by Gail Rock
By the end of January I realized that I was spending a lot of my time either talking to Mr. Davenport or thinking of a reason to talk to him—or just thinking of him for no reason at all.
I studied art more feverishly than ever so we would have something to discuss. I learned that he liked poetry, so I dug up a copy of Robert Browning that someone had once given me. I had looked at it scornfully when I first got it and had never opened it. I had thought love poems were disgusting. Now I studied them carefully, trying to find an appropriate verse to discuss with Mr. Davenport.
My grandmother wondered why I was sitting around the house all the time, reading and “mooning about,” as she called it, rather than going out with the girls. I couldn’t explain it, but I just wanted to be alone. I stopped wearing jeans all the time and, for the first time in my life, worried about how my clothes looked. I stood in front of the mirror, wondering how I could look older.
My father threatened to take my favorite record and grind it up for fertilizer if I didn’t stop playing it over and over. I told him he had no romance in his soul.
Chapter Two
By early february, only five weeks after I had first met Mr. Davenport, I realized that he had become the most important person in my life. My after-school chats with him were the highlights of my days, no matter how much teasing about being “teacher’s pet” I had to take from the other kids. They didn’t understand the real reason for my interest in him. I never discussed it with anyone, which was unusual for me because I usually said exactly what I thought about everything. This was different. I knew I had to keep it to myself.
One February afternoon I sat impatiently at my desk, watching Mr. Davenport write our English assignment on the blackboard. I wasn’t paying much attention to what he was saying, because it was almost time to dismiss school for the day and I was rehearsing what I would say when I went up to his desk after class. I was returning one of the art books he had loaned to me, and I wanted to say something intelligent about the French Impressionists.
Instead of writing down the assignment, I was drawing a sketch of him in my notebook. My notebook was almost full of sketches of him and endless pages with his name written over and over in different styles of handwriting. I had never let anyone else see it. They could tease me about Billy Wild, but not about this.
The 3:30 bell finally rang, and I sat there, tightly clutching Mr. Davenport’s book and waiting for everyone else to clear out so I could have a private talk with him. It was just my luck that everyone was hanging around in the classroom. Our big seventh-grade Valentine’s Dance was the next week, and everybody was gossiping about it and buying tickets from the kids who were assigned to sell them.
Just as Carla Mae and Tanya came over to talk to me, I saw Mr. Davenport get up from his desk and head for the door.
“Mr. Davenport,” I called, getting quickly out of my seat.
“Be right back, Addie,” he said, and went out the door.
“Mr. Davenport, Mr. Davenport, sweetie,” said Tanya in her ickiest voice, mocking me.
“Oh shut up, Smithers,” I said.
“Don’t tell me you’re borrowing his books again!” said Carla Mae, grabbing at the art book. “You should get a library card from him!”
Sometimes I wondered why she was my best friend.
“Don’t maul that book!” I said, grabbing it back from her. “This is a very rare volume, and practically irreplaceable!”
“Well, la-de-da!” said Tanya. “Why don’t you hire a bodyguard?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” I said. “You don’t know anything about art.”
“Ha!” Tanya said. “You’re not half as interested in art as you are in Mr. Davenport.”
“Yeah,” said Carla Mae. “She’s been slaving away for weeks creating the world’s most gorgeous valentine for him.”
“I have not!” I said hotly. “How do you know who I’m going to give it to?”
“Who else?” asked Tanya.
“Your other true love, Billy Wild!” said Carla Mae.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding!” I said. “Yuck! I wouldn’t give him the time of day … let alone a valentine.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Carla Mae. “I bet you go to the Valentine’s Dance with him.”
“Yeah, you always go everywhere with him,” said Tanya.
“Well who else is there in this dumb class?” I said, sounding disgusted. “I can’t help it if he always asks me to everything.”
“Oh come on,” said Carla Mae. “After Mr. Davenport, Billy Wild is your second favorite.”
“That’s what you think!” I said. “I just may not go with him this time.”
“Well, who else will you go with?” asked Tanya. “I hope you’re not waiting for Mr. Davenport to ask you for a date!”
“Yeah,” laughed Carla Mae. “You could wait forever! He’s a bit old for you.”
“I’m not waiting for anybody to ask me for a date!” I said. “And for your information, Mr. Davenport is only eleven years older than us. That’s not so much.… When we graduate from high school we’ll be eighteen, and he’ll only be twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-nine!” said Carla Mae. “Yuck! That’s so old! I wouldn’t want to go out with somebody who’s an ancient twenty-nine!” I knew my father had been ten years older than my mother, and I closed my ears to Carla Mae’s remarks. Though my mother had died a few months after I was born and I had never really known her, my grandmother had told me many times about the wonderful marriage my parents had. I had been thinking of the difference in their ages a lot lately when I thought of Mr. Davenport.
I longed to be grown up. Thirteen was such an awful age—so clumsy. I knew I was no longer a child, but at thirteen people didn’t treat me like a grown-up either. Some days I felt like the kid I had always been, playing outdoors in jeans and sweatshirt, flinging myself into every game, my braids flying. Other days I longed to be sophisticated, with beautiful clothes and hair, and sit in elegant rooms and have serious conversations.
I never seemed to be able to look right. I hated my glasses but had to wear them all the time. I knew I was too old for pigtails but didn’t quite know how else to do my hair. I suddenly felt my clothes were wrong, and that my arms and legs were too long for the rest of my skinny body. I hated being thirteen.
I wanted to be seventeen or eighteen so I could meet Mr. Davenport on his own level and call him “Douglas” and go to Omaha and have dinner with him in the Cottonwood Room at the Blackstone Hotel and discuss the paintings in the Joslyn Art Museum. Anything but be caught at the terrible in-between age of thirteen. Even fourteen would have been better. After all, Juliet had been fourteen, and Romeo took her seriously.
Just then I saw Billy Wild coming toward us, and Tanya and Carla Mae giggled.
“Oh, here he comes, the Number Two in your life, Billy Wild!” said Carla Mae when she saw him.
“Let’s go,” said Tanya. “The two lovebirds probably want to be alone.”
“Shut up, you guys!” I said.
As he came up to my desk, Tanya said, “Hi, Billy,” in a high, silly voice. Then she and Carla Mae giggled and headed for the door.
Billy waited until they left.
“Going up to Cole’s for a coke?” he asked.
“Maybe later,” I said. “I have some things to do here first.”
“I’ll wait for you,” he said.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “It might take me a while.”
“That’s OK,” he said. “There’s something I wanna ask you …”
“Listen,” I interrupted, impatient that he wasn’t getting the hint. “I have to talk to Mr. Davenport, and I’d like some privacy. So why don’t you just go ahead without me?”
“What’s so private between you and Davenport?” he asked, annoyed.
“None of your business!” I said.
“Well, how long is it going to take?” he asked.
“It’s hard to say,” I
said, sounding mysterious. “So why don’t you just run along?”
That made him angry.
“Well, why don’t you stop making goo-goo eyes at Mr. Davenport?”
“That,” I said coolly, “is a disgusting remark.”
“Ooooo! Mr. Davenport,” he said mockingly. “You’re so cute!”
“Immature!” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know you like older men.…”
“I know five-year-olds who are more sophisticated and grown-up than you are!”
“Who wants to be an old man?” he said indignantly.
“Well, you could at least act your age!” I said. “We’re in the seventh grade after all … that’s practically high school!”
“Oh, could I help you across the street, old lady!” He smirked and grabbed my elbow.
“Adolescent ape!” I said, pulling my arm away. Angrily he turned and headed for the door.
I picked up my books and walked up to Mr. Davenport’s desk to wait for him. I opened the art book to a painting I wanted to discuss with him, and as I was leafing through the book I heard someone writing on the blackboard behind me. I turned and saw that Billy had not left but was at the board, drawing a big heart in red chalk. Written inside was “Addie loves Mr. Davenport.”
“You creep!” I said, and shot across the room to the blackboard.
Just then Mr. Davenport came back into the room. Billy took off, and I grabbed an eraser and lunged at the blackboard, frantically trying to erase the heart before Mr. Davenport saw it. He looked right at it and then turned quickly away. I was sure he had seen it.
“Finished with the book already?” he asked as I went back over to his desk.
“Yeah, for now,” I said. “But I’d like to borrow it again sometime. I think the French Impressionists are my favorites.”
“Mine, too,” he said, smiling. “You’ll have to take French when you get into high school. It will make studying the French painters a lot more interesting for you.”
“I know. I’m dying to take French. But I wish I could just skip high school and go right on to college and get down to some serious things, you know?”
“I know how you feel,” he said. “But you’ll have a great time in high school. You don’t want to miss all the fun.”
I thought of how much fun it might be. I would be older, and a sophisticated high school student. I would come back and visit the seventh grade and see him. Things would be on a much more adult level between us then.
“Oh, it’s all so childish,” I said. “I just want to get started on my career … so I can go to Paris and study art.”
“You’ll have a terrific time,” he said, and smiled at me.
That was one of the things I liked best about Mr. Davenport. He took my dreams of being an artist as seriously as I did. Most grownups would laugh at them or patronize me—especially my dad, who thought my paintings were just some cute kids’ phase I was going through. But my father didn’t understand art well enough to see that I had talent. Mr. Davenport did. He knew about my sense of line and color and knew that I was good. He knew that I meant what I said; drat I was really going to be an artist someday. Dad thought I would just be disappointed for aiming so high, but Mr. Davenport felt the way I did: you had to aim high to reach high.
“Of course you’ll need to speak French when you live in Paris,” he continued. “So I guess high school won’t be a total waste for you, with French and art history.”
I knew he was teasing me a bit, and I smiled.
“I hope we study a lot about the French Impressionists in high school art,” I said. “That’s how I’d like to paint when I go to Paris.”
“Well, you may find a style of your own by then,” he said. “You’re very talented.”
“Thanks,” I said, blushing. I looked down at the book again. “Sometimes I get scared, though, when I look at these paintings—like some of the things Renoir did. I don’t know if I’ll ever be good enough. I mean to make a living being an artist.”
“I think you will.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe I should try something else. My dad says I should take typing and shorthand in high school, just in case …” That was typical of my dad, the combination of practicality and pessimism.
“That’s OK, but you mustn’t give up before you even get started,” he said. “That’s not like you, Addie.”
I looked at him, trying to tell if he was just kidding me along, but I was sure he meant it. He knew me very well … maybe better than anybody.
“Well, I used to be more confident … about everything I guess when I was just a kid. But when you grow up, you realize how scary things really are.”
“Don’t let other people’s disappointments keep you from trying,” he said, looking at me very carefully. “You’ll regret it all your life if you do.”
I wondered if Mr. Davenport was referring to my dad, but he couldn’t have known him that well. Dad, who worked as a crane operator, had never finished high school and had always regretted it.
Mr. Davenport took out his plaid tobacco pouch and started filling his pipe. I had watched him do that dozens of times, and I knew that he smoked a wonderful tobacco mixture called “Rum and Maple.” Whenever I thought of him, I could almost smell the wonderful scent of it. I had never had the courage to mention it to him before; it seemed so personal.
“I love the scent of that tobacco you smoke,” I said as he lit his pipe. “What’s the name of it?”
“Rum and Maple,” he said, puffing away to get the pipe started.
I watched him intently. I thought he was more handsome than any movie star I had ever seen. I looked at the tobacco pouch lying on his desk.
“Do you think I could have just a little sample of that to give to my dad?” I asked suddenly. “I think he might like it. If he does, maybe I’ll get him some for his birthday.”
“Sure,” he said, looking amused. “Your father smokes a pipe too, huh?”
I felt uneasy. My father never smoked a pipe, and I wondered if Mr. Davenport could know that.
“Well, he smokes one sometimes,” I said hesitantly. “When he’s not smoking cigarettes.”
Mr. Davenport had taken a big pinch of tobacco out of the pouch.
“Here,” he said. “How are you going to carry it?”
I quickly took out my neatly folded handkerchief, which Grandma insisted I carry with me every day, and spread it on his desk. He put the pinch of tobacco on it and I carefully rolled it up into the corner and tied it in a knot.
“Thanks,” I said. “I bet my dad will love it.”
“I hope so,” he said. “Well, I have to get busy on these history papers, Addie, if you’ll excuse me.”
“OK,” I said, reluctant to leave. “You’re coming to the Valentine’s Dance, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Oh, sure,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it. We used to have them when I was in grade school, too.”
“Yeah, they’re such kid stuff,” I said. “I’d rather curl up at home with a good art book, but I guess we should all go since it’s a class project.”
“Of course,” he said. “After all, they’re crowning the King and Queen of Hearts. You don’t want to miss that.”
“Well, it’s kind of silly,” I said, trying to sound as blasé as possible. “Anyway, everyone knows it’ll be Billy Wild and Carolyn Holt.”
“I hope you’ll be there,” he said, and started shuffling the history papers around on the desk again.
I knew it was a signal that the conversation was over, but I hated to leave.
“Is there anything you want me to do around here?” I asked. “Put stuff away or something?”
He looked around. “No, nothing tonight, thanks,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
“OK. Au revoir,” I said.
He laughed. “A bientôt.”
As I went out the door, I had a sudden moment of insight. I knew what had been the matter with me the la
st few weeks; something I thought would never happen to me in a million years. I was in love.
Chapter Three
Our house was only two blocks from the school, and I raced home through the biting cold February afternoon, carefully guarding the treasure tied up in my handkerchief. I went directly to the bedroom that Grandma and I shared and pulled the old bird’s-eye maple dresser away from the wall to get at the keys hanging on the back. One of them unlocked my private drawer, the top left-hand drawer of the dresser. Grandma’s private drawer was the top right-hand drawer, though she never locked it. Dad had a private drawer in his mahogany highboy, and he never locked his, either. I seemed to be the only one in the family with any real secrets.
Locks or not, it was an absolute rule that no one looked into anyone else’s private drawer in our family. I knew my memento of Mr. Davenport would be safe there. What’s more, I hoped it would scent all the things in my private drawer so that I would be reminded of him whenever I opened it. I hoped Dad and Grandma wouldn’t notice if I began to smell like Rum and Maple. I closed my eyes and took a long, deep breath of the tobacco. I could see Mr. Davenport sitting at his desk, lighting up his pipe as we had one of our private talks. I carefully placed the knotted hanky in the drawer and locked it again.
I gathered up the red paper, lace doilies, ribbons and paints I had been making valentines with, and started for the kitchen. Our house wasn’t very big. It had only two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room; and the kitchen was usually the center of activity. Grandma was almost always there, baking or canning or preparing something on her old cast-iron stove, and Dad and I just naturally gravitated to the good smells and coziness of the kitchen.
Dad had just come home from work and he was talking with Grandma. They didn’t realize I was coming toward the kitchen, and I could overhear their conversation.