"Can we ask him questions?"
"Huh? Can we?"
The teacher knew enough not to say no. So my eighteen-year-old son was bombarded with these inquisitive missiles:
"What's your favorite color?" Blue.
"What's your favorite food?" Pizza.
"When was your first kiss?" Whaa...t? I don't know how he answered that. He didn't tell me.
One girl proudly told him that EVERYTHING he liked, she liked too. And then they all proceeded to quiz him on whether or not he knew their older brothers or sisters.
It was very amusing to hear my son tell the story of his introduction, and I responded with something like: welcome to the world of school visits. Except as an author, kids don't want to know if I know their siblings. They want to know if I know R.L. Stine or Judy Blume. Truly, if that line of questioning opens up, I can't stop it. The litany of "Do you know?" goes on and on and on while I desperately try to divert the conversation back on course.
I wonder if kids think all authors live on the same street. Or work in the same large, comfy building. Or meet each other in the park for a game of freeze tag. That would be fun.