Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  “Which is ridiculous because it’s not like I planned on spotlighting any of the students in the show anyway. I thought on the flyers we’d just list the time, date, place—you know. The basics.” I slid the plate away from me, disappointed that the sugar rush hadn’t eliminated my negativity. Too bad Got Beans didn’t deliver mochas to school.

  “You could.” Marta pointed her spoon at me. “And not just to appease Claire. But to garner interest from the public. If they know what to expect, they might be more willing to come.”

  “But what if the entire show is a joke? You saw the tryouts.” I winced. “What am I supposed to write on the flyer? Come see the worst ventriloquist act in history? Experience the vocal delights of the world’s most arrogant cheerleader?”

  “Nein. They can’t all be that bad.” But Marta frowned as if not convinced. “We’ll think of something, don’t worry.” She waved her hand and changed the subject. “Get back to telling me what happened to you and Claire. You said you used to be close.”

  I filled her in on the last few years of our lives and all the ways Claire had changed. “Then lately she started getting snippy at me because Austin decided I’m his next conquest.” Ew. So not interested. “The more I don’t fawn all over him, the more attempts he makes to change my mind, then the more jealous Claire gets of his attention to me.” A vicious high school cycle I couldn’t wait to escape. Surely college wouldn’t be this immature. But I still had to survive senior year. Groan. “But even without Austin interfering, I knew things were changing between me and Claire. We used to have a lot in common, but now she’s only interested in appearance and guys and sex.”

  “Meaning you’re not?”

  I felt a blush staining my cheeks at Marta’s direct question. “I’m a preacher’s kid.”

  Marta frowned. “So?”

  “So, those decisions are sort of already made for me. I don’t waste a lot of time on makeup and hair, as you can tell.” I shook my head so my ponytail swished. “See? I have better things to do.”

  “Your hair is cute up. What about the guy thing? Noboyfriend?” Marta grinned. “What about that guy in the coffee shop—Wes?”

  I couldn’t exactly tell her Wes was the one making me suddenly doubt all my previous resolve about dating. I cleared my throat. “My dad doesn’t encourage dating. He knows all the issues that come with it, and my reputation is linked to his. I have to be careful.” I rattled off the answer I’d given a dozen times in the past few years and suddenly realized how textbook it sounded.

  Marta chewed her lower lip before answering. “But you are still you, Addison. You’re still your own person. Do not hide behind a label of your father’s.”

  “I’m not hiding,” I defended. “His rules make sense—most of the time. I’ve never been one of those girls to get a hundred crushes a year or freak out when a guy didn’t call. Those girls bug me.” I shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “And I’m not going to start becoming one of them now because of Wes. Besides, he’s got a lemon-drop girlfriend.”

  Marta laughed. “Lemon drop? Is that more American slang?”

  “Not exactly.” The bell rang, thankfully saving me from any more awkward revelations of my love life—or lack thereof. I quickly stood and gathered our trash on my tray. “Let’s go.”

  My cheeks still felt flushed, and I wished I could subtly fan myself without drawing attention to the blotches that crept up my neck. I dumped my tray in the return bin and walked out of the cafeteria with Marta, her previous words cycling in my head like an iPod set to SHUFFLE. Your own person. Don’t hide. Labels. You’re still you. They struck a chord with me that had never really been pressed before. As I bypassed Austin’s table and ignored the catcall he whistled my way, I wished the entire last half hour had simply never happened.

  Chapter Nine

  The only thing more pathetic than doing a group project solo on a Friday night is going to your school’s open house with your father on a Friday night. Like some sort of really screwed-up date.

  I followed Dad out of the crowded auditorium amid a sea of fellow overeager parents and sullen students, the assistant principal’s monotone welcome speech still droning in my mind.

  Dad held the heavy door leading to the south bank of classrooms open for me. “Which class is first?” He looked almost as uncomfortable as me, and I wished we could just go meet Ms. Hawthorne and then bail. She was the only one who requested to meet my dad, so why go through the agony of parading through my lineup of classrooms just like I’d done every morning for weeks already?

  I believed in education. I did not believe in parent-teacher meet-and-greets.

  “American history. Then gym.” Don’t get me started on how unfair it was to have gym within two hours of school starting each day. So far it was just a bunch of sitting around in our uniforms, but eventually we’d get to the sweaty stuff, and that would make the rest of the day interesting to say the least.

  “History it is.” Dad followed me, and not for the first time that night I thought about how the promised complimentary pops and cookies in each class were simply not worth this kind of hassle. Not to mention the awkward level of Dad having to pretend like he knew anything about my school. Good parent, sure. Involved? Not so much.

  Though in this case that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  Inside my American history classroom, the students bunched around the refreshment table, stuffing their faces with dessert, while the parents bunched around each other on the other side of the room, overdressed in their suits, ties, and business slacks. Husbands and wives stood with linked arms, while the single ones openly flirted with the other bare-ring-fingered adults. Leave it to the parents to turn an open house into an open market.

  Dad glanced down at his khakis and polo shirt then hesitated between the two groups, as if not sure where he fit in. A twinge of sympathy flittered through my stomach.

  I know, Dad. I wonder the same thing every day.

  After suffering through an hour of blah, we finally made it to my English classroom. Maybe Dad would be up for heading home after we met Ms. Hawthorne. I really didn’t see the point in him sticking around to meet eccentric Señora Martinez or listen to my calculus teacher drone on about critical numbers or integration methods.

  We stepped inside the mostly empty classroom, having beat several of the parents to the room this time, and I inhaled deeply the scent of tangy chocolate. Leave it to Ms. Hawthorne to go to the trouble of baking fresh brownies instead of buying a bulk, multicookie tray like the others. Maybe her class wouldn’t be so bad this year after all.

  “Hi, Addison.” Ms. Hawthorne smiled warmly at me. “Helpyourself to a brownie.”

  “Thanks, I think I will.” I started toward the mini–buffet table she had set up with lemonade and dessert, turning to watch from the corner of my eye as she held out her hand to Dad. “You must be Addison’s father. I’m Kathy Haw—” Her voice choked, and she stumbled over the rest of her name. “David?”

  My eyebrows went up. Wow, I hadn’t heard that name in a while, not without “preacher” in front of it. I glanced at Dad, who was turning a very deep shade of magenta as their hands lingered in each other’s polite grip.

  Dad looked down then quickly shoved his hands in his pockets. “Kathy. It’s—it’s been a long time.”

  I nearly choked on my brownie. Did Dad just stutter?

  “A very long time.” Ms. Hawthorne looked as if she wanted to say more, but she glanced at me and stopped. “How are those brownies, Addison? I debated for an hour on whether or not to put nuts on them.”

  “They’re good. I’m not a big fan of nuts,” I mumbled around my bite, still confused. What had just happened? I swallowed, my mouth mushy, and I wished I had a glass of milk instead of sour lemonade in my paper cup. “You two know each other?”

  “In high school. Decades ago.” Dad’s composure had somewhat returned now, his previous discomfort replaced with what I’d recognized over the years as his “pasto
ral smile.” The role of shepherd leading a flock, not one of flesh-and-blood man with any proof of a life lived previous to his ordination. I resented that mask, though I understood it.

  It just stank that he wore it so often with me.

  The remaining brownie turned to sawdust in my mouth, and I washed it down with a swig of lemonade. “Small world.”

  Ms. Hawthorne still looked caught off guard. Guess high school English teachers didn’t have readily accessible masksto don. “It’s good to see you again, David. What are you doing these days?”

  I turned my back to them, feigning interest in the brownie pan. I didn’t want to eavesdrop, but it wasn’t like I had anywhere to go. Besides, I wasn’t stupid. Obviously Ms. Hawthorne and Dad had dated in high school, hence the awkward factor radiating between them like UV rays from a tanning bed.

  “I’m the pastor at Crooked Hollow Church of Grace.” Dad still had his hands in his pockets, and now he was jingling his change. He was nervous, just trying to hide it. Weird. Rarely did people affect my father like that. During the course of my lifetime, he’d counseled suicidal teens, gone with police to help settle domestic disturbances, and put up with more drama from the stuck-in-the-mud blue-haired women of the church than anyone should be subjected to. Why did a blast from his high school past shake him so badly?

  “That’s right, I’ve seen your name on the sign. Lovely church.” Ms. Hawthorne smiled, relaxing back into the confident teacher I knew. She rested her weight against her desk, kicking one booted foot out from under the folds of her ankle-length skirt. Brown leather today, with ruched tops. I couldn’t help admiring them, even while crunching on a second brownie.

  “Thank you. And I suppose it’s obvious what you’re up to lately.” Dad gestured to the classroom, and Ms. Hawthorne giggled.

  Oh, this wasn’t good. I sidled back up to Dad’s side, hoping my imminent presence would curb any potential flirting before it happened. “Great brownies.” I smiled, hoping I hadn’t left chocolate in my teeth—but really, if I had, it served them right to look at it.

  Other families started to filter in, including Luke and whathad to be his parents. I returned his wave and tugged at Dad’s arm. “We better get a seat.” And get this nightmare of an evening over with. At least it appeared Claire hadn’t bothered to show up with her mom. That would be the only way the night could get worse. Oh yikes, I hadn’t even thought about the possibility of Austin showing up. Better take that back. I cast a nervous glance at the door. Surely he wouldn’t act a fool in front of my dad. But with Austin, one never knew. “Come on, Dad.”

  “Yes, please have a seat.” Ms. Hawthorne motioned us toward the front row of desks. “But I have to say first, David, I’m so proud of Addison and am truly looking forward to having her in my class this year. She’s a breath of fresh air for a new teacher trying to learn the ropes.” Ms. Hawthorne gave me a little wink.

  I fought back a snort. Like she needed any fresh air. The students listened to her better than they did Mr. Adger, who had been at Crooked Hollow since the dawn of time.

  “Addison has already jumped into organizing a fund-raiser for the school’s talent show. She’s a great influence for the other students.” Ms. Hawthorne patted my arm.

  “You’re organizing a fund-raiser?” Dad turned to me, surprise highlighting his features. “You didn’t mention that.”

  “It just sort of happened.” Better sit down, quick, before Dad had any wrong impressions of me turning into Miss School Spirit. Besides, when was I supposed to tell him about the talent show or the Let Them Read Foundation—during our occasional dinner together on the nights he didn’t stay at the church late? But I couldn’t say that to his face. Not here—probably not ever. Dad’s plate stayed full enough without extra drama from me. I forced a smile. “It’s no big deal.”

  “No big deal? Addison, you’re too modest.” Ms. Hawthorne shook her head as if she couldn’t believe my humility. “This isthe first year the school is giving proceeds from the talent show to a good cause, a cause that Addison chose and arranged on her own. That’s a big deal in my book.”

  “That’s very good to hear, Addison.” Dad’s cheeks practically glowed with pride, and I wanted to sink through the dirty floor to the support beams below.

  I plopped down in the first row and buried my head in my hands as Ms. Hawthorne and Dad continued their private conversation raving about me, despite the fact that the room was now filled with students and parents happily chomping down on brownies and appearing grateful that the teacher was distracted.

  Distracted—by my dad.

  I used to wonder what it would be like to run away. I read so much growing up that my vivid imagination could fill in the gaps without me actually having to pack a suitcase. But there were several summer nights, lying under the stars on a blanket in our driveway, that I mentally packed a bag and never came back.

  The summer I was ten, I got mad at Dad for refusing to let me pierce my ears and pitched a fit big enough to merit my mom coming back from the grave and hushing me herself. That night I pictured myself stuffing my favorite Snoopy backpack with clothes and snacks and taking the bus to my grandparents’ house in Mississippi. Then I remembered how despite Grandma’s best intentions, she always smelled like lemon furniture polish, and Grandpa’s constant cloud of cigar smoke gave me a headache. I decided waiting a few years to pierce my ears was better than that alternative, so I shook out my beach blanket and went back to my room, not even bothering to slam the door.

  The next time I remembered making escape plans was the summer I had just turned thirteen and started my period. While hormones raged, I missed my mom more than ever and decided I would take a train through the mountains to a remote location and live alone the rest of my days, just me and my novels. That particular mental suitcase held more books than clothes. Then I realized the cost of a train ticket, even one-way, had to be more than I could afford with my five-dollar-a-week allowance. Besides, I had just read Anna Karenina and had a temporary fear of trains.

  Tonight, after Dad went to bed humming—humming!—I brought out my trusty blanket and lay on our driveway in the dark once again, wishing I was still naive enough to think running away would actually accomplish anything other than giving me blisters.

  But even more than that, I wished it was summer again instead of thirty-nine degrees.

  I shivered inside my sweatshirt and knit hat. I should have packed on more layers, but my decision to come out here tonight had been as unpredictable as Kansas weather in autumn. I clamped my hands behind my head to cushion against the concrete drive and half mourned the loss of my imagination. When did the reality of high school crowd out my vivid eye for pretty adventures? Getting older sucked.

  Getting older without the buffer of a mom sucked even more.

  I was one of the lucky ones, though. I was so young when Mom died that I didn’t really remember her outside of picture prompts, so my grief wasn’t as personal as it was to others. But at the same time, the fact that I had nothing to specifically miss made me miss her even more.

  And if she were here, I wouldn’t have had to worry about my dad embarrassing me during the school’s open house.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jumped and let out a muffled shriek as a dark figure loomed over me, my heart pounding in my chest as I struggled to sit up. It took a minute for my brain to convince my adrenaline rush that an attacker probably wouldn’t have asked a casual question before pouncing.

  A familiar scent wafted my direction, and a second rush filled my senses for entirely opposite reasons. “Wes, you scared me to death.”

  “You don’t look dead.” He sat down on the other end of my blanket and drew his legs up to his chest, elbows resting on his knees.

  “Very funny.”

  “So what are you doing out here in the dark?” He kicked his booted heel against my tropical-print beach blanket. “Pretending to be at the beach?”

  “My mom died.”
>
  His smirk disappeared, and his face paled in the shadows. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

  “No, not like today.” I rubbed my fingers over the soft thread of the fabric beneath us. “I was five. But sometimes I come out here and try to remember her.”

  Wes remained silent, and his lack of sarcastic response almost made me worry.

  “You okay?”

  He peered at me from beneath the layer of shaggy hair that had fallen across his eyes. “I should be asking you that.”

  “I just told you, it’s not a fresh situation.”

  “But you’re still sitting outside in the dark. Alone.”

  “Not anymore,” I shot back.

  “Want me to leave?”

  “I don’t care.” I was such a liar. I reclined back on my elbows and tilted my face to the sky. The stars had debuted for the evening, tiny pinpricks of light against a velvet night sky. The moon was a perfect crescent, spotlighting the crisp air. I blew out my breath, watching the white cloud of air float away. What was Wes really doing here? Half of me wanted to ask if Poodle Girl was busy for the night; the other half feared the answer. I wanted Wes to want to hang out with me.

  And that scared me as much as the thought of his rejection.

  I bit my lip, keeping my profile to him, not willing to meet his gaze in the moonlight. I felt it, though, his steady stare on my face.

  “My mom’s gone, too.” The quiet admission pierced the night air, the words sharp and coated with bitterness.

  “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say and didn’t dare act on my impulse to touch his arm.

  “Your mom didn’t choose to die. Mine chose to leave.” Wes let out a half laugh, half grunt. “Trust me, you’re lucky.”

  Weird, he used the exact word I’d thought just moments earlier. I shrugged. “I don’t feel it.”

  “My mom acts as if she’s dead to me, yet she’s very much alive and very much not interested.” He hesitated, his voice deepening with emotion I hadn’t realized he possessed. “She’s somewhere farther across Kansas, last I heard.”