Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK
Page 23
A backward glance confirmed Claire was actually eating, so I sagged against the stair rail and allowed a moment of peace. Two catastrophes down. Actually, three down. I’d sent Marta on a sewing-kit emergency twenty minutes ago. Where was she? If we didn’t fix the loose strap on Jessica’s dress, she’d be singing in a gym uniform.
There were two pieces of good news I kept clinging to, despite the emergencies springing up all around me. One, Austin wasn’t in the talent show, and that was reason to celebrate right there. And secondly, regardless of how tonight ended (assuming it ever did), next week was Thanksgiving break. No school for a week, so I could soak in a hot bubble bath and reread my worn copy of Pride and Prejudice, or maybe Emma, and forget this entire performance ever existed.
My fingers trailed the edge of the heavy velvet curtain as I debated checking out the audience. No, not yet. For a moment, all was well. That could change all too quickly.
“I am back!” Marta’s breathless accent had never sounded so good.
I eagerly took the sewing kit from her outstretched hands. “You’re an angel.” I took in her disheveled appearance and winced. “Did you run all the way to the drugstore?”
She bent over, bracing her hands on her knees and wheezing. “Ja.”
“I’ll never make fun of your turquoise belt again.” I gave her a hug of thanks, nearly knocking her off balance.
“Addison!” A panicked voice filled my ears before I could even straighten. “Addison, this is awful.” Jessica’s stricken expression didn’t bring the typical wave of panic. With Jessica, we could be dealing with a broken nail.
“Relax, I have what we need to fix your dress.” I opened the sewing kit and plucked out a needle and a spool of white thread. “Just be still.”
“No, it’s not that!” She clutched the dangling strap of her dress with one hand, her red fingernails bright against the black of the gown. “My piano player backed out. She’s not coming!”
The needle fell to the stage floor. “Not coming?”
Marta stooped down and started feeling for the needle in the dim lights, her hand patting my ankle twice on accident before I had the sense to move out of her way. “So are you going to sing a cappella?”
The horrified look she gave me might have said a lot, but “no” was definitely part of the equation.
It figured. Of all the times during practice that we’d begged Jessica to confirm her pianist … I gritted my teeth. No time for lectures on responsibility. As Mrs. Lyons loved to say—over and over and over—the show must go on. I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered to the students loitering in the wings, waiting their turn. “Can anyone here read music?”
Blank stares were my only response.
A wave of frustration threatened to tug me under. I was so done. I wanted to quit. What did I care about broken dresses and starved contestants and bailing accompanists? I didn’t. But I did care about my reputation. And putting on a good performance. And raising money for a worthwhile cause.
I sucked it up. “I’ll figure something out. You’re not up yet, right?” I searched for my clipboard, which I must have left backstage when I grabbed the refreshments for Claire.
Jessica shook her head, chandelier earrings swaying. “I’m the last of the night.”
“Found it!” Marta popped up, holding the needle between two fingers.
“Great.” I handed her the kit. “Good luck.” She and Jessica both stared warily at the needle while I made a hasty exit. Claire was now standing where I’d left her instead of sitting, and she offered me a shaky smile as I passed. I hesitated, though I truly didn’t have time. “Feeling better?”
“I think so.” She rubbed her too-skinny stomach with one hand and held the empty package of crackers in the other. A granola bar wrapper lay at her feet.
“Good enough to perform?”
She nodded, her perfectly curled hair swishing around her face. “Addison, listen. I really didn’t deserve—”
“Don’t worry about it. Just get out there and shine, and eat a Big Mac on the way home, okay?” I smiled back, wondering if this particular truce would stick. Knowing Claire, probably not. But at least my conscience would be clear.
Tripp’s dance number wrapped up to a roar of applause, and my pulse thundered almost as loudly. That amount of noise couldn’t have come from the group I’d imagined had gathered.
Despite the emergency pressing me forward, I grabbed the curtain, took a deep breath, and pulled it aside just enough to peek out.
At a packed auditorium.
I jerked the curtain closed, eyes wide, staring at the burgundy fabric in front of my face, not daring to believe the truth. How in the world? … No way had that crowd shown up from word of mouth and the amateur posters we’d hung around town. Had Debra somehow managed to advertise for us without my participation?
I risked another glance, just to be sure. The panel of judges (Principal Stephens and two unbiased school board members) sat front and center at a separate table near the orchestra pit, pens posed over thick notepads. Mrs. Lyons claimed the aisle seat on the first row nearest to them, having told me she wanted to sit and enjoy the performance after having “worked” so hard.
My gaze flitted over the audience, disbelief still blurring my vision. My dad and Ms. Hawthorne sat in the second row. At least they weren’t holding hands. Luke sat behind them with some kids I recognized from our English class. And Bert and his wife took up the last two seats on the fourth row. It looked like not only had families shown up, but most of the town. There were several faces I’d never ever seen before.
The sea of faces farther away faded under the shadows of the dim houselights, yet one slouched position in the last row seemed familiar. I squinted, straining to make out features. Then the back auditorium door opened, allowing a sliver of light to temporarily highlight the person’s face.
I stared then blinked twice, certain I was imagining things. I stumbled backward as the curtain swished shut.
Wes.
My palms grew slick, and I clutched the velvet fabric like a life jacket as the stage threatened to dip under my feet. What was he doing here? He probably didn’t know anyone in the show, and even if he did, the Wes I knew wouldn’t be caught dead at such a performance. No one that snuck into a coffee shop at the slow times of day to secretly play the piano would—
My breath hitched.
Piano.
The surprise on Wes’s face as I snuck down the main aisle of the auditorium, grabbed his arm, and hauled him to the empty foyer turned to amusement as I voiced my request.
He crossed his arms over his leather jacket. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
My voice pitched like a preteen boy, and I held my arms out to the side, Jessica’s sheet music clenched in one hand. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
He studied me a moment from head to toe, the amusement fading from his chocolate-brown eyes. “No. You look beautiful.”
His quiet words stole my next line, and I inhaled sharply, suddenly wishing I’d gone for the updo Marta had suggested—then immediately hating how much I cared what he thought. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Tell the truth?”
“Be so nice.”
Our gazes locked and held, and Wes ran the back of one finger down my cheek before letting his hand hang at his side. “It’s hard not to.”
I snorted. “You never used to have trouble.”
He shrugged a little. “That was before I realized what an idiot I was.”
“Hard to argue with that.” We stared at each other. Did my eyes reflect the myriad of thoughts flickering through his own gaze? Regret. Desire. Hope.
Reality.
The sudden rush of air from the heater vents above drowned out the sounds of the muffled performance from inside, and I looked away. “We can’t have this conversation right now.”
“Then when?” Wes took a step toward me, and I automatically inched away in an all-too-familiar dance.
Wes tilted his head, looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t interpret. Mystery Man, at his finest—and most annoying. He finally spoke. “I don’t even know Jessica.”
“You know me.” I lowered my voice, wishing I didn’t need him, wishing I didn’t have to beg. “This show is important.”
“Why?” Wes scoffed. “It’s a bunch of high schoolers, showing off what they think is talent. And trust me, most of it isn’t.”
“Then why are you here?” I turned his question around, watched a tinge of red crawl up the hint of dark stubble on his cheeks.
I didn’t wait for his answer, mostly because I knew he wouldn’t have one he’d be willing to share. “I know why you’re here, and it’s the same reason you’re going to march yourself backstage to that piano bench and play for Jessica.”
“I don’t do high school, PK.”
“You’re not entering the competition. No one will even be looking at you. The piano is in the back corner of the stage. Trust me, Jessica will make sure all eyes are on her.” Judging by her nearly backless gown, Wes’s eyes probably would be, too. But I wouldn’t think about that. It didn’t matter.
Couldn’t.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.” Wes ran his hand over his hair, ruffling the dark strands.
I reached up without thinking and brushed it out of his eyes, my bare arms breaking out into a series of goose bumps on contact. “I think I do.”
“Trust me.” He caught my wrist, holding it with a firm grasp. “You don’t.”
Tugging free, I shook my head. “I can’t fail at this, Wes.” I lowered my voice, waiting until a late audience member slipped past us and disappeared through the double doors. Another round of applause washed through the foyer before the doors eased shut. There wasn’t time to waste. Jessica would be up soon, and Wes hadn’t even glimpsed the sheet music I still held.
“I hate to admit it, but Jessica is the most talented performer of the night—even if she does know it. Without her finale, this show is beyond amateur. Any donations we get will be pity money, and I’ll be embarrassed to report back to the Let Them Read Foundation.” Embarrassed wouldn’t even come close. I’d already shown Debra my shocking level of irresponsibility with deadlines. Handing her fifty dollars in donations would be the arsenic icing on the cupcake of my reputation.
Wes frowned. “If Jessica is so great, why does she even need music?”
“She’s terrified to do it a cappella. Who knows, maybe the queen of divas actually has a weak spot.” I shrugged. “I don’t have time to psychoanalyze the girl. I just need a piano player.” I hesitated. “A good piano player.”
“I’m not that good.” He looked away, toward the doors leading to the parking lot.
My heart clenched. I was losing him. This was partly his fault in the first place—if he hadn’t dragged me out to the middle of nowhere for a scandalous picnic, I wouldn’t have forgotten to send the advertising e-mail in the first place. Who did he think he was?
The lid of my temper clanged in warning then shot off the pot before I could catch it. “Okay, Wes! I know you’ve done a lot for me already, and I appreciate it—those stupid trees look amazing. But can’t you put aside your ego for one night and bail me out when it really matters? Do you really think anyone here cares that you can play an instrument?” My voice shook with anger. “Being talented is not being a nerd. I know you’re all about appearances and image, but are you going to be that superficial?”
I held his gaze, refusing to look away and make his rejection easier. I hated when women used tears to get their way, but the ones building in my eyes weren’t conjured. They were real.
And that just made me even madder.
“You really don’t understand.” Wes gestured helplessly toward the auditorium. “This isn’t image, PK. I haven’t—”
“Whatever. No is no; I don’t have time for excuses.” I flung the sheet music at him and dodged the hand he reached toward me. “Just forget it.” I took off down the side hall as paper rained around me.
The drumbeat of all things Wes that played a nonstop beat in my head abruptly stopped, cutting off the rhythm of indecision. I’d made the right choice in backing off, even if he wasn’t involved with Sonya. He could break into a school and help me when no one knew, but the minute I needed him in public, all bets were off. I couldn’t trust someone like that. I needed someone I could depend on. Someone without excuses. Someone who loved me enough to do whatever it took. I needed the whole package.
And the leather-wrapped one outside those double doors was obviously not it.
“Jessica, your dress looks great.” I forced a smile as our local diva turned in the backstage room and flashed me a hopeful smile. “Good as new.”
She fiddled with the strap on her gown. “Is it straight?”
No. But there wasn’t time to care. I grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the stairs. “You’re up next, after Claire finishes her fashion presentation.” Thankfully my former best friend’s voice rang out strong and clear as she narrated each of her designs onstage. Still, I couldn’t imagine the pretty ice-blue gown she wore could have possibly been worth starving herself for weeks.
“Who’s going to play for me?” Jessica turned expectant eyes toward me, and behind her Marta raised her eyebrows as if wondering the same.
“Actually, I was doing some thinking.” I patted Jessica’s arm, wishing I were a better actor. My only weapon was that of flattery, and I felt a few rounds short. “You were so great during rehearsals on those afternoons that your friend couldn’t make it that I thought you should just do it a cappella.” I smiled bigger as Jessica’s brows wrinkled into a frown.
“I can’t. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You’re a rock star. Just like when you auditioned for American Idol, remember?” My stomach churned with all the gushing, but I’d officially reached the end of my fraying rope. “If you can sing without music for those judges, you can do it here.” And if she couldn’t, well, at least the student body would have an entire week off school to forget any mishaps. Lucky girl.
“What if I choke?” Jessica pressed one hand to the pearls at her neck, and I honestly didn’t know if she meant literally or figuratively.
“You won’t.” I hoped not anyway. Paramedics and stretchers rushing up the main aisle during the middle of Jessica’s song somehow wasn’t the grand finale I’d pictured. Speaking of choking … I squinted at her. “Are you chewing gum?”
She opened her mouth, revealing a hint of bubblegum pink between her teeth.
I cupped my hand under her lips. She spit it out. I handed the gum to Marta, who winced and twirled a slow circle, searching for a trash can. “Listen to me, Jessica. You can do this. Everyone is counting on you. But no pressure, okay?”
“Isn’t that an oxymoron or something?” She nibbled her lower lip. “Like jumbo shrimp?”
“Forget the shrimp.” I grabbed her shoulders and forced her to focus on me. “Okay, I lied. There’s some pressure here. A lot, actually. But honestly, there is no other choice short of scratching your name from the agenda, and I don’t think either of us wants to do that. Right?”
She nodded, sparkly earrings catching the fluorescent lights above. “I mean, no. We don’t want that.”
I shook her a little. “Good. Now go line up in the wings. They’re about to call your name.” They probably already had, but just like with Tripp, I’d told our volunteer emcee earlier in the evening to stall if needed. Hopefully we still had an audience for Jessica to perform to. The
memory of our emcee’s eager knock-knock jokes sent a rush of panic through my gut. “And hurry.”
Jessica wobbled off in her high heels, head high, shoulders back.
Dress strap dangling.
“Wait!” I grabbed the gum Marta still held, ran to Jessica, stuck the bubblegum on her dress, pressed the strap against it, and then shoved her toward the wings.
I turned back to Marta, who was pouring hand sanitizer into her palms. She looked up with a too-bright, innocent smile. “I do not sew well.”
I sank to the floor and covered my face in my hands. “We are so doomed.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I should have stayed on the backstage drama room floor in the fetal position, but some carnal instinct for conflict took over and propelled me toward the wings. Sort of like those worst-accidents videos they sometimes played on TV. You didn’t really want to watch the train smash the car or the stunt biker crash into the lake, but you couldn’t help it.
“She will be fine. She is better than she thinks.” Marta joined me on the side of the stage, her voice hushed.
I shook my head. “No, trust me, she knows how good she is. Just doesn’t seem to realize her voice can be the same with or without music.”
“I will pray.” Marta took her commitment seriously and closed her eyes right there beside me. I felt inclined to join her, but at this point, a flat-out miracle seemed more necessary and just as out of reach.
Jessica took the stage, and the applause from the audience slowly faded as they waited for her to begin. She cast a nervous look toward me, and I gave her a quick thumbs-up sign. I did pray then, begging God not to let her dress fall apart onstage.
She offered a weak smile, shot a glance toward the empty piano that sat to the left of the stage, then turned toward the audience. I winced, wishing I had remembered to tell the prop guys to forget wheeling the piano onstage for the last number. That empty bench would probably just make her more nervous.
Microphone raised, Jessica opened her mouth and shakily sang the first few words of her song.