© 2012 by Betsy St. Amant
Print ISBN 978-1-61626-555-7
e-Book Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-726-1
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-727-8
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover image © Artiga Photo/Masterfile
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
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Printed in the United States of America.
Dedication
To Lori—and not just for the T-shirt.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Author bio
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to all the girls who helped me remember my high school days—and kept me up to speed on all that has changed since! Mallory, Andrea, and Julianne—you girls are the best! Sarah, thanks for sharing your high school teacher expertise and cheering me on, and Georgiana, for being the world’s best crit-partner. Also thanks to my spectacular agent, Tamela Hancock Murray, for always believing in me, and my editor, Kelly McIntosh, for seeing everything in Addison that I did. As always, I couldn’t do anything without the support of my hubby—Brandon, I love you! And last but never least, thank You, Jesus, for blessing me with the opportunity to do what I love—and shine a light for You.
Chapter One
He looked good in those jeans, and he knew it.
There was no other explanation for the way Wes stood on the sidewalk across the street, one arm braced against the light post, his back to me as he chatted up a curly haired blond in a midriff-baring top. I’d always hated those shirts. It’s like, are you that proud of your belly button? Really?
I still think he only pretended to care about the poodle-ish waif who lived a few streets over. In fact, I was as sure of that as I was sure his favorite song was “Free Bird” and his favorite color was green—well, okay, I assumed that because he wears it the most often, and it does ridiculous things for his eyes. I’d almost told him before, but every time I got that close I froze and could only stare at his crooked grin that had a tendency to melt my legs like a 3 Musketeers bar in the sun. So, to avoid the risk of babbling incoherently and dishonoring my 4.0 reputation, I’d mumble some excuse to head home before I leaped into his arms like the dozens of ska—sorry, there’s no other word for it—skanks that willingly did just that. I definitely wasn’t the only one who found Wes charming.
But I was the only one who didn’t have a clue why.
He turned and caught me watching, and I quickly looked down at my book bag, wishing I hadn’t stopped to rearrange the contents before heading home from school. If I’d kept going, then I wouldn’t have seen Wes and Poodle Girl making out in front of my house, and I could have naively slipped inside the front door like any other weekday. But my English book had been digging its hard corner into my ribs for the last block, and enough was enough. I grimaced as I tugged the straps of my tote around my shoulder.
I had teased Wes once that his black leather jacket was cliché, and he replied that he needed it for his motorcycle. I didn’t even go there. Besides, if leather made him stereotypical, then what did that make me, a bookworm carrying a book bag? Whatever. I loved my books—fiction more than textbooks, of course, though I was never without a variety of both—and they needed a bag, so what was the harm? At least there wasn’t an actual picture of a worm on the front. My tote was solid beige, a blank canvas.
Sort of like my love life.
My traitorous gaze darted back to Wes. He winked before redirecting his attention to the blond. Did she notice that he’d noticed me? Did she care? My grip tightened around the strap, and I breathed a loud sigh through my nose, fighting the violent green monster that always threatened to lop off Wes’s head.
Though, really, it was my fault she was there with him and I was here, on the outside looking into the mystery of Wes Keegan. It wasn’t like Wes hadn’t shown interest when he first moved to my hometown of Crooked Hollow, Kansas, four months ago—and how well I remembered that day. I’d been walking home from the library on a breezy Saturday afternoon when a motorcycle blazed down the street beside me. I’d looked up long enough to catch dark eyes with equally dark lashes staring at me from beneath a helmet, and suddenly it was as if my entire world ceased to exist. Yeah, I know—that’s corny—but seriously, even the wind stopped whistling through the trees, and the birds hesitated midchorus like in a Disney movie. Then with a grin, he roared away, and I didn’t hear about him again until the following week, when the entire town buzzed with rumors of “the new guy.” At first, word was he rode a motorcycle and had a few tattoos—then, according to the good ol’ gossip mill’s churning power, he shoved old ladies into traffic, frightened children with his knife collection, and stole food from the homeless. The rumors got more ridiculous from there—we don’t even have homeless people in our tiny town—until I finally stopped listening.
But somehow, I couldn’t stop caring.
I’m a sucker for an underdog, and while everything about Wes—the bike, the jacket, the tattoos—screamed power and danger, I saw something else. Something that lingered in his dark eyes, something that made me think the outer layer was just that—a facade. A thin, superficial surface.
Anyone with a tattoo of a bird on his forearm couldn’t be that bad, huh?
Wes’s eyes cut over to me again, and I realized how long I’d been staring. Great. That wasn’t obvious. I headed toward my front-porch steps, cheeks flushed, but not fast enough to avoid seeing Poodle Girl take Wes’s face in her hands and initiate Kissing Session Round Two. Or was it three? I’d seen them out there several times in the last week, and the fact that the light post they preferred to stand under is stationed directly across from my house didn’t go unnoticed. Again, he did it on purpose—same with the jeans.
I just wish I could figure out why. Apparently Poodle Girl was a willing enough cohort—what could he want with me? Was one woman not enough?
Not that it mattered. With a few quick steps, I turned the knob of the renovated, two-story farmhouse I’d shared with Dad all of my sixteen years, slightly out of breath, and blamed the four powdered doughnuts I’d had for breakfast that morning. I’d made Dad whe
at toast again, and I pulled the doughnuts out (he’d probably eat half the package), so the pastries were stashed incognito between two slices of bread as I’d hurried out the door for school. I’d then spent the entire first period wondering how Wes’s lips tasted and annoyed at my active imagination.
PKs aren’t supposed to think about such things. Yeah, did I mention I’m a pastor’s kid? Sounds like it should be a confession. Hello, my name is Addison Blakely, and I’m a PK. Just like my native status of Crooked Hollow, Kansas—some things are unfortunately predetermined. (Trust me, unless you have a passion for cornfields, there’s not much to living in a small town in the heart of the Midwest.)
Maybe unfortunate isn’t the right word. It’s not like I have a problem with God or anything. He’s been there through a lot—like the death of my mother when I was five. It’s just that lately my prayers don’t seem to be getting farther than my bedroom ceiling.
And I can’t help but wonder what living outside of the fishbowl labeled “PK” would look like.
I let myself inside, grateful Dad was still at the church on this September Wednesday afternoon and wouldn’t be home until dinner. Maybe somehow I could avoid the inevitable litany of how’s-the-second-week-of-school-going type of questions I didn’t want to answer, and truly, Dad didn’t want to hear. What was I supposed to say? Going great, Dad. Had to borrow a tampon from a stranger in history class, then I not only dropped my books in the hallway but kicked them when I tried to pick them up, and yes, that happened right in front of a group ofcheerleaders who were already whispering about my book bag, and oh yeah, I was offered a hit of marijuana—all before lunch. No thanks. Dad wasn’t ready for that level of honesty. Sometimes I think in his mind my classmates and I wore ankle-length uniforms and played Maypole during recess.
I dropped my bag on the table and snagged a Coke from the fridge. Despite his own love for sugar, Dad used to allow me only one pop a day, and to him, that rule hasn’t changed even though I had my sixteenth birthday almost nine months ago. I usually saved my pop for dinner, but this tiny piece of rebellion was all I allowed myself.
A girl’s gotta have something.
Fighting the urge to look out the window to see if Wes was still outside, I turned my back to the living room and instead flipped through the cherry-print recipe box on the counter. Wednesday was my night to make dinner (along with Monday and Friday), and I knew Dad would expect something hot and covered in gravy after a long day at work before rushing back to the church for the evening prayer service. At least my attendance wasn’t required on Wednesday nights during the school year. It gave me a few hours of peace and quiet at home by myself, not to mention the rare right to the remote control.
People seem to think pastors have it easy. That they go to the office, play a few games of solitaire, field a few phone calls, work on their sermon, and head out early to catch a round of golf. Not my dad. He’s invested in his congregation—to a fault. And trust me, that list of faults is long. Half of those people don’t deserve an ounce of the patience and attention Dad devotes to them. They form committees and complain about the worship music or protest his assigned parking space in the lot that’s been in effect for twenty years. After all the hours my father puts into that church, is it really that big a deal for theparishioners to walk an extra ten feet to the front door? But no one asks my opinion.
And trust me, I have a lot of them.
Most people would be stunned to know I have the thoughts I do. That sometimes I question God. I question myself. That I long to do one wild, reckless, daring move just for the shock factor of it all. I know my mom didn’t mean to die and that my father didn’t mean to turn overprotective and old-fashioned in her absence. It was how he survived, so I played along. I’d already lost my mom…. I couldn’t lose my father, too.
Even if it does seem like actually pleasing him is a bar set higher than the one at the summer Olympics.
I plucked a card from the box and slapped it on the counter. Hamburger steaks and gravy. That would make him happy for tonight, if nothing else. I finished the rest of my pop and carefully buried the can in the wastebasket, under yesterday’s discarded mail. I turned toward the fridge then hesitated, my fingers locked around the handle as I stared through the window. Wes was still outside, leaning against the light post, but Poodle Girl was nowhere to be seen. My stomach morphed into a butterfly farm.
He was waiting for me.
I closed my eyes, imagining the different scenarios—what would happen if I went outside. What would happen if I didn’t. A shiver raced up my spine, and my eyes opened. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
Would I?
BANG.
The front door slammed. Dad was home early.
And once again, the biggest decisions in my life were made for me.
Chapter Two
He’s so into you, Addison.” Claire Pierson swabbed a french fry through a puddle of ketchup and gestured over my shoulder. “Everyone knows it.”
“And I don’t care.” I sipped from a Coke, taking way too much joy in the fact that I planned on having three that day. The cafeteria food at Crooked Hollow High was too hard to stomach without carbonated assistance.
Can you tell I’ve become a master at justification?
Claire wouldn’t give up. “Austin is hot. A senior. Captain of the varsity football team. Muscles from here to there. What else could you want?”
Hmm, let’s see. Brains. A sense of humor. General human decency. I shrugged. “He’s not my type.” Besides, who wanted to date someone who bragged about sleeping with the majority of the cheerleading squad last year? I could just see Austin checking names off a list he kept under his pillow. No thanks. Besides, I was still a little queasy at having just assisted in dissecting a frog. Attending biology before lunch should be illegal, especially when it involved animal intestines. My food rolled in my stomach. I still couldn’t believe Mr. Black had made us dive into dissection in the second week of school.
“Well, Austin sure could be my type.” Claire leaned back in her chair, tucking her blond hair behind one ear, eyes narrowing on her prey some fifteen yards ahead. She said this like she’d just decided, but something in her gaze made me think he’d been in her sights for much longer.
“Then go for it.” I stabbed my fork into my pile of cold macaroni noodles and grimaced as it stuck fast. I dropped my fork on my tray. Forget it. I couldn’t do it, not when the froggy memories lingered.
“I would, but he doesn’t seem interested yet.” Claire chewed on her lower lip, oblivious to my upset stomach. “I need to get his attention. Hey, we could double-date then switch at the end of the night.” She smirked. “You know I wouldn’t need long to convince him.”
“Did you really just suggest that?” I arched one eyebrow, a favorite trick I saved for special occasions. If you do it just right, and in the perfect moment, you can actually quiet a room.
“You’re right.” Claire rolled her eyes. “You, Ms. Prude, date? What was I thinking?” She shoved her tray away from her, her glossy pink fingernails catching the fluorescent lights in the cafeteria. Sometimes I think blood red would be a better color for her.
I counted to five before I answered—rarely do I get to ten with Claire anymore. “I’m not a prude; I’m just not easy. There’s a difference.” I bit my tongue before something sarcastic could follow that statement about her own current sense of morals. “Besides, you know my dad. He gets full approval of dates, and well—two sentences into a conversation with Austin would nix that one.” That is assuming Austin had two full sentences in his vocabulary. I watched as a fellow football player tossed a fry into Austin’s mouth from across the table and cheered as if they’d just won the state championship.
Man, I couldn’t wait for college.
“Better you than me. Seriously, Addison, I don’t see how you put up with all those rules.” Claire stood and shouldered her purse. “I’m going in.” She flounced over to the jocks’ table, where Austin
held court with his french-fry jesters, leaving me to once again ponder why I considered Claire my best—and most days, only—friend. People might not be able to help their natural good looks or spoiled backgrounds, but they were still responsible for their attitude—and lately Claire’s seemed to be getting more and more negative. But we’d made it through grade school together, so it seemed a waste to part ways now. At least I could count on Claire to always share exactly what she was thinking.
Even if I’d rather not hear it.
I played with the tab on my pop can. So what if Claire thought my dad was strict? Okay, so I thought that, too. But he did it out of love—and probably from sheer naivete of how to raise a teenager alone. That wasn’t his fault any more than it was mine. Thankfully none of the guys around town had caught my eye anyway, so it wasn’t like we fought about it.
Yet.
At this point, I just hoped Dad would be so grateful of all the headaches I spared him over the years that when I finally found the right guy, he’d like him as much as I did.
A fleeting image of Wes filled my mind, and I rolled in my bottom lip.
And then again, maybe not.
My usual desk in my honors English class was taken. That irked me. This was only the second week of school, but hey, a routine is easily created in two weeks. I thrived on my habits. But I kept my mouth shut and took a seat near the back—directly in front of Austin. I cursed my misfortune and pretended toignore him. I’d heard rumors he’d gotten into the enriched class because the general was full and his uncle, Coach Thompson, pulled some strings. It sure wasn’t because of his academic aspirations.
I set my bag under my desk and retrieved my English book and spiral notebook.
“In honor of Shakespeare Week, we’ll be picking up Romeo and Juliet at act four, scene one. There’s no better way to start a school year, in my opinion.” Ms. Hawthorne, a pretty, middle-aged woman with a penchant for leather boots, stood at the podium near her desk. She was new to Crooked Hollow this year, but I could already tell she wasn’t going to be a typical teacher. How could she be when I coveted her footwear?
Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK Page 1