A Dream for Addie by Gail Rock Page B

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.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œFinished with the book already?” he asked as I went back over to his desk.
    â€œYeah, for now,” I said. “But I’d like to borrow it again sometime. I think the French Impressionists are my favorites.”
    â€œMine, 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.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œOf 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWell, you may find a style of your own by then,” he said. “You’re very talented.”
    â€œThanks,” 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.”
    â€œI think you will.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œWell, 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.”
    â€œDon’t let other people’s disappointments keep you from trying,” he said, looking at me very carefully.