Mum held the envelope to the light and peered at the postmark. 

“I wonder who this could be from?” 

Why the drama whenever she gets a letter? She checks handwriting, postmark, even looks for a return address.

“Just open it, Mum.” 

“I can’t, it’s not mine.” She slid it across the table. 

It was addressed to me. I picked up the cream coloured envelope. It felt like a card; who could it be from? Before I ripped it open, I just happened to notice the postmark was local. Inside was a Valentine’s card; the second one I’d ever received. Last year I got one from Dad. It was a funny one, but made me sad. Dad hadn’t attempted to disguise his writing and had sent it because he knew I wouldn’t be getting one from anyone else. 

This card was a sweet, romantic one. The handwriting wasn’t Dad’s and it had been posted, not just ‘appeared’ on the hall table on Valentine’s Day. It was four day’s early; Dad’s a last minute kind of guy. ‘To sweet Julie’, it read and was signed, ‘a secret admirer’. Of course it was, however much I hoped, there was fat chance of my getting a card signed by Gary. 

I didn’t have time to figure out who sent it. Instead, I ran upstairs and changed my baggy Jeans and trainers for a skirt and decent shoes. I took the elastic band off my hair and gave it a good brushing then slicked on some lip-gloss. Although I didn’t have a clue who’d sent the card, the chances were it was someone from college. I didn’t go anywhere else. Whoever it was, I didn’t want him thinking he’d made a mistake. 

The bus journey didn’t reveal any likely candidates. There were a couple of lads, but there was no way they’d know my address. Besides, nobody had ever made any effort to sit near me, or talk. I shook my head, that wasn’t a clue. If I liked a bloke, I didn’t show it. I was too shy to speak first, even to Gary. 

My guess was the sender of the card was shy too. Why else would I get an anonymous and unexpected Valentine’s card? Whoever it was, probably felt pretty nervous that morning. Even if it was someone I’d never be interested in, I was pleased to be admired. I’d reward him with a charming smile. 

I started grinning like my future love life depended on it, which it probably did. I grinned at the old guy on reception, I grinned at every bloke I passed on the way to class and I was preparing to grin at my tutor as I went in. Mr Rogers wasn’t there; Gary was. I grinned at him and wonder of wonders he smiled back. Result. 

Gary was always early to class, which is why I’d started getting the earlier bus in. We didn’t speak or anything, I didn’t have the nerve for that, but occasionally he nodded at me and I’d nod back. It felt good just to be alone with him for a few minutes and know he was aware of me. Thinking of Gary being early in gave me this crazy idea. If he sent a card, he’d probably get it in the post early. It couldn’t have been him though – could it? 

Tuesday morning there was no card, but that didn’t matter, if the first one was from Gary, then one was enough. 
“You look nice, Julie,” Dad said. 

I grinned at him, my face was getting used to that expression. I’d conditioned my hair, used my lip-gloss again as well as some mascara and ironed a blouse and trousers instead of pulling on jeans and a jumper. It was good to hear the effort was worth it. 

Gary was in the classroom again when I arrived. He nodded. 

“Morning,” I managed to say. 

He smiled at me, “Morning, Julie.” 

Yes! 

On Wednesday, there was no card and no compliment from Dad. That didn’t matter; I knew I looked as good as I was ever likely to. Gary seemed to think so anyway.

He said, “Hello,” as I arrived. When I returned his greeting, he came and sat on the edge of my desk to chat. Nothing special, just about our homework, but at least we were talking. 

Thursday was even better. I’d put my hair up and he told me it looked good. Amazingly I didn’t go to pieces. I suppose I figured that if I could handle the guy sending me a Valentine’s card, I could handle a compliment. 

“You’re not looking so bad yourself, Gaz,” I said. I was practically flirting with him.

Friday was when I got the shock. The card on Monday was a surprise; the lack of one on Valentine’s Day was a shock. 

“Where’s my card, Dad? Don’t you love me any more?” 

“Of course I do,” he said and gave me a hug. “Your mum said you’d worked out who sent Monday’s card.” 

I had, but it turned out I’d worked it out wrong. It had been from Dad. He’d done that trick of writing with the other hand to disguise his writing and posted it early so he didn’t forget.

My breakfast lost its appeal. I’d made a complete fool of myself with Gary. He’d not sent me a card, probably wasn’t the slightest bit interested and I’d … Well, all I’d really done was talk to the guy. Maybe it wasn’t a complete disaster. I could just go back to catching the later bus and avoid any embarrassing early morning meetings. 

That’s what I did. I got the later bus and walked into class after nearly everybody else had arrived. On my desk was a bright pink envelope. Who could it be from? I ripped it open. The signature was nothing more than a question mark. I glanced at Gary, he was grinning at me and his face was the same bright pink as the envelope.