SUZANNE SHERMAN

A VALENTINE'S STORY: CRUSHED

I was shy in school, spoke in a whisper when called on, and I cringed every time the teacher looked my way. At 5'4" I was the tallest in a class filled with average girls, and pretty girls – the ones with long hair that swung around their shoulders and who made the letter “s” sing when they spoke.

But even if I felt I didn’t quite fit in, the first day of school every September was exciting. That was the day we would find out who our classmates would be for the year, and this was especially important to me in my last year at Mar Vista Elementary. I prayed that George Z would be in my class.

George Z was a shy boy, too. I liked that about him. But he didn’t want anything to do with me, not in fourth grade, when we shared our first class together, not in the year I'd see him on the schoolyard, and not, apparently, in sixth grade either: he WAS in my class, and he took a seat as far across the room from me as he could get.

But I had hope. God was on my side now. My best friend had assured me there was a father in heaven, and even though my mother wasn't so sure about that, I was praying every night to Him now on the chance it was true. I prayed for myself, and for my family, and for God to “please make George like me, and make him look at me at school tomorrow.” It was all I really wanted.

Day after day I sat at my desk across the room from George, doodling his name on papers and crumpling the papers to toss in the trash on my way out of class. In December, everything changed. I was caught passing notes to a friend in my corner of the classroom and for punishment was told my seat would have to be changed. I had a great suggestion! It was the most daring thing I’d ever done.

Sitting next to George was a dream come true in a strange way — I got to be near him, had the chance to become friends. But George didn't want anything to do with me. He managed to pass papers down the row without turning my way and spent the hours from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. doing everything he could to show me nothing more than the back of his shirt collar and part of his tanned left arm.

One day, I came up with another daring idea. I knew where George lived. Why not write him a letter, not give him my name, ask him questions and become secret pen pals? My mother gave me a stamp and I ran down the block to post my first letter in the corner mailbox that afternoon. "I'd like to be your pen pal," I wrote. "What are your hobbies? I like riding bikes." I signed the letter "X.”

Days passed without a reply, and two even more excruciating Sundays when mail wasn't even delivered. And then it came: a letter addressed to "X." I grabbed it from my mother's hand and ran to lock myself in the bathroom to open it.

One word took the entire white page: "EXPLAIN!"

Ecstasy! George had written to me!

I wrote back more questions, no explanations, with a heart filled with hope that he would fall for me without meaning to, he just wouldn't be able to help it. This would be the great love story we would tell when we were older and sweethearts for life. By day we sat side by side, never speaking a word to each other, and at home, every few days, I put a letter in the mail to George or opened one from him.

On Valentine's Day 1971, the sixth grade class was given art supplies to make cards for each other or for our mothers. Was it time to reveal myself to George, to bring our friendship into the open? Why not. I looked around at all the busy hands crayoning on paper, gluing hearts to envelopes, and I crossed the room to sit far away from George to take the biggest risk yet: I wrote, “Valentine notes are supposed to be happy, So I'll try and make this one snappy, I like you and I hope you like me, And my name is Suzi.”

The card went into the mail that afternoon, a Friday, and I suffered an unbearable weekend. When Monday came, I felt so sick to my stomach my mother wasn't sure I should go to school, but I insisted. I wasn't going to miss this!

George was fuming. Or at least I think he was. He never said a word to me. That was my first clue. I didn't need another one. Miss Wright agreed to change my seat back to where I'd been on the other side of the room on the promise I wouldn't write notes again, and I stopped praying that night. God didn't seem to really have anything to do with it. There was no father in heaven watching over me and helping things go my way. Things were NOT going my way. I told my friend it seemed you could either believe there was a God or not, it depended on how you looked at it. Our friendship ended around that time.

At graduation in June, I handed George my autograph album to sign. Masochistic? Maybe. But it was my last chance to make a connection with him I could remember. He glanced at me, and with a smirk, quickly penned one letter: "X." Intimacy! And, funny thing, turns out it was something I'll always remember.