It wasn't fair. It was stupid, and Rum didn't care if they weren't supposed to say 'stupid' in class. Because he didn't say it, he was thinking it, and no one could make him un-think something. So there.

Valentimes are stupid, and school is stupid, and his class it stupid. And mostly he's big-angry inside because he had the best valentimes, but they didn't like his. He'd figured out how to get them on the internets, and his aunty had helped him print and cut them mostly straight. Each one said "You're my Destiny, valentine" from his favorite tv show. But when Happy asked to see them on the bus, Regina said it was a dumb tv show and everyone else had cartoon ones, and Jefferson started giggling so much that the bus driver stopped the bus and said it was Rum's fault for not behaving.

On the way inside the school, he crammed every single one into the ugly green trash can by the door. His teacher asked if anyone forgot to bring valentimes, but he didn't raise his hand because he didn't forget. Nobody wanted his, so nobody would have his. When the party started and she realized he didn't have any, she gave him that scolding look and said he would have to make some really fast, but Rum didn't. He didn't make anything.

His teacher had asked everyone to put their special boxes at their tables. And he trailed the others, letting them stampede through the cubbies and finally tugged out his own box when all was clear. Shaking his shaggy hair from his face, Rum had proudly plunked down the box at the exact moment Mary Margaret squealed "Ewwww!"

Rum really hadn't understood what the problem was. His box was black because black was his favorite color. And he glued on snail shells he had collected because he liked snails and their shells were interesting—not Mary Margaret's silly glitter stickers that looked exactly like almost all the other girls' in class. All the same. And then his teacher got made because he drew a sword-thingy, one of the short ones that people carried around in his fairy tale stories, and they weren't allowed to draw guns and things. It wasn't a gun, because he knew guns were bad, but she said he couldn't have it anyway.

So he stomped on it and threw it in the trash. She always got mad at him because he didn't write his name right—it wasn't his fault that everyone else just had to write "Ruby" or "Leroy" or "David" or "Viktor," and he had to write "Rumplestiltskin" or was it "Rumpelstiltskin"? He always did it wrong. When he wrote "Rum," she would say he couldn't go all his life without knowing how to spell his own name. She said he didn't get along well with others and wasn't cooperative, whatever that meant. He wasn't good at her things, but he was the smartest in class, and he knew it even if she wouldn't say so.

Rum had put himself in his own quiet corner, as far away as he could get. He could hear Ruby's granny was passing around the cookies and helping people with juice boxes, but Rum didn't care because juice boxes were stupid, too. They probably only had the apple juice kind and not red drink because last time Ruby brought red drink everyone ran around like crazy people and made a mess and the school said no one could bring red drinks any more.

Crossing his arms and refusing to let his lip tremble, he scrunched further into the corner. When he got home he was going to make a new valentimes box with all the colors he liked. Black and maybe gold because it was shiny, and he liked that, too. And he would make a house for a snail because that would be better than a paper with a picture. And better than Ashley's cards with all of that dumb white frilly girl stuff around them.

He scooted further into the corner, sitting criss-cross but not criss-cross-applesauce because that was stupid, too. What did applesauce have to do with sitting? Resting his elbows on his knees, his hands cradled his head and he waited for the long line on the clock to move all the way to the seven because then it would be time to line up. And then he could go on the bus, and then he could go home and watch his show again.

Rum thought it would be fun to be like Dr. Rush because Dr. Rush made all the cool things happen on the ship and was smarter than everyone, too. And even when they were mean to Dr. Rush, everyone knew he was smartest. Rum was so lost in thought that he almost didn't hear her until she snuck around the little reading couch.

Belle French was the smallest girl in their class, even littler than Mary Margaret. She hadn't started a long, long time ago with everyone else. She came just before Christmas break and looked sad and was quiet. Ruby was the first to talk to her, but mostly he noticed that Ruby did the talking. Belle liked to read and sometimes forgot an answered the teacher's questions in words that were funny, but not mean funny like when everyone laughed at his valentimes. Different, but good-different-funny. The teacher would remind her to answer in English, and she always said sorry and whispered the answer after that.

She was staring at him with big blue eyes, and she held out a big red heart. "C'est pour vous," she said, blushing a little and looking shyly at the floor when she realized she had said it using those other words again.

His bit his bottom lip and stared at her for a long moment. Last week she smiled at him and said she liked his picture. No one else smiled at him. When he accidentally knocked over the books on the shelf in liberry, she had helped him pick them up before their teacher noticed and scolded him. He didn't exactly like Belle—not like David liked Mary Margaret—but he didn't not like her, either. And his stomach felt rumbly and empty and like it wished it could have one of the cupcake's that David's mom made.

"It's for you," she answered quieter this time, holding out the heart shaped box.

Rum was sure his mouth was going to say Go away, but instead his fingers reached up and took it, and he said, "Okay." He frowned a little, thinking it wasn't what he was supposed to say when someone gave you a valentimes, but he couldn't think of anything else. He reached into his pocket and fished out a crumbled packet and held it out. "It's wrinkled, sorry."

For a moment, he wanted to stuff it back in his pocket. It was only the snack his dad had put in his lunch, and he'd saved it for later. Sometimes when he did that, it was all squished, and Rum wished he'd saved one of his valentimes. But before he could push it back, Belle took it.

"I love fruit snacks," she said softly, smiling wider like he'd given her one of those really huge stuffed animals he saw at the store. He'd never liked any of the other kids, but when she smiled at him, it made his tummy feel warm, and it made him feel good-tingly inside.

"Me, too," he whispered back, squeezing the heart and not caring that he'd scrunched up a corner of the box. "I like your valentimes box."

She gave him another little smile and glanced to the table where her book-shaped box was now stuffed with cards and treats. "You can have it if you want."

He shook his head. "No, you keep it. Thanks," he remembered to say this time, holding up the heart box a little.

She gave him a nice giggle and before she turned to go back, she bent down and gave him a kiss on his cheek. "Happy valentines day, Rum."