Has to Be Love Read Free Page B

the tone of Mr. Kennedy’s voice makes it sound like my words could be a big deal.
    â€œOh,” I say because I can be eloquent like that.
    His head tilts to the side. “Small town … no real training … You’re lucky to have some natural talent to work with.”
    â€œOh. Thanks.” I want to look up at him again, but I’d rather enjoy the compliment without any kind of pity stare from him about my face.
    â€œYou read a lot?”
    â€œAll the time,” Dad interrupts. “I mean … unless she’s writing.”
    Mr. Kennedy chuckles, and the doorbell rings.
    â€œYou’ll have to excuse me.” Dad gives me a wink before leaving the kitchen.
    Mr. Kennedy leans against the counter like he lives here. “So. I’ll make sure you get a chance to answer my question. Read a lot?”
    â€œI’ve read Thoreau an embarrassing number of times, and I could read Coleridge every day.” I tap the spoon on the edge of the pot before sliding it through the sauce again. “Lorca’s poems are basically words to live by.”
    â€œAt least you’re on the right track.” He smiles.
    Is he flirting with me? I mean, he’s a student teacher and not a teacher teacher, but still … It’s sort of scandalous, I think. I shake off the ridiculous thought of his possible interest but glance through my curtain of hair again to see his smiling profile. Maybe I’m reading too much into him being nice.
    â€œTell me you don’t like Dickinson.” He rolls his eyes. “Because I think every incoming college freshman girl likes Dickinson.”
    â€œSexist much?” I ask instead of telling him how much I love Emily Dickinson. Love, love. So very much.
    Mr. Kennedy shrugs. “Didn’t mean it that way. Just seems to be the case.”
    Dad steps back into the kitchen followed by his long-time friend, Suki.
    â€œClara!” Suki’s smile accentuates her large teeth and the bright pink lipstick that seems to be her trademark, as she also steps into the galley kitchen. I sometimes wonder what her history students think of this overly happy but intense Native Alaskan woman whose black hair is strikingly striped with blond and whose lips are always a few shades of bright.
    Dad invites her over a lot, and I keep wondering whether he’ll move forward with this weird friendship they have, or if he’ll pine away for Mom for the rest of his life.
    â€œHi, Suki.” I smile back at her from the stove, but the right side of my mouth feels funny today, so I’m sure my smile is extra weird.
    â€œOh, this tastes like heaven.” She groans as she licks the finger she just stuck in my sauce. “You have a talent, girl. I keep saying this … Probably one of the few blessings of being such an independent girl.”
    My cheeks warm, even though I was sort of forced into independence. First, because Mom was trying to finish her degree online. Second, because she was writing. Third, because she died. And fourth, because Dad works a lot.
    â€œGlad you made it tonight.” Dad smiles widely as he rolls up the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt and leans against the kitchen door.
    â€œMe too.” Suki turns toward Dad, resting a hand on his arm and touching the edges of his gray hair, smoothing over the strays.
    The touching is new, so I watch out of the corner of my eye to see how far they’re going to go.
    I half expect Dad to jump away, but he holds his own until he clears his throat and turns back to the table.
    â€œThank you, Sukiniq. I think I’ve got it all set.” Dad’s inability to use the short version of her name is just … so very him.
    â€œDinner’s in five.” I reach for the noodles, but Mr. Kennedy is already draining them in the sink, holding the pot with a surprisingly muscular set of arms for an English teacher.
    I glance away before he sees me staring, pour the sauce