Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

He slowly closed the Bible in front of him, understanding dawning in his expression. “So that’s what this is about.”

  Frustration washed over me in a wave. “No, Dad, it’s about the fact that everyone at school thinks Ms. Hawthorne is playing favorites with me because you’re dating her.” My voice rose, and I struggled to tamp it down despite the emotion once again clogging my throat. “I work hard for my grades, and the one time I don’t finish a homework assignment—the one time in my entire life—I get away with it. But not because I’m a good student, oh no. It’s because I’m suddenly the teacher’s pet.” I took my first breath in a full minute before continuing my rant. “And you know the worst part? I had to hear about it from Luke!”

  Dad bristled. “Who’s Luke? Not your boyfriend.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement. Great, now Dad wanted to get involved in my life? After years of living through silent meals, passing each other on the way to the bathroom, and helping him lint-brush his suit jacket every Sunday? I played by the rules, to a fault, and his even remotely thinking that I didn’t made me want to throw them all out the front door.

  “No, Luke is not my boyfriend.” And neither was Wes, thanks to Dad and my overly worked conscience. I gritted my teeth. “He’s just a guy in my English class, and that’s so not the point.” I swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “There’s nothing to tell, Addison.” He let out a weary sigh, and for the first time in a while I noticed how drawn his face seemed, how slumped his shoulders were. Was that gray hair on his temples new?

  “I don’t know what this Luke person told you, but I am not dating Ms. Hawthorne.” He ran his hand down the length of his face. “Yet.”

  I bolted upright, a wave of heat flushing my throat. “Yet?” No, no, no.

  “I ran into Kathy at Got Beans last weekend when I went to study my sermon notes. We started chatting, and I invited her to sit with me. We had a lovely discussion.” Dad traced the worn letters of his name on the cover of his King James. “I’d like to do it again.”

  What about Mom? But my voice refused to ask that question out loud. I pressed my lips together, trying to find the right way to speak my mind—and not cry. “If you’re ready to date, Dad, I can try to support that.” The words tasted funny in my mouth. “But why Ms. Hawthorne? Just because you knew her a long time ago doesn’t mean she’s the only woman out there. Why not someone from church?”

  Dad just shook his head, and even I saw the dangers of that scenario. Dating a church member would be like someone dating their boss or counselor. Typically not a good idea.

  “It’s not like I’m suddenly flinging myself on the dating train, Addison.” Dad scooted his books aside so he could brace his arms on the table. He held my gaze steady with his. “I don’t want to date just anyone. Kathy and I …” He looked down then back at me. “When you came home from school several weeks ago and told me your English teacher was Kathy Hawthorne, I wasn’t sure if it was the same woman I knew before. I went to your open house hoping it was, and also hoping it wasn’t.”

  I frowned. “Dad, that doesn’t make sense.”

  He exhaled loudly. “Kathy and I dated in high school. You might say we were high school sweethearts.”

  My stomach dropped. Oh. That made sense.

  And made my life a whole lot more complicated.

  “We considered getting engaged after graduation, but our parents discouraged it. We were so young.” Dad slowly shook his head, his eyes lost in the past as he stared somewhere over my shoulder. “We went to different colleges, and I met your mother, and well, you know the rest.” He lifted one weary shoulder in a half shrug. “I never thought Kathy would end up back in Crooked Hollow.”

  As my teacher. I wanted to tattoo that on his forehead, but I had the distinct impression it honestly didn’t matter. Dad might get along with the youth group at church, but he wasn’t exactly up to date on how the teenage world operated. I might as well paint a giant red target on my chest and pass out arrows.

  “Is this all right with you?”

  I started to shake my head, started to say, Of course it’s not—are you crazy? But as I watched my Dad’s hopeful expression and the way he held his breath at my answer, I knew anything other than yes would be the most selfish thing I’d ever done.

  So once again, I folded my hands in my lap, pasted on a smile, and did what every self-surviving PK learned to do from day one.

  Lie.

  “I heard you needed an artist, little lady.”

  I looked up from my clipboard of assignments as Luke swaggered across the production room toward me. He had paintbrushes tucked into the waistband of his jeans, his voice dramatically deep. “Just point me to the nearest watering hole, and I’ll get these here brushes ready.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “That is, unless you’d like to come riding with me.” He shot me an exaggerated, corny wink.

  Shaking my head, I laughed. If Luke knew how many times I’d thought of him lately as my hero, he’d swagger for real. The past almost two weeks had flown by, what with my being so busy with talent-show prep and pretending I didn’t care that Wes had left me on the street corner in my pj’s. Not to mention the tiny task of adapting to the thought of my dad dating. Ugh.

  I shook off the image. “Unless you have a stick horse tucked away in the wings, cowboy, fat chance.” I gently pushed him toward the giant backdrop. Unfortunately, Mrs. Lyons hadn’t been exaggerating when she said it needed to be salvaged. “See those blobs at the top?”

  Luke squinted up at the backdrop, his performance over. “Sort of.”

  “Yeah, those are supposed to be stars.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “Exactly.” I sighed. “And these stick things over here are supposed to be trees, and Mrs. Lyons wanted this middle space swirled to look like fog. You know, for the theme of the show—’A Night with the Stars.’ “

  “Clever.”

  I watched his expression as he glanced back at the sorry excuses for stars the football players had painted. “Still feeling confident, cowpoke?”

  Luke scratched his head. “Um. Yes?”

  “Very funny. Now get to work. Call me when it looks like it’s supposed to.”

  “Just so you know, I charge extra for every sarcastic comment.”

  “Put it on my tab.” I swept past him toward the stage entrance, wishing I could stay and joke around. But that would mean no one would be around to call the newspaper to find out why our ad didn’t run, explain to the dance team why they couldn’t use explicit lyrics during their performance, or bring Mrs. Lyons water to take with her anxiety meds.

  I’d given up on Michael and his socks and invested in nose plugs instead.

  “Need some help?” Marta appeared before me, dropping her backpack on a chair away from the paint-splattered canvas.

  “You’re here!” I actually hugged her. Between her appointments and shopping dates with her host mom lately, I felt like I hadn’t seen her in forever.

  Luke fake-pouted across the room. “Hey, I didn’t get that same kind of greeting.”

  “Marta didn’t pretend to be a cowboy,” I shot back.

  She frowned as she pulled away from me. “Did I miss something?” Then she shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Sorry I missed the last practice. I know I told you I’d help, but my host mom is on a rampage.” She lifted her shirt an inch above her jeans. “Like my new belt?”

  It was turquoise and covered in rhinestones. I bit my lip. “I do if you do.”

  “Doch! Don’t pretend. It’s awful.” She giggled. “That’s why I didn’t tuck my blouse in.”

  “Trust me, that belt is punishment enough, so I won’t yell at you for being absent lately.” I showed her my clipboard. “Item one, two, or three?”

  She wrinkled her pert nose. “Those are my choices?”

  “Welcome to the world of drama. And need I remind you, you talked me into this.” I tilted my head to one side. “You know, you could al
ways just take over for me since you were the one so gung-ho about this fund-raiser from the beginning.”

  Marta’s lips twisted to the side. “I don’t know what ‘gung ho’ means, but I know what ‘take over’ means, so I’m just going to choose item number one.”

  “Good girl. Have fun.” I ripped the paper with the phone number she needed off the board and handed it to her. Now for the dance team.

  I found Tripp Larson and some other guys practicing some break-dancing moves in the corner while they waited for their turn onstage. I hesitated to interrupt, not wanting them to snap a bone because of me. “Hey, guys?” The music coming from the portable stereo on the floor clarified the importance of my mission. I cringed. “Tripp? Guys!”

  “Addison, the stage props are finally finished.” Mrs. Lyons rushed over to me, which was fine since the dance team hadn’t so much as even looked up yet. “Would you get some of the boys to move them to the storage closet?”

  “The two trees?” Mrs. Lyons had wanted cutout trees built and painted to stand in front of the backdrop onstage, for a “three-dimensional look,” as she’d put it. Frankly I thought the whole thing was overkill and wasn’t sure why we were using a forest in the first place, though I guess it did go nicely with the stars. “Sure, I’ll get them moved.”

  “You’re a doll.” She beamed.

  I just nodded. “No problem.” So far, according to Mrs. Lyons, I’d been an angel, a doll, a sweetie pie, and a blessing in disguise.

  Not sure why she’d added the disguise part, but oh well.

  “Oh, and someone is sick in the bathroom. Would you check on them?” She rushed off before I could morph from doll into Chucky Doll. Again? Why was the offstage bathroom the “get sick” room of choice for this school? I made my way toward the shut door and tapped twice. Claire opened it from the inside. I reeled back. Talk about déjà vu. “Let me guess. More food poisoning?”

  She shrugged, but her face waxed pale. “Think what you want.”

  I grabbed Claire’s arm and tugged her into the hallway, away from the sick smell. “I think you’re throwing up on purpose. Are you?”

  She shrugged again.

  “Claire, that’s dangerous. Why would you do that? You’re what, a size four?” I jabbed at her skinny waist. “Don’t be stupid.”

  She lifted her chin. “I need to be a size two for the show.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Claire. They’re your clothes. Just let the seams out.”

  “Like you’d ever understand.” She started to walk away, but I snagged the back of her shirt.

  “Then enlighten me, before I go tell Mrs. Lyons that it’s you who keeps getting sick in the bathroom. Trust me, if anyone has the right to throw up around here, it’s me after dealing with Michael and his stupid lucky socks.”

  Confusion pinched her bland expression. “Who?”

  “Forget it. Just tell me why you think losing weight—especially this way—matters so much.”

  Claire crossed her arms over her sparkly pink top. “It’s the fastest way I know how.”

  “Um, not eating cheese fries in the cafeteria might help, too.”

  “Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “This is easier.”

  “And gross. Not to mention dangerous.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Then believe me. What is this really about, Claire?” I clutched my clipboard in front of my chest, wishing I could use it to beat some sense into her. Crash diets were one thing, but bulimia? Crazy.

  “We’re not even friends anymore. Why do you care?”

  I softened at the hardness in her eyes. “Not being friends was your choice. But I still don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “How noble. This is your fault anyway.”

  I reared back. “How is you shoving your finger down your throat my fault, exactly?”

  “Austin.” Claire’s face twisted into a pout. “If you would have just dated him when he wanted to, he’d have moved on by now and wouldn’t be ignoring me to chase after you. But you just had to dis him. Now he’s obsessed.”

  “Dis him? What is this, a reality show?” I briefly closed my eyes. The entire school was going crazy. We didn’t need a theater department—there was plenty of drama right here offstage. “I don’t like Austin. Never have, never will. I still don’t see how that makes your eating disorder my fault.”

  “Simple. I have to work harder to get his attention now because of you.” Claire ran her hands over the front of her flat stomach.

  “Right, because puking on purpose is so very attractive.”

  “I just need to look my best on the stage that night, all right? It’s the only way I can think of to get him to finally notice me. If I think that means losing five pounds immediately, then why do you care? Just leave me alone. I’ll quit after the show.” She glared at me. “And don’t even think about telling Mrs. Lyons. She’ll have me bonding with the school counselor, and rumors about me needing counseling are the last thing I need right now.”

  “Oh, like rumors about my dad and my English teacher are on my Christmas list?”

  We stared at each other, anger sparking between us until Claire slowly wilted. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have made that worse.” She paused. “So are you going to tell on me?”

  I hesitated, her apology throwing me off guard. The show was in less than a month. Surely she couldn’t do any permanent damage to her body in that time. Besides, Mrs. Lyons didn’t need any extra headaches, and this show didn’t need any bad publicity. Not that Claire’s eating disorders would make the newspapers, but in a small town, people talked. And if word got out that something like this had come up because of a school production, the show would suffer. Funds would suffer. The Let Them Read Foundation would suffer.

  “Fine.” I sighed. “But if I catch you doing this one more time after the show is over, I’m going straight to Principal Stephens. Or your mom.” I shuddered, not sure which would be worse.

  “I promise.” Claire backed away, her eyes averted. “And, uh. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” I watched her go, a mixture of anger, frustration, and regret swirling in my stomach. Anger at her choices, frustration over her pathetic reasons, and regret over the way a lifelong friendship had turned out. Maybe sharing this secret would make things better between us.

  Or at least keep her quiet about my dad.

  Chapter Sixteen

  There was a rose in my mailbox.

  I backed up a few feet away from the box and peered cautiously inside, as if the red petals would explode on contact. I’d never gotten flowers before. Somehow I expected my first flowers to accompany a bouquet of balloons or lie in a beautiful basket of greenery—not on top of the latest copy of Seventeen magazine and the electric bill.

  I instinctively looked over my shoulder, but of course no one was there. Besides, who did I think it was from? Mrs. Kilgore and her PK spy camera? Doubtful. Speaking of spies, I decided I better handle the flower invasion privately before it became official church business.

  Careful of the thorns, I plucked the mail and the rose from the box and shut the lid like any other Wednesday afternoon. I casually flipped through the mail as I strolled up the driveway to the house, though I was really checking out the small white envelope pinned through the stem of the rose. JILLIAN’s FLOWERS & GIFTS was embossed across the paper. A store-bought rose—in a mailbox? Obviously whoever sent it was someone who wanted to do something nice but couldn’t afford a full bouquet and delivery charges.

  Someone who sounded a lot like unemployed Wes.

  My stomach cramped, and excitement bubbled in my chest before I could tamp it down. Maybe he was apologizing for riding away and leaving me on the street that Thursday night. Had it already been two weeks? I’d avoided Got Beans like I was allergic to mochas, which only served as double punishment. No Wes sightings, and no liquid caffeine. But I couldn’t handle running into him, couldn’t stand near him after all that had passed betw
een us and pretend like it was all okay, like my heart didn’t still have more cracks in it than the sidewalk in front of Screamin’ Cones.

  Once inside the house, I dropped the mail on the table and ripped open the envelope. My thoughts raced in competition with my heartbeat, and I gave myself a paper cut. I paused to suck my ring finger then shook off the irritating pain and yanked the little card free of the envelope.

  Dear Addison,

  Thought you could use a little color in your life with all the stress of the talent show lately. You’re doing a great job. Let me know if you need me to confiscate more paintbrushes from football players.

  Sincerely,

  Luke (aka Your Favorite Artist)

  The envelope fluttered slowly to the floor, and I stared down at the rose, its deep red not nearly as vibrant as it’d seemed outside. Sweet gesture, but not from the guy I wanted it to be from. I should have known, though. Wes would be more likely to send a coupon for a discounted tattoo than a single red rose. Why had I even hoped?

  I reread the message and smiled. Typical Luke. The perfect combination of sincerity and humor—with a dash of romance. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the boy read romance novels on a regular basis. Guys his age just didn’t believe in chivalry and earning a girl’s heart anymore. Instead they overdosed on hair gel and protein shakes and expected us to swoon while they flexed and talked back to teachers as if attitude equaled attractiveness. No, Luke was a rare breed for sure.

  But he still wasn’t Wes.

  I brushed my finger across the soft petals, wondering where this left my growing friendship with Luke. Ignoring his gesture and continuing on with our teasing, half-flirty way of interacting felt wrong. But confronting him and telling him I only considered him a friend felt really aggressive.

  Lifting the rose to my face, I inhaled the spicy-sweet scent. Oh, Luke. Why couldn’t it have been a white rose? Or yellow? Any color other than the in-your-face-I-like-you shade of red that practically bled hope across my kitchen table. I hated to dash his dreams with a big ol’ dose of reality.