The Boy from 5B

by Rebecca Mejia

We were in the middle of our math lesson on the morning of Valentine’s Day when I felt a sudden energy shift in the fifth-grade classroom, the air bristled with an electricity that had not been there minutes earlier. I looked up from my sheet of multiplication problems and saw someone had entered our room. It was the boy from 5B. I put my pencil down and stared as he walked purposefully, a god among men with his blonde hair, golden skin and long legs, toward our teacher’s desk.

As had begun to happen recently whenever I spotted or thought about him, my throat tightened, a hot flush crept across my cheeks and needle-sharp blasts of perspiration flooded my armpits and groin. Too late, I realized my all-consuming crush had become known to the entire class, as they directed meaningful looks my way, with some raising eyebrows and others whispering my name out loud. At the desk, the boy spoke with confidence.

“Where is your Valentine’s Box?” he asked.

The teacher added to the already charged atmosphere by winking and using an exaggerated gesture to indicate an overstuffed cardboard box covered in aluminum foil, where perforated cards plastered with corny romantic puns poked out of an opening in the lid, sappy proclamations of affection bearing no resemblance to the actual love I felt for the boy.

His presence in our room was unusual. Like two countries sharing a continent, sections 5A and 5B were separate and distinct, we didn’t mix, which led us to conclude that whatever he had come to do was of great significance.

The box was decorated with hearts and chubby angels, cherubs carrying bows and arrows. Was one of them about to be aimed at me? The boy’s movements took on exaggerated importance as we watched him extract a folded paper from the back pocket of his jeans, then insert it through the opening at the top of the box. With a slight smile on his face and without looking at anyone, he turned around and walked back out the door. Multiplication tables long- forgotten, the students directed their attention to me.

“He brought you a card!” remarked someone.

“A Valentine’s miracle,” observed the teacher, with what I considered an overly mordant inflection to his voice.

At the end of the day, we stashed our books inside our desks and got our coats ready to put on after the Valentine’s party. Someone’s mother had sent in vanilla cupcakes, topped with pink icing and shiny silver nonpareils, which we washed down with cups of flat lemon-lime soda.

Fifteen minutes before dismissal, the box was opened, it was time for the class president to hand out the cards and candy. Each time her arm disappeared into the box, we held our collective breath. When it emerged without the note, audible sighs of disappointment rippled through the room. Soon, tall stacks of cards were piled high on everyone’s desk, alongside packets of candy hearts – more insincere messages, BE MINE, 4EVER and, my favorite, YOU’RE CUTE.

Finally, someone shouted, “Just give her the note!” The teacher did not silence the shouter.

Elected by popular vote, the class president knew how to please a crowd. Making the most of her moment in the spotlight, she inserted her hand dramatically, all the way to the bottom of the box. After fishing around longer than necessary, she lifted out the note and exclaimed, “This one is for you!” With a flourish, she placed it on my desk.

While time stood still, I unfolded the paper, flattening each crease with my finger. Printed in the dull scrawl of an unsharpened pencil, the letters had smudged during its journey to my desk, but the words were legible, each one capitalized. I had no trouble reading the message.

I Do Not Like You

Stop Telling Everyone You Like Me

I glanced up at the class. In the silence of the room, they were studying my face for hints of what the note might say.

There was more. I lowered my head to read the rest.

These Are The Girls I Like:

The sole punctuation appeared here, a colon, after which he had written the names of eight girls in our grade, including several from my own classroom, a willowy brunette with long, wavy hair and a French last name that for some reason drove the boys crazy. Also listed were two girls who I didn’t like because they never spoke to me and did everything together, including having somehow attracted the boy’s attention from all the way down the hall.

With all eyes on me, I took my time refolding the paper along its original creases. As I ran my fingers across the same places the boy’s had touched, my cheeks felt cool, there was no tightening in my throat or sudden perspiration anywhere.

They were waiting. I took in the twenty or so faces, staring at me and experienced an unexpected wave of love for my classmates, my teacher, even my rivals, they cared about me. At that moment, under the weight of heavy expectation, I understood we were in this thing together. I owed them a satisfactory conclusion and would not deprive them of their chance to witness requited love.

After sliding my arms through the sleeves of my jacket, I pulled the wide metal zipper all the way up to my chin and shoved the note into my own back pocket, where it rested snugly until it would be ripped into pieces later, when I was alone. Then, on this special day of love, I gave my classmates one last Valentine’s gift, the closure they deserved.

“He asked me to be his Valentine,” I announced. “But,” I would let them down gently, “I’m going to tell him, no.” Then I spoke honestly, “I don’t like him anymore.”

Already looking a little bored, the students were moving on. Ignoring me now, they busied themselves with their jackets and took their places in line. No longer the object of their scrutiny, I felt a sense of peace, soothed by the sounds of contented crunching as they enjoyed the heart candies with their declarations of everlasting love.

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