Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK by Betsy St. Amant Read Free Book Online

dad’s hand on a daughter well done? Thank him for raising me better than the herd of buffoons who didn’t care about their future or college?
    I forced a smile in return, suddenly realizing I’d been staring at her in silence. “I think my dad will be here.” I actually hadn’t even planned on telling him, but I supposed now I didn’t have much choice.
    “Wonderful.” Ms. Hawthorne stood up, effectively dismissing me. “I look forward to meeting him.”
    Grateful she didn’t ask me about my mom, I just nodded and slipped out the door.

    I eased into the second row of desks in my Spanish II class, surprised to see Marta occupying the seat on the aisle. Finally, a chance to thank her in person since our impromptu meeting at the library last Friday.
    “Tausend Dank.”
I slid into the desk beside her and grinned at her delighted expression. Her face lit up like the church congregation’s did at the close of a budget meeting.
    “Bitte!
You’re welcome. And you’ve been practicing.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Dare I ask if you’ve learned more?”
    “It was the least I could do to say thanks, after you helped me in the library. Your idea was great. I think my project will get an A.” I set my backpack at my feet. “I’m so relieved.”
    “Did your friend find you? Claire, was it?” Marta leaned forward in her desk, blue eyes attentive.
    I shook my head. “That’s a long, bad story.”
    “I’m so sorry.” She looked as if she actually meant it,despite barely knowing me.
    “No biggie.” I shrugged. “Hey, I don’t remember seeing you in this class before.” Not that I’d been paying much attention to anything other than my pathetic attempts at learning a new language I hadn’t practiced all summer. Foreign languages didn’t come easily to me. In fact, I refused to admit how long it took me to get the pronunciation right for that German thank-you.
    “I usually sit in the back. But I did miss the first few classes because of meetings with the principal and different teachers. Apparently exchange students are more of a headache on paperwork than plain ol’ Americans.” Marta rolled her eyes but smiled as if she were getting used to the drama.
    “So this will be your third language?”
    “Fourth.” Marta ticked off the names on her fingers. “German, English, Spanish, and French. I’m not fluent in French yet, but I know enough to get by.”
    “That’s impressive.” She must’ve been crazy smart—and patient. I had the brains and the discipline to become fluent, I knew I did, but I tended to get distracted by other interests. Hard to want to learn a new language when there were plenty of classic books waiting to be read in English first.
    “What can I say? I like to be well versed.” She grinned. “Besides, it gives me an excuse to beg my father to send me to a Spanish-speaking country next.”
    Nice. I opened my mouth to reply, but Señora Martinez stepped in front of her desk at the front of the room and called the class to order.
“Atención
, atención.” She clapped her hands, a significant feat seeing how she wore a giant ring on almost every one of her fingers. Her bangle bracelets jangled as she held up a colored flyer—the same one that had been on Claire’s locker last week. “The annual school talent show will be held the week before Thanksgiving break. It’s time to start signing up.”
    Half the class groaned while the other half cheered. I just stayed silent and sighed inwardly. Nothing personal, but talent shows were for girls like Jessica Daily, who’d already auditioned for
American Idol
, or for guys like Tripp Larson, who could dance better than even a video-edited Usher. If I sang, it was in the shower, and even then I worried about offending my bar of soap—and dancing, well … if I had trouble just walking in a straight line sometimes, it should be obvious that rhythm wasn’t my strong suit.
    Marta raised her hand, but Jessica slipped her