Free Home Song by Lavyrle Spencer

this young man had been taught. Clasping his hand, Tom felt an undeniable rush. If there was such a thing as father love, he felt it at that moment when he touched his son’s hand: the mindless thrust of emotion that accompanies the mere knowledge of paternity.
    The handshake was brief.
    â€œI made the team at running back.”
    â€œGood for you. I’m glad to hear it.”
    â€œThanks a lot for taking me down and introducing me to the coach. It helped a lot.”
    The two were still talking when Chelsea Gardner entered the media center, smiled, and said hi to some of the faculty.
    Mrs. Berlatsky said, “Hi, Chelsea. Thanks a lot for helping out today.”
    â€œOh, sure. No problem.”
    â€œHelp yourself to cookies and pop.”
    â€œThanks, Mrs. Berlatsky.” She eyed the refreshment table in the middle of the room and headed that way. Dressed in a short white split skirt and a hot-pink tank top, she looked as if she were heading for the tennis courts. Her skin was tan. Her makeup was simple. Her nails were unpolished. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled up high on the sides and secured with combs. Her bangs were standing at attention. She moved with the quickness and agility of a tennis player, too, taking a chilled can of orange soda and popping its top while she glanced over the crowd. She’d taken one sip when she saw her dad talking with a tall, dark, good-looking student she’d never seen before. The can lowered slowly from her lips.
    Wow , she thought, and walked toward them immediately.
    â€œHi, Dad,” she said with a big smile.
    Tom turned, suppressing his dire anxiety at his daughter’s arrival. When she’d stuck her head into their bedroom the night before and announced that she’d been recruited to be a partner here today, he could think of no logical excuse to ask her not to come. It would have been pointless anyway: he couldn’t keep her from meeting Kent Arens indefinitely.
    He dropped an arm around her shoulders and said, “Hi, honey.” But she wasn’t even looking at him. She was focused on Kent and offering him her usual bright, welcoming smile.
    â€œThis is my daughter, Chelsea. She’s a junior here. Chelsea, this is Kent Arens.”
    Chelsea briskly offered her hand.
    â€œHi.”
    â€œHi,” he said, as they shook hands.
    â€œKent is from Austin, Texas,” Tom put in.
    â€œOh, you’re the one Dad was talking about at the supper table last night.”
    â€œI am?” Kent glanced at Tom, surprised that he’d been the subject of conversation at his principal’s house.
    â€œThere’s always a lot of school talk at our supper table,” Tom replied. “You can imagine . . . with four of us here in the building.”
    â€œFour of you?”
    â€œMy wife teaches English here, too.”
    â€œOh . . . sure, that Mrs. Gardner. She’s going to be my teacher,” Kent said.
    â€œSo you’re an honors student,” Chelsea put in.
    At that moment Mrs. Berlatsky picked up a microphone and spoke into it. “Good morning, everybody! Feel free to help yourselves to cookies and pop, then take a seat so we can get started.”
    Tom said, “I’d better visit with some of the others,” then moved on.
    â€œDo you want a can of pop?” Chelsea asked Kent. “Or a cookie?”
    â€œA can of pop, maybe.”
    â€œWhat kind? I’ll get one for you.”
    â€œOh, you don’t have to do that.”
    â€œThat’s our job, to make the new students feel comfortable. I’m one of the official partners here today. What kind?” She was already heading away.
    â€œPepsi,” he called after her.
    She returned momentarily, handing him a chilled can.
    â€œThanks,” he said.
    â€œYou’re welcome. Let’s sit.”
    They sat at a library table sipping, and before they couldspeak, Mrs. Berlatsky got on the mike