Page 188 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
He reaches over and shakes my hand.
“Perry.”
“Good to meet you. My oldest refused to eat anything with cheese on it until he was ten. We had to get creative to feed that kid. Pizza? Tacos? Mac and cheese? He wouldn’t eat it.”
“Mayonnaise over here,” a dad says from across the table. “Or any condiments, really. No ketchup, mustard, barbecue sauce.”
“Dry foods only,” the kid sitting next to him says. He picks up a bite of plain pancake and shoves it into his mouth.
I shift and cringe at the feel of syrup still sliding around my shoe. Dry food is cleaner, at least.
The dads at the table keep talking, laughing as they compare picky-eater horror stories. I know these guys are trying to make me feel better by pointing out their kids’ weirdo tendencies, but it’s only making me feel worse. How do they even navigate all these different opinions and preferences? How do they remember? What if they have more than one kid, and they forget which one hates mayonnaise and which one hates ketchup?
Once everyone has finished eating and our plates have all been cleared away, the kids gather on the stage to sing a couple of songs they’ve been working on in their music class. While we wait for them to get situated, I’m distracted (again) by a conversation happening between two of the other dads at our table. Now that the kids are gone, their subject material has taken a significant shift.
“It’s been weeks,” one guy says. “She’s always too tired or too stressed or too overwhelmed with the kids.”
“I feel you. Then when you finally think you’ve got a minute alone, there are kids knocking on the door or waking up because they wet the bed or lost their blanket, or—”
“Hey,” Dave says, cutting off their conversation. He motions toward me. “You’re scaring the new guy.”
“New guy?”
“He’s dating the kid’s mom,” Dave says, waving his hand toward the stage where the teachers are still working to corral fifty five-year-olds onto the risers.
The loudest of the two guys raises his hands and shapes them into a megaphone around his mouth. “Get out while you still can!” he whisper-yells before laughing at himself like he’s just told the funniest joke.
The guy sitting next to him hits him on the arm. “Don’t listen to him. Single moms, am I right?”
I force a polite smile, but I honestly can’t decide which one of these guys I hate the most.
“Sure, single moms,” the first guy says. “Then they becomemarriedmoms, and you’re strapped with a kid. No privacy. No honeymoon period . . .” He shakes his head. “You’re a better man than I am, dude.”
Right now, I don’t feel like a better man. I feel like I’m in way over my head, doing things I’ve never had to do, with syrup matting my leg hairs and a stain on my probably ruined leather shoes.
The songs help.
Five-year-old voices are very sweet.
But the longer I’m in the school, the more uncomfortable I feel. I tug at my collar, a cold sweat breaking out across my neck. It’s been almost an hour. We have to be done soon, right?
The principal stands up, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. She’s going to thank us all for coming, and then I can get out of here. “Let’s give another round of applause for our kindergartners,”she says. Once the applause dies down, she pulls out a sheet of paper. “If you could all remain seated while our teachers take the students out of the cafeteria, we’ll then dismiss you to the following locations, where you can say goodbye to your sons”—she holds up a finger—“and grandsons and pick up a very special craft they’ve been working on this week before you head out. If your student is in Ms. Callahan’s class, you can find them in the media center. If your student has Mr. Joy, they’ll be in the gymnasium.” She continues down the list, but it hardly matters if I’m listening or not.
I have no idea who Jack’s teacher is.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. I can at least text Lila and ask. Except there is no cell signal inside the school. I can’t decide if it would be faster to go out into the parking lot to get a signal, or find a teacher or administratorinsidethe school who might be able to help.
Mycoldsweat feels like it’s turning into a hot one. An anxious one. An I’m-going-to-melt-out-of-my-suit-and-self-destruct one. I hold my phone up, trying again to see if I can get a signal. Maybe if I lean toward the window?
Dave leans closer. “Dude. You all right, man? You look a little green.”
“I don’t know who Jack’s teacher is,” I admit. “I don’t know where to go.”
“Honestly, you probably aren’t the only guy here who doesn’t,” Dave says. “When I was here two years ago with my middle kid, there was an admin lady by the door helping people out. I’m guessing she’ll be there again.”
I nod and take a deep breath.
“Now, a room full of moms?” Dave says with a chuckle. “You wouldn’t have this problem.”
