“Sure. Whatever. See you in a bit.” She banged the door shut and left without a wave.
I rolled in my lower lip as she sauntered off. I hoped the ‘tude wasn’t because of Austin. Claire knew I wasn’t interested in him, and until she recently discovered his supposed interest in me, she had never seemed to be attracted to him either. So what was the big deal? Maybe we’d get a chance to talk during study hall while brainstorming for our project, and I could find out what was bothering her.
Claire’s bottled Coke I’d snagged from the vending machine after two dollars and fifty cents’ worth of attempts formed a cold layer of condensation on the bottom of my tote bag. Here I was breaking a rule for her—no food or drinks allowed in the library—and she was twenty-five minutes late. We only had an hour before our next class started.
If she was doing her makeup again, I’d kill her.
I tapped my fingers against the open textbook on the table, trying to focus. But frustration toward Claire overwhelmed any creative thought. She knew this project was important to me— we were partners in the class, and this was a shared effort and grade—and she couldn’t even be considerate enough of my feelings to be on time?
“I’m gonna kill her.” This time I said it out loud, and a freshman at a corner table by the fiction bookshelf shot me a nervous glance.
“Problems?” A voice, thick with accent, sounded over my shoulder, and I turned to see a pretty blond with a bob haircut smiling at me. Her table was loaded with textbooks and an English-German dictionary.
“Nothing new, unfortunately.” I hesitated. “You’re the exchange student from Germany, aren’t you?”
“Ja, Marta.” She stood and came to my table, sliding into the chair I’d saved for Claire. “I’d tell you my last name, but it wouldn’t matter. You wouldn’t be able to repeat it or spell it.” Her grin widened, revealing an even row of white teeth and lighting her pale-blue eyes.
“In that case, guten Morgen.” I smiled a greeting.
Marta’s accent thickened as she rattled off in German and, I assumed, asked if I spoke the language. Oops. I shook my head. “Sorry, I’m in my second year of Spanish. I’m Addison.” I gestured at the chair she just took. “And you’re sitting on my imaginary friend Claire, who is apparently standing me up for our study date.”
“I see.” Marta nodded, her hair swinging against her jawline. “Can I help instead?”
“It’s just a project for Mr. Black’s biology class. Claire’s my partner, and I’m clueless where to start.” Inspiration lately had been a dry well. I tried not to blame Wes, but at the moment, it seemed like everything was his fault. If he hadn’t ridden into my life a few months ago, this school year would be predictable and boring just like I’d hoped. Now here I was, all ditzy and unfocused like the girls who hung around him that I made fun of. The realization burned my stomach, and I turned my attention back to Marta, determined to focus. “We’re supposed to be making a model of the different parts of a cell, something simple enough that could be taught to elementary-aged kids.” I sighed. “But there’s a bunch of extra points awarded for creativity, so I’d hoped to do something sort of outside the box.”
“Fun. Science is my best subject.” Marta slid the book, which was open to the chart, toward her. “May I?”
“Knock yourself out.”
She tilted her head, pale eyebrows bunched in confusion.
“American slang. Sorry.” I waved my hand in an effort to brush off my embarrassment. “I meant, please continue.”
“Ja.” Marta bent over the text, and her lips pursed as she read. She looked up after a moment, and I could almost see the wheels turning in her head. “You wanted creative?”
I nodded.
“What if you made the model of your cell edible? With candy?”
“A candy cell?” Talk about my kind of assignment. There was a bag of SweeTarts in my purse right now, and I wasn’t even a fifth grader.
Marta continued. “It’d be great for children. How better to learn than with candy?”
I knew I’d liked this girl. I nodded slowly, liking the idea more and more the longer it sank in. “Wow, that’s totally perfect.” There was only one potential problem. I hesitated. “Are you taking Mr. Black’s class this semester?” I hated to use her idea if she needed it for herself—though I was sort of tempted, in this unfamiliar stage of last-minute desperation. Man, how did slackers do it?
She shook her head, and relief draped over my shoulders like a fuzzy blanket. I reveled in the warmth, and with a burst of generosity, reached into my tote and pulled out Claire’s pop. “Here. You’ve earned it.” I handed over the bottle.
Marta took it with a puzzled smile.
“It was for Claire, sort of a bribe to get her here on time. We see how well that worked.” I gestured to the drink. “Enjoy.” Might as well bribe a new friend instead, although on second thought, everything about Marta seemed genuine. It was nice not to have to try to stay one step ahead of catty Claire and her mind games. I almost felt guilty for the realization, but truth was truth.
Marta stole a glance over her shoulder for the librarian before twisting off the cap and taking a few quick sips. I bit back a smile. Looked like the language of rule breaking remained universal.
“Is Claire a friend or just a classmate?” Marta hid the closed bottle on the ground at her feet and leaned forward, as if truly interested.
I shrugged, hating that my hesitation pretty much answered for me. I tried to backpedal at the knowing look in Marta’s eyes. “We’ve grown up together, but lately things are different.” I didn’t want to spill my entire life story there on the library table, but who do you vent to about your only friend? “We’re going in opposite directions, it seems.”
“Friendships are hard,” Marta agreed. “I know. My sister and I struggled recently, and you can’t escape your family.” She snorted.
“Do you have a big family?” I uncapped my pen and scribbled some thoughts about the different candies I could use for our cell while I waited for her answer. “I’m an only child.”
“Two sisters and a brother.”
Wow. What would it be like to have so many siblings? I’d have to quiz her on that later. “So are you the first toparticipate in an exchange program?”
Marta shook her head, and her hair brushed back to reveal a beautiful pearl earring. Pearls … at school? She really was different.
“My brother did the program a few years back. He loved it and taught me a little about the American culture before I came overseas. But some things were still, shall we say, surprising.” She laughed. “I learn something new every day.”
I could only imagine. I’d heard before that the English language was the most confusing to learn out of all others, with our tendencies for slang—which I’d already proven. Looked like I’d have to watch what I said for a while—that is, if Marta stuck around long enough to become a friend.
And from the smile she offered as she rattled on about her family and home country, entertaining me as I worked on my project, it seemed like she might.
Chapter Four
Those are too sour, PK.”
I jumped at the voice that suddenly spoke over my shoulder, dropping the bag of dollar candy I held in my hand. Wes smirked behind me, and my heart lurched before I could control it.
“What do you mean?” I prided myself on keeping my voice steady, despite his effect on me, and stooped to grab the candy from the floor. Somehow I knew he wouldn’t have picked it up for me. If chivalry is dead, then it’s flat-out extinct in Crooked Hollow.
“I didn’t stutter. I meant just what I said—it’s sour.” He reached around me, snagging a discounted bag of gummi bears and my heart in one fluid motion. The subtle aroma of leather wafted around me, and I steeled my emotions against it. “You’d like this better. Nice and sweet.” He smirked before tossing the bag into the red basket on the floor at my feet.
Something about that smirk told me we weren�
�t talking about just gummi bears anymore. “What if I like sour?” I grabbed the candy and threw it back on the shelf. I didn’t, much. Actually, gummi bears were my favorite. But that wasn’t the battle I apparently fought here.
He crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged as if he couldn’t care less. And he probably didn’t. But then why was he here, discussing the pros and cons of candy in aisle three of Crooked Hollow General Grocery?
I made a show of looking behind him. “Speaking of sour, where’s your girlfriend?” I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and tried to match his nonchalant expression. How did he do that? Years of actually not caring about anything? Or had he simply perfected the mask? “She trying to calculate how much it will cost if mascara is half off?”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “I’m not her keeper.”
“Careful. You know what happened to the last guy who said that.”
A flicker of confusion replaced the humor in his expression. I started to explain my reference to Cain and Abel from the Bible but decided not to waste my breath. As surely as I knew Wes couldn’t care less about Poodle Girl, I knew he hadn’t exactly grown up in church.
“Forget it. I’m sure Poodle—”—I swallowed the rest of her secret nickname before I embarrassed myself further—”your friend will be back shortly.” If I were with Wes, I sure wouldn’t leave him alone for long. But there I went again, mixing fiction with reality.
Like an actor taking her cue, Poodle Girl sauntered up, stage left. “Did you find the powdered doughnuts, baby?”
So much for my favorite breakfast.
She wrapped her arm around Wes’s, her hot-pink fingernails neon against his black leather sleeve. She smiled, but her eyes quickly narrowed to overly mascara-ed slits as she flitted her gaze over me. I snorted at the thought that she actually considered me competition.
But as the spider led her willing prey off to find doughnuts, Wes sent me a wink over his shoulder—and for a brief moment, I wondered if maybe I was.
I slammed the door of my house then opened it and slammed it again. Immature, but Dad wasn’t home, and because of Wes and my stupid inability to think logically around him, I’d forgotten to actually pay for all the candy for my cell presentation Monday. I got halfway home before realizing I still clutched a bag of sour lemon drops in my hand that I didn’t even like—all because I was too stubborn to accept the gummi bears Wes presented and move on. Too sweet? Ha. Wes obviously hadn’t seen me PMS-y yet. I could go toe-to-toe with Poodle Girl and still come out swinging.
Too bad that Addison only existed once a month. The rest of the time I was more gummi bear than I wanted to admit. And, if I was honest, way too gummi bear for Wes. Of course he preferred sour. Poodle Girl was as lemon drop as they got.
I threw the bags of redeemed candies on the couch and glared at them. After going back to the store, paying, and apologizing for my sudden bout of kleptomania, I now had about thirty minutes to get started on the assignment before needing to cook dinner for Dad. Thank goodness Marta had shown up with her genius idea this afternoon, or I’d be staring down a big fat zero on our project Monday—well, make that my project. I was done covering for Claire. If she couldn’t even return my text messages with an explanation about where she’d been today, forget it. I’d tell Mr. Black the truth and let Claire handle the consequences on her own—for once. Let her learn that designer brands and makeup couldn’t get her out of this one.
I grabbed the index cards from my backpack, my favorite ballpoint pen, and the candy, then sat at the table and began tearing apart pieces of licorice and lemon drops like my lifedepended on it. My grade did, at least. Probably not my friendship with Claire. Who knew where that would end up going—assuming I had the guts to actually bail on her as she had me. Though in this case, I wasn’t bailing, just being honest. She stood me up—I was simply going to take credit where credit was due.
So why did the thought make me feel like a rat?
Thirty minutes passed with not nearly enough progress—my cell looked more like a cow—and while I threw together a chicken and rice casserole, I lamented the fact I’d be working on this all day Saturday. Somehow that seemed even more pitiful than doing homework on a Friday night.
I could guarantee you Poodle Girl and Wes weren’t doing homework. My stomach churned at the thought of what they might be doing instead, and I drew a deep breath. You don’t care. You don’t care. I tried to think about Luke instead and the attention he’d shown me at school, but it was like comparing the attention of Taylor Lautner with that of a nerdy third cousin. Not quite the same.
The front door opened and closed, and Dad’s heavy footsteps shrugged across the carpet as he made his way to the kitchen. “Hey, honey. What are you making?” He drew a deep breath. “Needs more salt.” He dropped his briefcase on the table and made a beeline for the stove.
“You can tell by the smell? Dad, that’s pathetic. I’d prefer you to live past fifty.” I intercepted the saltshaker from his threat against my casserole.
“Which isn’t too far away.”
“Exactly.” I appeased him by adding more pepper before sliding the casserole into the oven then had an idea. I casually shut the oven door. “You know, if you cooked three nights a week instead of two then you could decide how much—”
“Nice try.” He actually smiled, and I found myself relaxing at his lack of pinched brow.
He must have had a good day. Certainly better than mine. It was probably wise not to tell him about my near run-in with the law at the grocery store. Although really, I doubt they’d have even noticed it if I hadn’t come back. Sometimes a high moral code is more hassle than benefit. However, being a PK busted for theft is not a scandal I wanted to experience personally.
But dating the local bad boy is?
My conscience taunted me, and I slapped the oven mitt on the counter to drown it out. “Who wants brownies?” My falsetto sounded unconvincing even to my own ears as my dad enthusiastically raised his hand. I hid my burning face in the refrigerator, pretending to search for the eggs that sat on the top shelf directly in front of me.
Too bad the answers I craved weren’t as easily accessible.
Sunday morning came way too quickly, but I guess that’s what happens when one spends her entire weekend preparing a group project solo. I buttoned the top button of my purple cardigan, knowing I’d be more likely to get away with wearing my above-the-knee skirt and knee-high brown boots if my top half screamed conservatism. It was either pure genius how well I’d pegged my dad’s radar over the years—or pitiful.
The birds greeted me with a chorus as I stepped outside and locked the door behind me. Dad had given up long ago on convincing me to go to church as early as he did on Sunday mornings. I made him late—which to him meant showing up one hour before service started instead of two—enough times that I wiggled off that particular hook.
I adjusted my purse on my shoulder, heavy with Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, which was silly since I knew I wouldn’t read in church even if I could get away with it. Mrs. Vanderford, the lady who always sat in the second pew to my third, had big hair all right, but not that big. Still, I felt lonely without a book in my constant possession.
Likely yet another reason I was sixteen and without a boyfriend.
The birds’ song grew slightly more bitter than pretty as I huffed up the corner to Victoria Street, already regretting my choice of pinching footwear. The bad thing about living in a small town—okay, one of the many bad things about living in a small town—was that since everywhere I had legitimate reason to go was in walking distance, it was pointless to have my own car. Or so Dad said. Frankly, I thought he just used that as an excuse not to have to up our insurance plan, but whatever. Pipe dream not to walk the tips or soles off at least one pair of my shoes.
I turned right onto Georgiana Drive and caught movement from the corner of my eye. I did a double take. Poodle Girl—wow, I really needed to learn her name—was
getting a newspaper from the end of her driveway, dressed in a fluffy pink robe with curlers in her hair and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. She hesitated as she saw me, and I wished I had the guts to snap a picture on my cell phone. Wouldn’t Wes like to see what his Barbie-doll girlfriend looked like in real color?
She straightened, the plastic bag dangling from her hand as she inhaled on her cigarette. “What are you looking at?” The hard stare returned, replacing the previous moment of vulnerability. Her gaze dropped to the Bible in my left hand, and her eyebrow twitched.
“Nothing.” I shrugged. “Nice robe.”
“Nice boots.” She studied me so intently I couldn’t decide if she meant the reply as a genuine compliment or insult. Sincethey were clearance rack, probably the latter. I started to walk again, unwilling to engage in a verbal showdown before church. What was the point?
“He talks about you, you know.”
I stopped and slowly turned to meet her gaze, my heart pounding in my chest. “Who?” But we both knew I knew exactly who she meant.
She blew out a puff of smoke. “He says you’re cute.” She smirked, and this time I knew without a doubt it was an insult. Lemon drops versus gummi bears.
I was too sweet.
My chest heated under my sweater, and I abruptly kept walking without reply, hearing only her haughty laughter trailing in my wake. The birds’ treetop melody once again pierced the morning as I hurried up the street toward the church.
This time they sounded downright angry.
I wasn’t supposed to be that bored at church. But the beauty of it was I’d learned to hide it over the years. Everywhere else you looked, teenagers popped their gum, scribbled notes on their bulletin about where they wanted to eat lunch (actually, the deacons did that sometimes, too), and whispered as if the pulpit wasn’t ten yards away. I guess that’s why they didn’t sit by me anymore. I’d had a bunch of church friends in elementary school, then once we all became teenagers and realized there were actual consequences for our choices, I was unofficially shunned. I guess they thought I’d tattle on their gossiping during the hymns and flirting during the sermons. Ridiculous, as Dad could easily see all that for himself. Though maybe part of me wanted to join them some mornings, just for the entertainment value.
Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK Page 3