But when Wendy walked in, I froze. I couldn't utter a word, and when the bell rang at the end of the day, I still had the gift tucked away in my pocket.

In desperation, I waited until she got up to get her coat from the next room. While she was gone, I dropped the phone book in her purse, and ran away.

When Wendy walked out, I followed her, watching as she found the strange trinket in her purse. She looked at it, shrugged and went on her way. I hesitated, then turned back to go home.

I never told Wendy where the book came from, and as the year wore on I lost touch with her. Fourth-graders are pretty fickle, and by the end of elementary school, so I heard, she had run off with some guy on a motorcycle.

But there was something special about that Valentine's Day. It didn't matter that she never knew who gave her the present, or that I never told her how I felt, or that it only cost $3. I was "in love," and I had given Wendy a gift that meant something more than a Mastercard number and a 1-800 phone call.

It's not what FTD would want us to think of as the perfect Valentine's Day, but what the heck do they know. Roses may wilt, but address books--and fourth grade--are forever.