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

students listened to her better than they did Mr. Adger, who had been at Crooked Hollow since the dawn of time.
    “Addison has already jumped into organizing a fund-raiser for the school’s talent show. She’s a great influence for the other students.” Ms. Hawthorne patted my arm.
    “You’re organizing a fund-raiser?” Dad turned to me, surprise highlighting his features. “You didn’t mention that.”
    “It just sort of happened.” Better sit down, quick, before Dad had any wrong impressions of me turning into Miss School Spirit. Besides, when was I supposed to tell him about the talent show or the Let Them Read Foundation—during our occasional dinner together on the nights he didn’t stay at the church late? But I couldn’t say that to his face. Not here—probably not ever. Dad’s plate stayed full enough without extra drama from me. I forced a smile. “It’s no big deal.”
    “No big deal? Addison, you’re too modest.” Ms. Hawthorne shook her head as if she couldn’t believe my humility. “This isthe first year the school is giving proceeds from the talent show to a good cause, a cause that Addison chose and arranged on her own. That’s a big deal in my book.”
    “That’s very good to hear, Addison.” Dad’s cheeks practically glowed with pride, and I wanted to sink through the dirty floor to the support beams below.
    I plopped down in the first row and buried my head in my hands as Ms. Hawthorne and Dad continued their private conversation raving about me, despite the fact that the room was now filled with students and parents happily chomping down on brownies and appearing grateful that the teacher was distracted.
    Distracted—by my dad.

    I used to wonder what it would be like to run away. I read so much growing up that my vivid imagination could fill in the gaps without me actually having to pack a suitcase. But there were several summer nights, lying under the stars on a blanket in our driveway, that I mentally packed a bag and never came back.
    The summer I was ten, I got mad at Dad for refusing to let me pierce my ears and pitched a fit big enough to merit my mom coming back from the grave and hushing me herself. That night I pictured myself stuffing my favorite Snoopy backpack with clothes and snacks and taking the bus to my grandparents’ house in Mississippi. Then I remembered how despite Grandma’s best intentions, she always smelled like lemon furniture polish, and Grandpa’s constant cloud of cigar smoke gave me a headache. I decided waiting a few years to pierce my ears was better than that alternative, so I shook out my beach blanket and went back to my room, not even bothering to slam the door.
    The next time I remembered making escape plans was the summer I had just turned thirteen and started my period. While hormones raged, I missed my mom more than ever and decided I would take a train through the mountains to a remote location and live alone the rest of my days, just me and my novels. That particular mental suitcase held more books than clothes. Then I realized the cost of a train ticket, even one-way, had to be more than I could afford with my five-dollar-a-week allowance. Besides, I had just read
Anna Karenina
and had a temporary fear of trains.
    Tonight, after Dad went to bed humming—humming!—I brought out my trusty blanket and lay on our driveway in the dark once again, wishing I was still naive enough to think running away would actually accomplish anything other than giving me blisters.
    But even more than that, I wished it was summer again instead of thirty-nine degrees.
    I shivered inside my sweatshirt and knit hat. I should have packed on more layers, but my decision to come out here tonight had been as unpredictable as Kansas weather in autumn. I clamped my hands behind my head to cushion against the concrete drive and half mourned the loss of my imagination. When did the reality of high school crowd out my vivid eye for pretty adventures? Getting older