Free Addie and the King of Hearts by Gail Rock Page A

awful.”
    â€œThey don’t mean any harm,” he said. “Sometimes boys act foolish. They don’t know what to say to girls. It’s just as hard for them.”
    â€œWell, they’re all creeps!”
    â€œI thought you were having a good time. I saw you dancing with Billy Wild and Mr. Davenport …”
    â€œI can’t stand Mr. Davenport!”
    â€œI thought you liked him a lot.”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œIrene said his girlfriend was there. Did you meet her?”
    â€œIt’s not his girlfriend,” I said. “It’s his fiancée.”
    â€œOh, he’s getting married,” said Dad.
    â€œYeah, this June. And moving away to Kansas City.”
    â€œI guess you’ll miss him. All the kids seem to like him.”
    â€œI don’t care what he does,” I said and got up from the swing and started to walk toward home.
    Dad walked along beside me.
    â€œIt’s unfair,” I said after a few moments. “The pretty girls get everything without even trying. If you’re not beautiful or rich, then you’re nobody. It’s just not fair—they get everything! Everybody falls in love with them!”
    â€œWell, love isn’t something you ‘get,’” said Dad. “It’s not like winning a game or something. It doesn’t happen at first sight. You have to know somebody a long time and work at it.”
    â€œYeah, but if boys don’t like the way you look, you never get the chance to know them. That’s all they care about. And you’re the same with that Irene Davis!”
    â€œIrene’s a nice person,” he said. “I wanted to tell you I was going out with her, but I just didn’t know what to say …”
    â€œHow could you like somebody like that?” I asked. “She’s so—I don’t know—she’s not refined like my mother was.”
    â€œNo,” said Dad. “She’s not much like your mother, but that doesn’t mean we can’t like each other.”
    I wondered how he could say that. I imagined that his love for my mother had been like the feeling I had for Mr. Davenport. We walked along for a moment, not saying anything.
    â€œI don’t suppose I’ll ever feel that way about anybody again,” he said. “The way I felt about your mother …”
    I was surprised that he continued the conversation. He almost never mentioned my mother to me. What little I knew of her I had learned from Grandma.
    â€œBut that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy other people’s company,” he went on. “And care about them in a different way.”
    â€œBut it’s not the same,” I said.
    â€œNo,” he said. “It’s not, but you don’t always get just what you want in life.”
    â€œI don’t see why not,” I said impatiently. That had always been an argument between us. I thought you could make things happen the way you wanted in life, and he was a firm believer in fate, not to mention bad luck.
    â€œYou just can’t settle for any old thing that comes along,” I said. “Then you’ll never get what you really want. You have to try for it.”
    It struck me that I was repeating what Mr. Davenport had said to me about trying to be an artist. It was true that my dad was disappointed about some things in his life, and it was a constant struggle for me to overcome his pessimism and maintain my optimism. As badly as I felt about Mr. Davenport, I somehow knew that I didn’t share Dad’s pessimism about love.
    He didn’t say anything for a moment, as though he were thinking over what I had said.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “Sometimes I thought if I couldn’t find somebody like your mother again I’d rather be alone. But I’m pretty sure there’s nobody else like her for me, and I don’t think I want to be alone the rest of