My First Valentine

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Chapter Three

We hadn't had a chance to talk about what she'd walked in on in my bedroom. As it turned out, we initially dealt with that issue by not talking about it at all. And I mean it was not mentioned in any way, shape, or form. We didn't agree not to discuss it. I suppose neither of us was bold enough to be the one to bring it up. But things were strained. I wanted to go over, but, suddenly, I couldn't think of anything to suggest that we should do. All the things we'd done in the past seemed like little kid stuff. Maybe she felt the same way, because she didn't come over or call and suggest anything either. In fact, the only way I even knew she'd gotten her license too was that I saw her driving their car past my house. She waved and grinned, but that was it.

Then school started again. It was our sophomore year, and I'd have loved to drive to school, but we couldn't afford a car just for me, and the two cars we did have were both in use by my parents, both of whom worked. So it was still the bus for me.

Valerie's parents seemed to have more money, but they didn't get Valerie a car either. So it was still the bus for her too.

I was late, and ran up to the bus after Valerie was already on. Maybe it was habit, but she was sitting where we always sat. And she was scooted up next to the window.

So I sat down next to her. I guess that was habit too.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," I responded.

"Long time no see," she commented.

"Yeah," I said.

The bus started off. We had a new driver this year, a woman who looked like she was at least fifty.

"Why is that?" said Valerie.

"What do you mean?"

"Why is it that I haven't seen you for so long?"

"What are you talking about? I was at your birthday party."

"Yeah, a month ago." She sounded grumpy.

I was thinking, "Because you probably didn't want some pervert hanging around," but I didn't say that.

"I don't know," I said instead.

"Are you mad at me?"

I looked at her.

"Of course not," I said. "Why would I be mad at you?"

"Because ..." She stopped. She looked uncomfortable.

"Because why?" I prompted.

She looked out the window, and then at the back of the bus driver, who was three seats in front of us. Finally she turned her face towards me. She had always been intelligent, and well spoken. Suddenly, not so much.

"Because I ... uh ... you know ... uh ... intruded on your ... um ... privacy."

I knew instantly what she was talking about. I was embarrassed instantly too, but not because of what she'd caught me doing. I was embarrassed because the way she said it made it obvious she wasn't horrified about it, as I had assumed her to be. And that was astonishing in a way that electrified me. Her approval (or at least lack of censure), was one of the most significant things in my young life, and the fact that she hadn't actually withdrawn it, like I thought she had, was so important that I suddenly felt like crying. I had to look away, so I could blink away tears of ... I don't know ... happiness?

"I'm sorry!" she moaned. "I didn't know."

Of course she didn't know. How could she have known? Then again, she knew I was a pervert, so maybe she did know. Just not when I pursued my perversion.

This was driving me crazy.

"I'm really sorry, Bobby," she said.

Some sanity entered my mind and I realized she probably thought I was looking away from her because I was disgusted that she'd violated my privacy. I looked back at her.

"It's okay," I said.

That didn't sound good enough, so I did what most boys do in that situation. I perceived there was a chance I could restore my relatively good reputation in her eyes, so I blundered on.

"That was the first time I'd ever done that. I don't know why it happened then. It just sort of came over me. Maybe my hormones had just kicked in or something."

"You are so full of it," said Valerie.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I don't know what you mean," I said.

"I apologize to you, and all you do is feed me a line of BS about that being your first time."

"Oh." I didn't even think about trying to salvage something. I knew she knew me too well. I was a little amazed that I'd even tried to snow her. That's how long it had been since we'd talked like this about anything of substance.

"But the important thing is that you're not mad at me," she said.

I decided to replace BS with economy. "Nope. Not mad," I said.

"Okay, good."

I had decided not to say anything else. It was pretty obvious that she hadn't been freaked out by catching me doing that, but something deep inside me demanded more.

"So ... you weren't weirded out?" I asked.

There was a pause, as she actually thought about it.

"I wouldn't quite put it that way," she said.

"But you didn't hate me," I suggested, somewhat artlessly.

"Of course not," she said. "You're a guy. Guys do that. Everybody knows that."

"Oh." I felt a little let down that I'd been classified as just any old generic guy.

"We can't talk about this anymore right now," she said. "There are too many kids around."

"Right," I said.

Apparently we couldn't talk about anything, because she didn't say another word until we got to school.

Oddly enough, that short, little conversation was enough to release some of the tension that had entered our relationship. It wasn't like the good old days, by any stretch, but at least we were talking to each other again. And when we started getting homework, it just seemed normal to help each other out like we'd done in the past. She was better at math than I was, and I was a science geek. We both did pretty well in other subjects, partly because we checked each other's work.

So as fall waned and winter showed up, we were comfortable around each other again. We still didn't spend as much time together as we had in the past, but that was because of extracurricular activities, rather than because things were strained between us.

And then, one Friday morning on the bus, she casually mentioned that she was going on a date that night.

"With who?" I asked.

"Chris Brown," she said.

"Really?" Chris Brown was on the football team, and he was a senior.

"He asked me out Tuesday."

"And you're just telling me about it today?"

"What? You keep my social register all of a sudden?"

"No," I said. "It just seems strange, that's all."

"I don't tell you everything that goes on in my life, you know," she said.

"Oh, I'm fully aware of that." I couldn't keep the anger out of my voice.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you have private stuff, that I'm not allowed to know."

"Everybody has private stuff in their lives," she said.

"Yeah, well I used to," I shot back.

We both knew what I was talking about. I saw her eyes widen. Then she grinned, of all things.

"Yeah," she said, still grinning. "I guess I do know all about your private thing."

She was teasing me! I couldn't believe it. She knew I'd been embarrassed about that and she was teasing me! It made me bold, somehow.

"You weren't there long enough to find out all about it," I said.

"Only because you jumped up like you'd seen a ghost and ran out of there like a scared little rabbit," she said, just as boldly as that.

"Maybe I'll invite you over to watch the whole show sometime," I said, as insanity replaced boldness.

"In your dreams," she laughed.

And then the bus stopped and we had to get off and go to class.

She had astronomy club after school that day. Saturday I slept in, and by the time I got up and got around, I decided not to go over to her house. I didn't want to know how her date went. Thinking about her holding hands with Chris Brown, or worse, made my stomach hurt. I didn't think of it as jealousy; more that he was poaching in my territory or something. I didn't see her Sunday either, and on Monday morning, on the bus, she didn't bring it up, and I didn't either. That night I had Chess Club and by the next day it had been too long and I felt like it would seem like I was prying if I asked her about it.

So, once again, the thing that was so intimate, and had affected our relationship on such a deep level, was relegated to history. I really didn't expect it to come up again.

Except it came up every night in my mind, in my bed, as I stroked my boner until it spat. I didn't need the computer any more. I just thought about Valerie.

Our seventeenth year seemed to add bricks to that wall. By that, I mean we had started taking AP classes in school, which required a lot more time to do homework, which wasn't the kind we could help each other with anymore. We were involved in separate extracurricular activities. She was on a softball team that was sponsored by a local furniture company, and spent a lot of time at practices and games. I went to a few, but watching her ignore me wasn't much fun.

Valerie went on more dates. She never told me about them until they were imminent, and we never talked about what she did on those dates ... or what was done to her.

I could tell my mother was getting concerned about my sexual status again, so I asked Amy Zimmerman out. We went bowling, and it was okay, except I couldn't think of anything to say. When I took her home, she said she had a good time, and got out of the car and ran inside before I could turn it off and escort her. I figured she didn't want to deal with the good night kiss. I didn't either, to be honest. I'd never kissed anybody, and I didn't want to start with Amy Zimmerman. I hardly even knew her. I took two more girls out, but nothing ever developed into a second date.

Then school was over and it was the summer of my eighteenth year and Mr. Pornkey (I swear that was his actual name), who owned the local lumber yard and went to our church, offered me a summer job. I went to work at eight in the morning, and when I got home, all I wanted to do was take a shower and go to bed. I bulked up, which I was kind of proud of, but there was no real point to it. There was no girl in my life to impress with my muscles. I saw Valerie, of course, but we never had what seemed like enough time to talk about anything important.

Finally, school started again, which was a relief to me. I had learned what an adult work life was like (at less than stellar wages), and I was willing to delay more of that for as long as possible. College was starting to look a lot more interesting.

Valerie and I still sat together on the bus, but that long ride was the most time we spent together any more. There was still a closeness there, but we both seemed to take that for granted. At least that's the way I saw it.

Thanksgiving came, and we went to my Uncle Brad's house, where we had a big dinner and lay back on overstuffed furniture watching football. Christmas break, which they now call Winter Break because some lady sued somebody saying that the word "Christmas" offended her, arrived and suddenly there was nothing to do during the day. Our parents worked, so I was able to sleep the first day. On the second day my bedroom door opened and Valerie walked in just like she'd done a thousand times before.

"Get up, Lazy Bones," she yelled.

"Go away," I groaned.

It wasn't that I actually wanted her to go away. It wasn't that I wanted to stay in bed, either. The problem was that, while she'd walked into my room like that all those times in the past, this was the first time she'd done it since she'd opened it to find me wrestling with the one-eye'd dragon.

And said dragon recognized that the virgin sacrifice he'd never been able to ravish, was once again present in the lair. It rose to do battle again.

Or maybe it was just morning wood. I don't know.

What I know is that, as she whipped the covers off of me, just like she'd done a thousand times before (she was a morning person; I was not), I had to roll into a fetal position to hide the fact that, inside my tighty whities, there was, yet again, more proof of my status as a pervert.

"Leave me alone," I groaned.

"Don't be such a baby," she said. "Come on. Let's go do something. We haven't done anything in ages. Get up. Don't be lazy."

She was pestering me and, not being a morning person, I got grumpy.

"You are intruding on my privacy," I said. "Leave, and I will get up."

"Okay," she chirped. "Hurry up. I want to get to the mall while they still have a good selection."

I heard her feet scuffling on the floor as she left, and, suddenly energized, rolled to stand. I didn't have a bathroom in my room, so I knew I'd be going out in the hallway. I didn't feel like getting dressed first. I slept in my briefs, and was going to put on new ones, but not until after I went to the bathroom and drained the lizard. So I yelled, "Wait in the living room," as I took a step toward the door she'd just gone out of.

Except she hadn't actually gone out of it. She was standing right in the middle of it. And she was staring right at the front of my briefs.

"Oh my," she yipped.

"Valerie!" I groaned, mortified.

She didn't move.

"Is it always like that?" she asked.

"Of course not," I said, automatically. "Stop staring. Who's the pervert now?"

She astonished me by saying, "You are. You're the one with an erection."

Then she turned and finally left.

When I joined her ten minutes later, she was calmly eating a bowl of cereal at our kitchen table.

Again, neither of us brought up the fact that she'd done what she'd done, and seen what she'd seen. But it didn't inhibit things. We spent part of each day of the break together. Sometimes we played video games. It snowed and we built a snowman. We went Christmas shopping. I noticed she was wearing the pink Converse All Stars every day, but didn't think that much about it, except that I noticed they were starting to get a little bedraggled.

Christmas was nice. She gave me a scarf she'd knitted herself. It was our school colors. I gave her a necklace I'd seen; a unicorn on a silver chain.

Notices went up around school about the Valentine's Day dance. People started asking other people to go with them to the dance. I expected Valerie to tell me some guy had asked her to the dance, but she didn't. It made me nervous, for some reason, kind of an itch down inside me that I couldn't scratch.

Finally, two days before the dance, on the bus, I couldn't take it anymore.

"You going to the dance?" I asked, trying to make it sound casual.

"Maybe," she said. "You?"

"I haven't asked anybody," I said.

It was quiet for a while.

"You want to go together?" she asked, sounding very casual.

"Yes," I said, probably a little too quickly.

"Okay. Good. It's a date," she said, looking out the window.

"Yeah, good, a date," I agreed.

We had been to a dozen dances together before. But we'd never been "together" exactly. Inseparable, yes. Paired up, yes. But not as a "date." At least not in the sense that that word now resonated.

Which may be why I mentioned to my parents at supper that night that I had asked Valerie to go to the dance with me. I know that's not quite accurate, but I wasn't about to tell my parents that a girl had asked me on a date.

Of course they knew about all those times Valerie and I had gone to school dances together, but somehow they knew that this time was different somehow. I'd never gotten her a corsage before, but my mother insisted that this time, we had to do it right. Somehow I was expected to know how to perform this mission on my own. I was given my mom's credit card, and told not to spend more than thirty dollars, which purely astonished me.

It turned out that the florist shop was owned by a lady who went to our church, named Mrs. Harris.

"I didn't know you were a floral person," I said, when she smiled and greeted me.

"Florist," she corrected me. "I bet you're going to the Valentine's Day Dance, and need a corsage."

"Got it in one," I said, smiling.

"You're a little late," she said. "It's only two days until the dance."

"How long does it take to make a corsage?" I asked. How hard could it be? A couple of flowers tied together with a ribbon was all I was thinking about.

"It's not how long, it's the fact that by now, the selection is limited."

"Oh."

"What kind of corsage were you looking for?"

"I didn't know there were different kinds," I said.

"Traditional corsages are tied around the wrist, but other popular options include pinned-on corsages and hand-held nosegays, a type of small bouquet," she said.

I thought about it. I ruled out something she'd have to carry around in her hand, and anything that had the word "gay" in it. I thought about wearing something on my wrist all night, and thought that might be annoying. Plus, all the corsages I'd ever seen were pinned on the woman's dress.

"Pinned on," I said.

"What color is her dress?" asked Mrs. Harris.

"Beats me," I said.

She frowned.

"Is she allergic to anything?"

I thought. I couldn't remember anything except one.

"She's allergic to poison ivy," I said.

"I try not to use poison ivy in anything I do," said Mrs. Harris, dryly. "Anything else?"

"I guess I don't know," I said.

"You don't know much at all, do you, Bobby," she said.

"It's the first time I've ever done this," I complained.

"Who is your date?" she asked. "Do you at least know that?"

"Valerie Carter," I replied, a little sullenly.

"Of course," she said.

My head went back. What did she mean by "Of course"?

"I'll do something in white orchids," said Mrs. Harris. "I'll assume her dress isn't white, but you find out and call me if it is, understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Good. Now go on. I have work to do."

"Um ... how much will it be?" I asked, producing the credit card.

She looked through some papers on the counter.

"Twenty dollars for two orchids, and thirty for three," she said.

"Make it two," I said, trying to take it easy on my mother's finances.

"Got it," she said. "Now scoot. You're not the only one who waited too long to place an order."

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