Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK by Betsy St. Amant

subtly fan myself without drawing attention to the blotches that crept up my neck. I dumped my tray in the return bin and walked out of the cafeteria with Marta, her previous words cycling in my head like an iPod set to S HUFFLE .
Your own person. Don’t hide. Labels. You’re still you
. They struck a chord with me that had never really been pressed before. As I bypassed Austin’s table and ignored the catcall he whistled my way, I wished the entire last half hour had simply never happened.

Chapter Nine
    T he only thing more pathetic than doing a group project solo on a Friday night is going to your school’s open house with your father on a Friday night. Like some sort of really screwed-up date.
    I followed Dad out of the crowded auditorium amid a sea of fellow overeager parents and sullen students, the assistant principal’s monotone welcome speech still droning in my mind.
    Dad held the heavy door leading to the south bank of classrooms open for me. “Which class is first?” He looked almost as uncomfortable as me, and I wished we could just go meet Ms. Hawthorne and then bail. She was the only one who requested to meet my dad, so why go through the agony of parading through my lineup of classrooms just like I’d done every morning for weeks already?
    I believed in education. I did not believe in parent-teacher meet-and-greets.
    “American history. Then gym.” Don’t get me started on how unfair it was to have gym within two hours of school starting each day. So far it was just a bunch of sitting around in our uniforms, but eventually we’d get to the sweaty stuff, and that would make the rest of the day interesting to say the least.
    “History it is.” Dad followed me, and not for the first time that night I thought about how the promised complimentary pops and cookies in each class were simply not worth this kind of hassle. Not to mention the awkward level of Dad having to pretend like he knew anything about my school. Good parent, sure. Involved? Not so much.
    Though in this case that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
    Inside my American history classroom, the students bunched around the refreshment table, stuffing their faces with dessert, while the parents bunched around each other on the other side of the room, overdressed in their suits, ties, and business slacks. Husbands and wives stood with linked arms, while the single ones openly flirted with the other bare-ring-fingered adults. Leave it to the parents to turn an open house into an open market.
    Dad glanced down at his khakis and polo shirt then hesitated between the two groups, as if not sure where he fit in. A twinge of sympathy flittered through my stomach.
    I know, Dad. I wonder the same thing every day
.

    After suffering through an hour of blah, we finally made it to my English classroom. Maybe Dad would be up for heading home after we met Ms. Hawthorne. I really didn’t see the point in him sticking around to meet eccentric Señora Martinez or listen to my calculus teacher drone on about critical numbers or integration methods.
    We stepped inside the mostly empty classroom, having beat several of the parents to the room this time, and I inhaled deeply the scent of tangy chocolate. Leave it to Ms. Hawthorne to go to the trouble of baking fresh brownies instead of buying a bulk, multicookie tray like the others. Maybe her class wouldn’t be so bad this year after all.
    “Hi, Addison.” Ms. Hawthorne smiled warmly at me. “Helpyourself to a brownie.”
    “Thanks, I think I will.” I started toward the mini–buffet table she had set up with lemonade and dessert, turning to watch from the corner of my eye as she held out her hand to Dad. “You must be Addison’s father. I’m Kathy Haw—” Her voice choked, and she stumbled over the rest of her name. “David?”
    My eyebrows went up. Wow, I hadn’t heard that name in a while, not without “preacher” in front of it. I glanced at Dad, who was turning a very deep shade of magenta