Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  Marta stuck close to my side in the crowd. “I’m so excited you’re going to organize this fund-raiser.” Her gentle voice lilted higher as she leaned in to be heard over the slamming of lockers around us. “This will be wonderful.”

  I stopped at my own locker and just stared, not even sure which class I had next, much less what book I needed. What had I gotten myself into? I replayed the last hour in my mind and tried to figure out what had gone so terribly wrong. Apparently I missed a step—a pretty crucial one—sometime between when Señora Martinez mentioned Marta’s idea was a good one and when I raised my hand to argue. Well, maybe not argue. More like inform. A now moot point as I was suddenly a hero—at least in Marta’s eyes. I bet the rest of the class could not care less about my volunteering—or worse yet, maybe they realized my blunder from the expression that had surely been on my face and were laughing at me.

  Marta continued as if I hadn’t totally spaced out. “I’d be happy to help you. I know this is a big task.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at her more formal manner of speech. Is that how I would sound if I ever became fluent in Spanish? Not that there was any danger of that happening soon. Yet another moot point. “I don’t even know where to start,” I finally said. Oh yes, math was next. Great. This day just kept getting better. I swapped out my books in my locker.

  Marta’s head tilted to one side as if the answer were obvious. “First, you should choose a charity or good cause to contribute the funds to and get the charity approved by the principal.”

  “You say that like it’s so simple,” I argued. “There are a zillion good causes out there. How can I narrow it down?” And if I did, how would I choose something anyone would care enough about to promote or invest in? Something relevant that would appeal not only to the students but more importantly, to their parents and families and to the community. They were the ones needing to be convinced to purchase tickets to our petty little performance in the first place. Despite what Jessica Daily thought, not everyone in the world really wanted to hear her sing.

  Suddenly even my calculus textbook looked less intimidating than the looming task I’d just taken on.

  “Easy. Just make it personal.” Marta tapped my arm, jerking me back from the abyss. “What do you care about?”

  I stared at the textbook in my hand. Not math, that was for sure. Reading, however … I looked up. “Books. I like books.” I winced. I sounded like an overeager, desperate parrot. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “I mean, I love reading. That’s important to me.”

  “Why is that?” Marta looked as if she actually cared.

  I pulled Pride and Prejudice from my purse, just long enough for her to see the cover before concealing it back in the depths of my bag. “I’m never without a novel, usually a classic.

  New fiction is good, too, but there’s just something about the way those older authors wrote that pulls you into an entirely different world when reading.”

  I was rambling now but couldn’t stop. No one had ever listened to me talk about books before. Marta was even nodding like she agreed. I went on, picking up speed. “It sucks that people don’t read as much anymore, you know? It’s like video games and technology have completely replaced a good book. And then there are the people out there who want to read but can’t because they never even learned how—” I stopped and slowly smiled. “Wait a second.”

  Marta grinned back. “Congratulations. I think you just found your good cause.”

  If I were a more guilt-driven person, I’d feel bad that Marta had helped me twice now with ideas for school-related projects and I’d done nothing for her in return. But instead I was grateful. She had definitely earned a mocha latte, on me.

  I pushed open the heavy wooden door of Got Beans, my favorite coffee shop in Crooked Hollow. It was one of the only places to get coffee in Crooked Hollow, besides Blue’s Diner, whose coffee looked like the overdue oil I once watched my dad change in his car. Starbucks it was not, but it was still pretty good as far as small-town coffee went. I inhaled the aroma of freshly ground beans, mingled with a hint of cinnamon and chocolate. Someday I’d have to convince my dad to buy something more advanced than a Mr. Coffee so I could try these concoctions at home—for cheap.

  The owner, Bert, nodded at us from behind the counter as he punched some buttons on the cash register, his apron-clad full girth touching the machine even as he stood a foot away. But hey, what’s that saying about not trusting a skinny cook?

  “Be right with you, girls.”

  “It smells so good in here.” Marta drew an appreciative breath.

  “It always does.” I stepped up to the counter. “You like mochas?” When Marta didn’t answer, I darted a glance over my shoulder at her. Her eyes were big as she took in the many menu options.

  She shrugged, still staring at the board. “I’m not sure. At home I don’t usually drink coffee.”

  My jaw hung open. “How do you survive high school without caffeine?”

  “Milk?”

  Oh boy. I turned to Bert, who waited with pen and pad in hand. “Two medium double chocolate mocha lattes, please.”

  He scribbled on the paper. “Whipped cream?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sprinkles?”

  “Bert, I’m disappointed you have to ask.”

  He laughed. “Extra sprinkles, then. Coming right up.” He turned to the complicated-looking espresso machine and went to work making the magic while I laid a few bills on the counter.

  Marta followed me to a table for two in the back of the shop, setting her bag down on the floor between the mismatched chairs. Bert probably chose the random pieces to save money, but the retro decor provided a great atmosphere. Autographed black-and-white posters of Bert’s favorite celebrities hung on the red walls, along with movie paraphernalia. A baby grand piano sat in the back corner behind us, atop a zebra-striped rug. As much as I loved this place, I couldn’t come here to study often—too loud, and I didn’t mean the music playing quietly over the speakers.

  “Please don’t think I’m a complete tourist.” Marta grinned at me as we settled into our seats. “We have coffee shops in Stuttgart—even Starbucks. My parents just raised me to drink healthy drinks.”

  “My dad tries to limit my pops, too, but hey, we all have our secret vices.” I leaned back as Bert brought our steaming mugs and set them on the table.

  Marta frowned at me. “Pops?”

  “Sodas. Coke. Whatever you want to call it. In the Midwest, we call everything pop. Dr Pepper, Diet Coke, Sprite, anything carbonated.” I breathed in the steam curling like ribbon into the air. “Confusing, isn’t it?”

  “Not as much as other American slang.” Marta winked at me over the top of her mug. “This is good.” She sounded surprised.

  “I wouldn’t lead you astray.” I sipped my coffee, my earlier stress about the talent show and fund-raiser nearly forgotten as the chocolate did its thing. “So, do you know of any literary organizations I could contact to get this talent show off the ground?”

  “Off the ground?”

  I swallowed quickly. Man, I was really going to have to pay more attention to my slang. I had no idea how often I used it. “Sorry. I meant started.”

  Marta laughed. “I was kidding that time.”

  “Nice one.”

  She tapped her fingernails against the scarred wooden tabletop. “There’s the Reading Tree, who passes out children’s literature to kids and values recycling. They’re international.”

  “That could be good.” People typically liked to donate money where children were involved. That would definitely be a good cause and one I could sincerely support. But I couldn’t help remembering what had slipped out during my verbalrant to Marta earlier, about people being so consumed with technology that they never even learned how to read. Or never were given a chance because their guardians didn’t view it as something vital for them to know. It just didn’t feel like the right choice yet.

 
I leaned forward. “What other organizations do you know about? I guess I could just go home and Google instead of making you think so hard.” I winced. Oops. Talk about contradictions. Here I was about to use the Internet to find a way to help people avoid technology. Nice.

  “Don’t worry, I love this kind of thing.” Marta scooted her mug out of the way and braced her forearms on the table. Her eyes sparkled, and I wished I could find the same passion for good causes that she possessed. Were American teenagers really that much more immune to the needs of the world than European kids? It left a bitter taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with the coffee.

  “There’s the Let Them Read Foundation, which raises funds to aid in illiteracy,” Marta continued. “They help inner-city schools and missions learn how to read all over the world. I believe the money goes toward teachers, new books, reading games and programs, things like that. They even teach foreign languages.”

  Yes! I accidentally bumped the table in my enthusiastic reaction, sending our coffee sloshing in the mugs. “That’s it! That’s perfect.” I felt excited, too, and more pathetically, I was excited about finally being excited. “I’ll start the research tonight and talk to Principal Stephens tomorrow.”

  “They have a website that should have plenty of information for you to get started and prepare your advertising methods.” Marta picked up her mug, probably to avoid any more consequences of my happy dance.

  “I’m still overwhelmed, but this is a good start.” Maybe I could really pull this off.

  The front door jingled as it opened behind me. Bert greeted the customer. “Back for more, man?”

  “You know it.”

  The familiar baritone sent electric vibes tingling down my spine, and my stomach churned my coffee like a blender on high speed. “Wes.”

  “Who?”

  I hadn’t meant to say his name out loud. Had he heard me? “Uh, just a friend.” That was a lie on so many levels. Not only were Wes and I more than friends in my mind, in reality we weren’t even up to the level of true friendship yet, much less past it. How messed up was that? I downed a gulp of my latte, the warmth clearing my muddled brain, and listened as Wes chatted with Bert, surprisingly open instead of consumed by his typical sarcasm.

  Marta watched over my shoulder. “He’s coming this way. Are you all right?”

  I coughed and sputtered as my drink went down the wrong pipe. He was coming over here? “I’m fine,” I croaked.

  Wes passed our table without a glance, heading toward the piano. Then he did a double take and stopped fast just before his booted feet planted on the zebra rug. “Addison?”

  “Hi there.” I forced a casual smile, as if I hadn’t almost died drinking a mocha in his presence. “Wes, this is my friend Marta.” It felt good to introduce them, as if I was close enough to Wes to merit passing on information. But I was too busy applauding myself on taking another drink of my coffee without incident to give it much more thought. I carefully set the mug far from my shaking hands.

  “Nice to meet you.” Marta held out her hand, leaving Wes no choice but to shake it. Nice trick; I should have tried that when we first met. I wondered how his hands felt. Rough and calloused from gripping the handlebars of that motorcycle all day—

  “I’m guessing you’re not a Texan.” Wes’s eyebrows dipped.

  “Stuttgart, Germany.” Marta wrapped her hands around her mug, and I envied her ability to actually be casual without forcing it. Though that was a good thing because otherwise that meant she was interested in Wes, too, and I couldn’t have any more competition. Speaking of competition, I wondered if Poodle Girl had mentioned our little encounter yesterday before church to Wes—

  “Welcome to America. Guess I’ll be seeing you.” Wes abruptly headed back the way he’d come, toward the door.

  Weird. He hadn’t even ordered a coffee.

  I twisted in my seat, partially curious and partially just not wanting him to leave. “Where are you going? You just got here.” I gestured over my shoulder toward the piano. “And you were about to run into the piano, as I recall.”

  “Clumsy me.” Wes’s dry tone indicated that was exactly the opposite of what he meant, and before I could censor my next thoughts, they became verbal.

  “Want to sit with us?”

  He actually hesitated, and I saw a flash of something light his eyes—respect, maybe? amusement?—before he shook his head. “Gotta run.” Then he was gone.

  I swear the boy could host his own magic show with all the speed-of-light disappearances he pulled.

  “That was odd.” Marta finished off her coffee with a long swallow while I tried to figure out exactly how much to reveal—and how much there even was to reveal. With Wes, it was hard to say.

  Even harder to admit.

  “His dad goes to my church,” I finally said. “He sort of asked me to make friends with Wes, so I thought I’d invite him to join us.” Honest, yet not vulnerable.

  “He can’t make friends on his own?” Marta asked.

  I snorted. “I’m sure he can, but Wes is a loner.” I thought of Poodle Girl and grimaced. “And the company he’s chosen so far hasn’t exactly been stellar.”

  “Ja. I see.” Marta nodded, but she looked confused. I didn’t blame her.

  When it came to Wes, I was, too.

  Chapter Seven

  Judging by the sullen looks from the faces on my left and my right, I determined I was the only person sitting in the principal’s office who wasn’t actually in trouble.

  “Addison Blakely, Principal Stephens will see you now.” The school secretary, Ms. Margie, smiled at me before shooting a don’t-even-try-it look at my pierced and gothed-out lobby companions. I sort of felt like telling them good luck as I made my way inside Principal Stephens’s office. He was a nice man, but I’ve always been on the right side of the law where he was concerned and had no desire to swap sides now.

  “Hello, Addison.” Principal Stephens gestured for me to sit in the chair across from his desk. I quickly obeyed, wondering if he realized the plant on his windowsill was near death. Looked like Ms. Margie had slacked on the job.

  “Señora Martinez told me you’d be stopping by with some ideas for the talent show this year.” The principal steepled his hands above the files crowding his desk. I briefly wondered which file was for the guy with the eyebrow ring outside. Probably the extrathick one.

  “I somehow ended up—I mean, I volunteered to help find a fund-raiser for the talent show.” I shifted in my seat. Weird that I was nervous when I wasn’t even here on negative terms.

  How did the bad kids handle that kind of pressure? At least this appointment got me out of calculus for a few minutes. “I think I found a charity everyone can jump on board with. So I hoped to get your approval and get things rolling.”

  After forcing thoughts of Wes and his mysterious coffee shop appearance from my head, Marta and I had managed to discuss the fund-raiser further and even made a to-do list to start the process—once I secured Principal Stephens’s permission. Marta’s enthusiasm was contagious, and for the first time in a while, it felt good to take charge and make a difference instead of just blending into the background. Very un–gummi bear of me.

  Principal Stephens leaned forward with interest. “Which charity is that?”

  “The Let Them Read Foundation.” I briefly explained what Marta had told me about the organization and what I had discovered via research the night before.

  “I think that’s a great idea.” Principal Stephens nodded his approval, the fluorescent lights in his office reflecting off his bald head. “I’m happy to leave this in your capable hands.”

  “You don’t want progress reports along the way?”

  “No, Addison, that’s unnecessary. You’ve proven yourself to be trustworthy and respectful at Crooked Hollow High, and I have no reason to doubt your ability to see this through.”

  High compliments, though not entirely shocking. “What about the money?”
r />   He frowned. “Are you planning on keeping it for yourself?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Wow, he really did trust me.

  “The drama teacher, Mrs. Lyons, can help you if you feel you need assistance, but I’m sure she will have her hands full with auditions and organizing the talent show.” Principal Stephens frowned as he paused to think. “How about you appoint a temporary treasurer from your class to keep you accountable and help collect the money at the door the night of the show? We can get reports from both of you afterward as to the full amount collected.”

  “Sounds good. I choose Marta.”

  Principal Stephens picked up his pen and hovered it over a sticky note. “Marta…?”

  Uh-oh. I still didn’t actually know her last name. “The foreign-exchange student from Germany. We’ve gotten to be friends, and she helped me brainstorm this fund-raiser.”

  “Wonderful. Marta from Germany it is.” Principal Stephens stuck the yellow note on top of the overflowing inbox on his desk. “Will that be all, Addison? I’m afraid I have a waiting room of not-as-trustworthy students to attend to next.”

  “Right.” Now I felt like telling Principal Stephens good luck. I let myself out and walked quickly through the miniature lobby to the glass front doors. But I heard the whispers directed at my back. They didn’t exactly say goody-goody (I’m too much of a lady to repeat what technically came out of their mouths), but that was the gist. Was that how Wes saw me, too? Was that why Poodle Girl had him and I didn’t? Why did it even matter?

  And why did being good suddenly seem so bad?

  I pushed out of the office into the deserted hallway, wishing I had the courage to skip the rest of my math class and go hide out in the library to collect my thoughts. But those guys were exactly right. I wouldn’t do something like that. A risk taker I was not.

  So I just headed to class like I was supposed to, the heavy rock of “what-if” in my stomach sinking lower with every step.

  The fact that I sat inside Got Beans again after school had nothing to do with how I hoped Wes would make another random appearance. And the fact that I sat in the darkest, farthest corner from the piano, as if spying, also had nothing to do with anything other than how I liked coffee, and there was a draft from the air vent at my typical table.