on.
The strange feeling that had stricken me when I first saw Mr. Davenport still lingered whenever I would talk with him. I talked with him often. I felt I had much more in common with him than the other kids in the class. Somehow I was more grown-up than they were, and I was able to talk to him about all kinds of things that the others just werenât interested in.
I knew that I understood Mr. Davenport better than anyone in the class, because I was going to be an artist when I grew up and he was particularly interested in art. He had been in Paris at the end of the war and had brought back some French art books that he loaned me now and then. I couldnât read the texts because they were in French, but I pored over the paintings for hours and tried to copy some of the artistsâ styles with my own paints at home. Then I would discuss the paintings with Mr. Davenport, and he always seemed very pleased that he had somebody to talk to who understood art as well as he did. He encouraged me to continue my studies in art, and I knew there was a special bond between us, even if he was eleven years older than I.
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 himâor 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 âmooning about,â as she called it, rather than going out with the girls. I couldnât 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 didnât 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 âteacherâs petâ I had to take from the other kids. They didnât 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 wasnât 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. Davenportâs 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 Valentineâs Dance was the next week, and everybody was gossiping about it and buying
The strange feeling that had stricken me when I first saw Mr. Davenport still lingered whenever I would talk with him. I talked with him often. I felt I had much more in common with him than the other kids in the class. Somehow I was more grown-up than they were, and I was able to talk to him about all kinds of things that the others just werenât interested in.
I knew that I understood Mr. Davenport better than anyone in the class, because I was going to be an artist when I grew up and he was particularly interested in art. He had been in Paris at the end of the war and had brought back some French art books that he loaned me now and then. I couldnât read the texts because they were in French, but I pored over the paintings for hours and tried to copy some of the artistsâ styles with my own paints at home. Then I would discuss the paintings with Mr. Davenport, and he always seemed very pleased that he had somebody to talk to who understood art as well as he did. He encouraged me to continue my studies in art, and I knew there was a special bond between us, even if he was eleven years older than I.
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 himâor 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 âmooning about,â as she called it, rather than going out with the girls. I couldnât 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 didnât 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 âteacherâs petâ I had to take from the other kids. They didnât 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 wasnât 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. Davenportâs 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 Valentineâs Dance was the next week, and everybody was gossiping about it and buying
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