MY BITTER VALENTINE by Randy Childs At the ripe old age of “almost 13,” I began eighth grade at Kolb Jr. High School in Rialto, California, in the fall of 1970. Over the summer, my good friend Bill Greeley had talked me into taking Mr. Nick Vallentine’s Journalism class with him, where we would be among the students responsible for publishing the “Kolb Kaleidoscope,” the school’s weekly newspaper. We both enjoyed writing, and Bill was skilled at drawing comic strip characters, as he had been a Marvel & DC Comics junkie since before we met in 5th grade back at Trapp Elementary. My only other journalistic skills were an active imagination and a silly sense of humor. Mr. Vallentine assigned me and Bill as Entertainment Editors. Bill went to work on developing new storylines and dialogue for his comic strip, “The Adventures of The Bozo Kid.” We both contributed to the silly Horoscopes feature (i.e. “Aires: Search carefully, for the answer you seek will be found deep within the lint of your bellybutton”), and I assembled the Song Dedications list, culled from scribbles on the little slips of paper students had dropped into the slot on top of the Song Dedications box, placed strategically on the shelf outside the front office in the administration building. Many times, when I opened the locked box, there were very few, if any, song dedications inside, so some weeks, I would just make some up to fill space. Nobody would be the wiser, just as long as the dedication looked credible (i.e. “‘Build Me Up Buttercup’ from John to Lisa,” or “‘Wedding Bell Blues’ from Keith to Susan”). In my personal life, I had been harboring an adolescent crush on the same girl since 4th grade, a beautiful, cootie-free, blonde-haired-blue-eyed girl named Danese Cocke, and by 5th grade, I was convinced that she and I would someday settle down and raise a family. Maybe then she’d let me kiss her. Or talk to her. Not only was she “a stone fox,” she was also intelligent and talented, she could sing and dance, and this year, she was a Kolb cheerleader, and she was beginning to, um, fill out that short-skirted uniform. Back in 4th, 5th and 6th grade, I had done everything I could to get her to notice me: stared at her, made ugly faces, stole her pencil, shot spit wads at her, tried to embarrass her, pretended I hated her, you know, all the stuff a 9, 10 and 11 year-old boy could reasonably expect would impress a girl. Now of course, was different. This was Jr. High. I was a new man! I had matured to the point where I could really show her some style: I had a darkening crop of peach fuzz on my upper lip which could only mean I would soon be sporting a fine mustache. I proudly wore my blue & white striped bellbottoms, and owned several extra long collared shirts and platform shoes (think Peter Brady, Season 1), and this year, my hair actually touched the tops of my ears! Surely she’ll think I’m attractive now. Besides, with just a few more Clearasil treatments, I was certain the spattering of zits on my face would soon disappear! But all my dreams were about to be dashed. Enter dashing Dave Ellis. A Texas transplant, Dave had just ridden into town on a white stallion (OK, more like in the backseat of a white station wagon, but anyway…) and had joined the Kolb football team. Well, everyone knows jocks hook up with cheerleaders, and this was to be no exception. Dave’s good looks, cowboy charm and cute Texas drawl had melted Danese’s heart like a hot knife through butter, and she accepted his invitation to accompany him to the Valentine’s Day Sweetheart Dance on Friday night. It was now Wednesday, and I was making my way down a crowded hallway with the Song Dedications box under my arm, headed toward my fourth period Journalism class. I could see her gorgeous face approaching, and as we passed, I made eye contact, raised my hand in a stationary wave, smiled big, and said awkwardly, “Hi Danese!” Oh great, my voice cracked! Halfway between “Da” and “nese,” my vocal chords jumped up to an annoyingly high, squeaky note, so her name came out sounding kind of like the siren on a European ambulance. She quickly tossed her glance the other way and kept walking. OK, either she was too preoccupied with imagining what she would be wearing to the ball with her newfound prince, or the giggling gaggle of girlfriends surrounding her were just too loud for her to hear me, or more likely, she just ignored me. Just strolled right on by little insignificant me, without so much as a nod or a wink. My very existence had not even been acknowledged. I began to seethe. As Mark Twain once said, “Never pick a fight with a man who buys ink by the barrel.” OK, she hadnt really picked a fight, I wasnt yet a man, and the only ink I’d ever bought was a Crystal Bic from the student store, but I was on my way to Mr. Vallentines Journalism class, where as Entertainment Editor, the little blue Bic I wielded was mightier than any sword. My chosen weapon of revenge was none other than power of the press, the Fourth Estate, preserved and protected by the First Amendment! I went to my desk with the Song Dedications box and dumped out the contents, a small handful of hastily scrawled song titles and pubescent accolades. Then it hit me. She was so full of herself, (stuck-up was the term then), I would make her a laughingstock to all who knew her. I grabbed my pen. On the torn corner of a piece of lined notebook paper, I wrote, “‘You’re Just Too Good To Be True’ from Danese Cocke to Danese Cocke.” I leaned over and showed it to Bill. He laughed out loud. “Wonder who put that in there,” he said, slyly. Never mind that the song’s actual title is “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You”; as a three year-old monster hit for Frankie Valli, everyone knew that song. And all would simply assume that someone, probably a catty girl with her eyes on Dave, had just dropped it into the dedications box. The anonymity of it all! This was truly a stroke of genius! Pinpoint character assassination at its finest! Wednesday was deadline day for the coming Friday Morning Edition of the “Kolb Kaleidoscope.” I included my new diabolical dedication at the bottom of the Song Dedications column, and submitted it to Mr. Vallentine, our Editor-In-Chief, along with our new Horoscopes and Bill’s latest “Bozo Kid” comic strip. Overwhelmed with student stories from every section, he soon approved, and we “went to press” (meaning that on Thursday, Mr. Vallentine would send his T.A.s to the Xerox machine in the administration building to run off enough copies for every student, teacher and administrator on campus, then distribute them to all the homeroom teachers). My time bomb would soon be delivered. Detonation time: Homeroom, Friday morning, right after the National Anthem & flag salute…[insert maniacal laughter here]. From the time I awoke on Thursday, on the way to school, and all through the day, all I could think about was my sinister scheme to vilify the girl. Danese Cocke, once the lone object of my pubertal fantasies, the princess of my amphibious yearning – if only I could have convinced her to kiss this frog, her eyes would have been opened to the prince within! I was a man obsessed! Four and a half long years I had sought her approval, longed for her attention, dreamt of her acceptance. What would she think of me now? Would she see the error of her ways, feel my underlying pain, and come crawling to me, apologizing for the terrible way she had disrespected me yesterday? Or every day for the last four years? Or would my plan backfire and drive her further into the arms of the Sundance Kid? The anticipation was burning a hole in my head. I needed to vent. Over the course of the day, I shared my secret with several friends, and reactions varied from, “Cool. Can I have your Twinkie?,” to giddy eagerness, to alarmed apprehension that I might get in trouble for this. Wait. The plan was perfect. There was no way to get in trouble, I mean anyone could have put that song dedication in the box. If anything, I was the victim here of someone’s cruel joke! I had already practiced saying, “What? I just print what’s in the box, man.” Besides, I figured only 8th graders would recognize her name, and the vast majority of readers wouldnt even notice the song dedications column unless they had one in there. It was my last waking thought as my head hit the pillow that night. Friday morning. Homeroom. Bell rings. Anxiety sets in. Mr. Cook, our school principal, comes over the intercom, “Please stand for the National Anthem and remain standing for the flag salute.” Following both, we return to our desks as Mr. Cook comes back on, and in his usual charm (think Sergeant Carter from “Gomer Pyle”) begins to chew out the entire student body for leaving so much garbage in the quad after lunch all week, noting that beginning today, all students eating lunch would be kept inside the “cafetorium”, and would be required to deposit their trash in the appropriate receptacle before being allowed on the quad. While he yammered on, my heart was pounding as the Friday Morning Edition of the “Kolb Kaleidoscope” was being handed down the rows. This week’s edition was big enough to warrant two 8½ X 14” sheets of paper, stapled in the upper left corner. I took one and handed them back. “Just act casual,” I thought, “relaxed and unassuming.” Back page, Entertainment headline. There’s my feature, Song Dedications. I quickly scanned the down the column, only I didnt see “You’re Just Too Good To Be True.” It wasnt there! I read them all again. Slowly. I knew for a fact I had turned in 10 dedications, yet here I counted only nine! The only one that mattered was ever-so-conspicuously absent. My ego grenade was a dud! A misprint? No, everything was there but that one line. Somehow, some way, someone had foiled my plot! How could this be? My mind was swirling with confusion. Then I noticed. The second page of this newspaper was about an inch shorter than the first. This paper had been edited after the fact! With scissors! An Eeyorean cloud hung over my head all the way through third period, as I wondered what possible event, or chain of events could have resulted in this massive disappointment. Fourth period. Journalism. It was time to face the music. Mr. Vallentine took roll, instructed the class to get busy on their stories, columns and features for the next edition, then sat down, and said rather loudly, “Childs, Greeley, at my desk.” Busted! We both got up and walked to his desk. He looked up and said softly, “Gentlemen, I received a visit from Mr. Cook at lunch yesterday afternoon. He had just spoken in his office with a certain eighth grader named Danese Cocke, who informed him that she had heard from a reliable source that the upcoming edition of the newspaper contained a song dedication that included her name, but was not actually from her, and was only meant to embarrass her. Mr. Cook wanted to make sure that today’s newspaper would not be distributed until that line was removed.” His voice became slightly agitated. “So, since the paper had already been printed, thanks to the two of you, instead of working on my scheduled English assignment, my fifth and sixth period students had to spend their entire class time yesterday with paper cutters and scissors, cutting off the bottom inch of the second page of over 800 newspapers!” Mr. Vallentine’s tongue-lashing continued on about the importance of journalistic integrity, and not using a public forum for personal gain also noting that if you do, don’t be a blabbermouth. “Loose lips sink ships,” he reminded us, then we were told to get back to work. He was right. I had sunk my own ship by telling friends about it. But who ratted me out? I spent the rest of Friday re-living Thursday in my mind, retracing my steps, finally concluding that while I was in the library during second period the previous day, I was telling a friend as we were checking out books, and the student library assistant across the counter, stamping the dates in our books was none other than Julie Baxter, one of Danese’s best friends. She must have overheard me bragging and then told Danese during lunch! Me and my BIG mouth! Arrgghh! The following Wednesday, rushing toward deadline again, Bill was feverishly polishing up his latest comic adventure of “The Bozo Kid,” Horoscopes were done, and I was putting the finishing touches on Song Dedications when I had another idea. There was an oldie on the radio called “I Love You” by the one-hit-wonder group People. I had already manufactured half of the dedications that week, being careful not to use any last names. I quickly jotted down one more dedication and promptly submitted the column to Mr. Vallentine. About a minute before the bell rang, we heard his voice, “Childs, Greeley, at my desk!” Oh no. Bill looked at me with rolling eyes that screamed, “You’re getting me in trouble again?” We approached his desk. Mr. Vallentines head was down as we watched him pore over my Song Dedications column. Gently shaking his head, he began to read out loud, “‘I Love You’ from D.C. to D.C.” He paused, took a breath, then raised his head, revealing a huge toothy smile. “Brilliant!” he shouted. “I mean, the D.C.s could be Dennis Cook and Dawn Carpenter for all anyone knows. Perfect! Good job!” The bell rang and we headed for the door. “And keep your mouths shut!” The next issue was published without a hitch. Friday morning. Homeroom. I sat quietly, reading the paper, grinning from ear to ear. It may have been a week late, but my bitter Valentine was finally delivered. [Author’s Note: Although I derive a great bit of pleasure reminiscing, perhaps embellishing, momentous events of my youth, I occasionally come face-to-face with a version of myself who wasnt so kind, thoughtful and friendly as I wish now that I had been. One of the benefits of hindsight is developing a more balanced perspective of bygone days, with an eye to correcting flaws made along the way. That said, in this story, I know that jealousy and adolescent angst were no excuse for my bad behavior, and that I owe Danese a sincere apology for trying to cause her pain.] [Also, many thanks to Mr. Nick Vallentine for being such a great teacher!]
Posted on: Sat, 08 Mar 2014 07:04:17 +0000
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