Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  Marta nodded. “What is that reference about, again?”

  “Long story. But anyway, Wes told me last night when I asked about her that he’s not into labels.” I took a fortifying sip of my mocha. “And I’m not into knockoffs.”

  She blew out her breath. “So it’s not ideal.”

  “Not at all.”

  We stared at our coffees until Marta finally looked up. “Guess we should get back to the gym and paint some posters—ones without boys’ names on them.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at that as we gathered our trash and slipped outside. Too bad it wasn’t as easy to paint over the impression Wes left on my heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Since I had “volunteered” to organize the fund-raiser for the talent show, everyone assumed I also needed to be at every rehearsal and paint party between now and then. The final list of chosen contestants had been posted earlier in the week, thankfully minus Kelly’s accordion and Tyler’s violin. I was glad to see a couple of popular names listed under hip-hop group dancers, as well as a ballet solo. Maybe this wouldn’t be such an epic fail after all.

  I don’t know who had the biggest laugh over seeing my name written as assistant director under Mrs. Lyons—me or Marta. But when I realized it wasn’t a joke, I stopped laughing.

  “It will be a good experience,” Marta consoled me as I banged my head against a bank of lockers.

  Looking up at the six-foot backdrop we were supposed to paint and my two “volunteers”—two football players playing sword fight with the only available brushes—I could pretty much assure her it wouldn’t be. “Hey, guys, can we focus?”

  They turned surprised glances my way, as if realizing I was there for the first time. I fought the urge to steal their “swords” and bean them on the head. “The black background goes on first.” That should have been common sense, but with these guys, it wasn’t worth the risk of assuming. They dutifully got to work, pausing only once to dab each other’s T-shirt sleeves with paint. That was probably as good as it would get.

  “Just keep it on the canvas, okay? No paint on the floor.”

  The cavemen grunted what I hoped was an agreement, and I made my way through the wings toward the stage, clutching the clipboard Mrs. Lyons had given me, as if it possessed magical powers that would somehow give these teenagers a sense of decorum.

  Jessica Daily struck a high note from where she practiced out of turn on the first row, totally overpowering the less obnoxious singer currently on the stage.

  While I was wishing, make that decorum and humility.

  Claire breezed past me, her arms loaded with material that I could only figure were the clothes for her fashion demonstration. What was a fashion demonstration anyway? I checked my clipboard, but it didn’t give me a description. I sighed. “Claire, wait.”

  She stopped, pivoting on four-inch heels to face me. “What do you want?” Now that the first blitz of posters had been hung around the school and the surrounding neighborhoods, she seemed less inclined to be polite. The disaster in the cafeteria a few weeks ago likely had something to do with that. One doesn’t get gravy out of a white blouse very easily—or at all.

  “I need more info on your talent.” I tapped my clipboard, grateful for the protection it put between me and Claire’s venomous gaze. “I’m helping Mrs. Lyons arrange the order of events.”

  She snorted and shifted the load in her arms. “Whatever you do, just don’t put me after that stupid ventriloquist act.”

  “No problem.” I still hadn’t figured out how he’d passed auditions in the first place, though I guess if his competition had been the accordion or the violin solos, he was golden. I made a quick note. “You’ll go after one of the group dance numbers. Does that work?”

  “Whatever.” She tossed back her hair. “I’m modeling some clothes, including a few of my own designs.”

  Claire sewed? This was a news flash. Though it was possible she just borrowed Daddy’s credit card and hired it out. “Do you need an emcee?”

  She stared blankly at me.

  “An announcer. You know, someone to talk about the clothes as you come down the runway?”

  “No way.” She frowned. “I’m going to prerecord it myself. I can’t trust something that important to some random person.”

  Of course. Because reading from note cards into a microphone was impossibly hard. “Fine.” I made another note that she would need a CD player.

  “Is that all?” She shifted her weight impatiently.

  Tension still palpitated between us. I wished I could make her believe I hadn’t bumped her tray on purpose. I hated conflict and hated burned bridges even more, but at the same time I wasn’t eager to dive back into a faux friendship again, either. Things had changed. We had changed.

  One of us for the worst.

  I let out a slow breath. “Yeah, Claire. That’s all.”

  She rushed off without another word. I stared at the list in my hands and closed my eyes against the stress headache pounding in my temples. This talent show just kept getting better and better.

  Wednesday night while my dad was in church and I was supposed to be doing homework in the kitchen, I threw on my denim jacket and snuck out (is it still sneaking out when you’re home alone and use the front door?) to grab a coffee from Got Beans. My brain felt fried from the busy week of school and talent-show preparations. I hadn’t even had time to read for fun in what felt like forever. Who knew being an assistant director meant so much work?

  The scary thing was I sort of enjoyed it.

  One thing was certain—caffeine would be the only way I’d hunch back over my English textbook tonight and finish reading that chapter. I opened the door of Got Beans, and piano music immediately washed over me, a soothing ointment to ease the lingering pain of screeching, off-key singers and bass guitars that had assaulted my eardrums this past week.

  My heart knew it was Wes before my eyes confirmed the fact. His fingers fairly danced over the keys. He sounded even better than the last time I heard him play. I took a closer look—his eyes weren’t even open! How did he do that? Here I’d been suffering through mediocrity at a so-called talent-show rehearsal when real skill lurked a few blocks away.

  “We’re closing in thirty minutes,” Bert warned from the counter, jerking me away from my intense focus on the piano. Okay, more like on Wes. But he didn’t need to know that. I snapped to attention, though my words jumbled like I’d never ordered coffee before. “Mocha? Um, big?”

  Bert snorted. “Someone’s been hitting the books.” He snatched the large cup from the towering pile and went to work making my drink. I leaned against the counter while I waited, casually looking back at Wes as I pulled a few one-dollar bills from my jeans pocket. He must not have heard the bell chime on the door when I came in or else he would’ve quit playing. Should I interrupt? Or just enjoy the music?

  The song ended as Bert handed me my steaming paper cup—the paper part being an obvious “to go” suggestion—and answered my dilemma for me. I hesitated, not sure I wanted to face Wes in front of an audience for the first time since our driveway talk nearly two weeks ago.

  Even if that audience shucked his stained apron and headed off to the storage room in the back. Oops. We were alone.

  Wes caught my eye, and my feet moved toward him before my brain could send an alternate signal. “Hey.” Wow, deep. I swear I got an A on my last vocabulary quiz.

  “Hey.” He didn’t stand but swiveled to face me on the bench. I took a chair at the table closest to the piano and tried not to think of it as “our spot.” Just because we’d been there once didn’t make it official.

  With Wes, nothing would ever be official.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while.” His dark brows lifted in silent question. He wanted to know if I’d been avoiding him. Had I?

  “Been at school at lot.” I sipped my mocha, suddenly remembering I held it. The coffee warmed me and cleared the mush crowding my brain. “I some
how got roped into helping with the end-of-semester talent show.”

  “You have talent?”

  I swatted his arm before I could wonder if contact was a wise idea. “I didn’t say I was in it. I’m behind the scenes, trust me.”

  “I gotcha.” He nodded, as if for once out of sarcasm.

  I studied him over the rim of my cup, appreciating the way his blue thermal top brightened his complexion and the pushed-up sleeves revealed the corded muscles in his forearms—and that mysterious bird tattoo. His ever-present leather jacket draped over the seat next to mine at the table, and I breathed in. The scent was probably in my imagination, but I enjoyed it anyway. Had it really been two weeks since he draped it over my shoulders in my driveway? Was that Wes the one I sat with tonight, or was this the rebel-without-a-cause Wes? I never could tell until I was too invested to run away.

  “Too bad you aren’t in our school. We could use some realtalent.” I gestured to the piano.

  “That’s what a GED will get you out of.” He ran a finger over the keys, a gentle plink breaking the silence.

  I knew GEDs were equivalent to a high school diploma now, at least as far as the job force was concerned, but I hadn’t realized he’d truly dropped out. Thought that was just another rumor. “Did you really hate school that much?” I knew doing well and actually liking school most of the time wasn’t necessarily normal, nor was my love of reading, but that didn’t mean I was the only person in my grade. Everyone else was sticking it out. Why hadn’t he?

  “Wasn’t my favorite.” He shrugged it off, as if dropping out of high school was a no-big-deal decision. Maybe to him it was.

  But somehow I doubted it. I doubted every single layer of that tough-guy act, more so now since our late-night talk than ever before. I persisted like a Labrador sniffing out a doggy biscuit. “But don’t you want to work? Get a job? Do something?”

  “And give up all this?” He waved his arms over the piano in a grand gesture. There was the sarcasm. That meant I was getting closer to the main issue.

  “I’m not buying your defense mechanisms.” I crossed my arms, realizing too late it was a defense mechanism of my own.

  Wes shut the lid over the piano keys with a snap. “Last time I checked, Dr. Phil didn’t need any help. So quit psychoanalyzing me. I get enough of that.”

  I dropped my arms and leaned forward, unable to change the subject. “Wes, you’re eighteen. You have a gift for music. Why waste that? Why not go for something? College or a career.”

  “What’s the point?” His voice rose, and he glanced over his shoulder at the front counter. Thankfully Bert hadn’t returned yet, another hint we should leave soon. But I felt glued to my chair. Wes lowered his voice slightly. “My dad is so busy trying to play like he wants me around that he’s just glad I stay out of his hair. And my mom is the one who shipped me here so she could live her own life. So why should I care about my future? No one else does.”

  “I do.” The words slipped off my tongue so fast I actually touched my mouth after. But I meant them. And he already knew that.

  Wes narrowed his eyes at me. “And you said I was a player? You’re the one playing games now.”

  “No, I’m not. And I never called you a player.” I cradled my cup with both hands, wishing there were a coffee that could both wake you up and give you the right words for conversations like these. “I just said you had a girlfriend. Or whatever Sonya is.” Shudder.

  He shook his head. “Things aren’t always black and white, Addison.”

  They were in my world. Drinking, black. Church, white. Boys with motorcycles, black. Christian music in the car, white. It was definite, simple, defined. Easy.

  Suffocating.

  “Are you with Sonya or not?” I winced. Out of all the things I could have said in that moment, that’s what I picked? I mentally poured my coffee over my head.

  “Tell me this, PK.” Wes scooted to the end of the bench and leaned forward until our knees nearly touched. His breath smelled like peppermint mocha, and his spicy aftershave wafted toward me, drawing me in and nearly consuming me. “Would it even matter if I wasn’t?”

  My heart pounded like a frontline drummer during a football game, and I knew what he was asking. But I couldn’t give an answer. Not an honest one. My mouth dried, and I stared into his eyes, wishing I could nod, say yes, anything in the affirmative. I knew my heart, knew what I wanted … but I knew my dad and his rules even better.

  My dad. Dad! I checked my watch. He’d be home any minute—and see one kitchen table full of books, minus one daughter. I grabbed my cup and stood up. “I’m so late. I’ve got to run.” Literally.

  Wes stood with me. “What’s it like to play by the rules all the time?”

  What’s it like being considered dog poo on society? I opened my mouth to shoot off that creative barb but closed it at the glint in his eyes. This wasn’t sarcastic Wes back for more. This was still-serious Wes, despite the rough-around-the-edges tone.

  “What’s it like?” I asked as I buttoned my jacket. I thought for a moment of all the things I should say, all the things that could possibly witness to him and draw him to the light side.

  Then I ditched all the shoulds and blurted out the truth instead. “Exhausting.”

  I turned and left like a good PK, my heart heavier than the boots weighing down my feet as I jogged home, trying not to slosh my coffee. My thoughts churned with each step. Black. White. Black. White.

  If that were true, then why was everything suddenly so gray?

  Chapter Twelve

  For the first time in my life, I walked into English class with a knot in my stomach. And it had nothing to do with the lukewarm corndog I’d choked down at lunch.

  I hadn’t finished my homework.

  I heard that stereotypical horror-movie sound effect (reeee! reeee!) in my head every time I thought about it during the morning. Despite my attempts to complete my discussion questions on chapter 6 during lunch, it just hadn’t been possible. Kids kept coming up to me at the table with questions about the talent show, and by the time I realized I should have gone to the library for privacy instead of the cafeteria to eat, it was too late. The bell had rung, signaling my doom.

  After racing home last night and sliding into my kitchen chair mere seconds before my dad came in through the garage, I was emotionally spent. Let’s just say concentrating became impossible. I tried to finish reading but could only see a replay of my conversation with Wes on the pages, the black letters against the white page a taunt of his earlier words. “Things aren’t always black and white.”

  I slipped into my desk chair and opened my book like every other day. Yet my palms were sweaty, and I couldn’t look Ms. Hawthorne in the eye. I wasn’t sure how to proceed. This was foreign territory. Did I tell her the truth up front? Hope she didn’t make her typical rounds collecting assignments? Lie? Beg for mercy? Play it cool?

  My corndog bobbed along in a private mosh pit in my stomach. My vision blurred. I was such a gummi bear. No doubt Wes would be snickering right now if he saw me. Never mind—Wes was too cool to snicker. He’d guffaw. No, that was worse. Smirk. That’s it. He’d smirk. Those gorgeous lips turning up into a half—

  “Addison?”

  I jumped so hard, my foot jerked across the floor, pushing me back in my seat. Unfortunately, I’d been sitting with one leg curled under me, and the momentum was enough to heave me right over the side. I landed on the floor in an ungraceful heap. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as Ms. Hawthorne stood over me, one hand pressed to her chest as if I’d scared her. “I’m so sorry, Addison! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Around us, the classroom (must have filled up while I’d been lost in my guilt-ridden daydream) of students—ahem—snickered. I closed my eyes briefly, wishing the dirty tile would swallow me whole. But we were on the second floor, and I wasn’t sure what classroom lay beneath us. Probably biology, full of dissection trays and formaldehyde. That wouldn’t be any better
.

  “It’s okay.” I wasn’t about to confess that my backside hurt. Besides, the only thing I could think of now was how grateful I was to have worn jeans and not a skirt.

  “You all right?” Luke’s deep baritone sounded over my left shoulder, and the next thing I knew, his strong grip hauled me to my feet. Ms. Hawthorne hovered over me, a handful of homework assignments tucked under one sweater-clad arm.

  Concern pinched her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Do you need the nurse?”

  Only if Nurse Gill had an erase-the-last-fifteen-minutes pill I could take. I shook out of Luke’s grasp and slipped back into my chair. “No, I’m fine.” Pride bruised. Please leave.

  And forget to ask me for my homework.

  I held my breath as Ms. Hawthorne continued to hover. “If you’re sure, Addison, then I won’t embarrass you further.” She straightened the collected assignments into a neat stack by tapping them on my desk. I bit my lower lip as she stared right at me, waiting.

  This was it. Any minute now I’d get detention or at least a frowny face on my next paper, along with a giant red D for disappointment. Earlier this week Austin had blown off the assignment yet again, and Ms. Hawthorne had sent him to the principal’s office to “realign his attitude,” as she’d put it. How would it look for me to waltz back into Principal Stephens’s office as a flunkie just weeks after I’d been the Mother Teresa of Crooked Hollow High, arranging for money to be sent to illiterate children?

  I cleared my throat, determined to handle the unfamiliar situation with grace and elegance to make up for my chair dive. “I, um. I don’t—that is, I didn’t have a chance to—” Forget it. I flopped my head on my desk and banged it twice. “I suck.”

  “Addison, are you sure you don’t need the nurse?”

  I forced myself to look up. Ms. Hawthorne lowered her previously panicked voice as understanding dawned in her eyes. “Do you not have the homework today?”

  From my peripheral, I caught Luke covering his smile with his hand. Any minute now I expected to hear a “loser” cough from somewhere in the back of the room. Or maybe a few gasps of shock. I finally managed to shake my head. “No.”