. Don't forget your passport."

Bobby followed me to my room. "You can't go. You'll get fired, dude."

"I have to go. Your training camp begins in two weeks, and if you miss it, you could get dropped. If I get fired, I can always find another job. This way, we won't have to leave Michelle alone, if you have to come back. She's more important than any fucking job."

Bobby looked at me for a moment, then nodded. Soon, we were flying to Bogata.

I was busy in the airport, before the flight, researching dengue fever. I was somewhat relieved and told Bobby that the medical websites said that for most people it wasn't life threatening. I didn't tell him about dengue hemorrhagic fever; I just prayed that Michelle had the milder form of the disease. But the symptoms and the danger of death kept me awake the whole flight, and through the connection to Puerto Alvira.

Michelle looked small and terrified in her bed, tossing about in pain, with a still high fever. She had a red rash on her neck that seemed to extend south under her gown. The was a dried blood rim around her nostrils. The doctor confirmed that it was hemorrhagic. We had arrived at the crisis.

We sat with Michelle through the night. I kept a wet handcloth on her forehead, and used it to wipe down her neck, trying to help cool the fever. When her eyes ached from the disease, I kept cool water on the towel covering them. The fever began waning that night. She was entering the recovery stage, but her blood pressure was plummeting.

Bobby was dead on his feet and went to a hotel to check us in and grab a couple of hours' sleep. I stayed by Michelle's bedside, determined to be there for whatever good I could do.

By the fourth day, she was out of the danger zone and the prognosis looked good. Bobby had been bringing me clothes and I was showering in the room's attached bathroom. I never left her side.

It was around midnight, the day Bobby had to fly back to training camp, now that Michelle was better, that I awoke to her moaning and groaning in the bed. She looked so lost, even though the doctor said she'd be okay, that I couldn't take it. I'd lost my chance with the girl and now I was still stressed and worried about her mortality. I couldn't imagine a world without her.

I realized that the room had grown quiet and when I looked up, Michelle was awake and looking at me. "What's wrong, Lonnie? Did the doctor find something wrong?" She'd been fairly cognizant the last couple of days, and the doctor had told us she would in all probability have a full recovery. Or at least, that's what we thought he said. We had no Spanish, and his English was sometimes difficult to follow.

"No, Michelle, you're fine. It just that the stress finally got to me. I was so," my voice was breaking "afraid that you'd..." I looked away and wiped the tears from my face. How girly was I being?

Michelle looked at me. "Lonnie, call me Mickie, please. I can't believe that you've come here, that you've stayed here..." Now her voice was breaking. I handed her a tissue. She daubed her eyes.

"Bobby told me that you loved me, but I wouldn't believe it. I had felt so hurt, for so long. Then, that day at the Rho Eta Pi party, I thought I'd found a kindred spirit, but you ran away and snubbed me so often that I began to hate you.

"But you do love me, don't you?" She smiled weakly at me. She was flagging.

I leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Go to sleep, Mickie."

Ten days later, still weak but recovering, we boarded a plane back to the states. Mickie snuggled next to me, holding me tight. She looked up at me and pulled me into a passionate kiss. We'd kissed several times since she left the hospital, but they'd been gentle, tentative pecks. This was a promise of passion.

I pulled back and looked into her eyes. She smiled. "I've wanted to do that since first grade!"

Needless to say, she didn't get married. Not for a full year, then she walked down the aisle.

To me. On Valentine's Day.