Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  Don’t get me wrong, my dad wasn’t a bad preacher. He was good, as far as that went. He had the composition down right, the presentation. But lately he lacked passion. I tried to pinpoint a point in time, tried to figure out exactly when his zeal had dissipated, but I couldn’t be sure.

  I couldn’t even be sure I’d ever felt it for myself in the first place.

  Across the aisle, tall, dark-haired Mr. Keegan shifted positions, tugging his almost-too-short pant leg down over his black dress socks and nearly knocking his Bible from his lap. I quickly looked away before he caught me staring. Mr. Keegan had been in the congregation for at least five years, yet I’d never spoken more than two words to him until I met Wes and realized they were father and son. Actually, we spoke the same two words, followed by a polite nod. Good morning. That’s about it. It was sort of awkward looking him in the eye, knowing how I felt about his son.

  And knowing what would happen if anyone else knew.

  I tuned back in as Dad wrapped up his extended sermon on David, running for his life from his numerous enemies. Once a king in a palace, now hiding away in a cave in the wilderness. Funny how things change.

  In front of me, Mrs. Vanderford shifted positions, temporarily blocking my view of Dad with her big, dark hair.

  And funny how they don’t.

  The organ played a closing chorus to the invitation down the aisle, and I gathered my Bible and purse, eager to beat the crowd out the front doors and get home. This time I’d take the longer route a block over to avoid Poodle Girl’s house. Not that she’d likely be in the driveway again—I didn’t exactly peg her for the outdoorsy type—but I wasn’t ready for round two. Not while still reeling from round one. I still couldn’t figure out why her words had affected me so badly. Was she lying about Wes talking about me? Playing the exchange back over in my mind, I could almost detect a hint of jealousy in her voice. Or was that just wishful thinking?

  In my distraction, I nearly mowed over a man making his way down the aisle in front of me. “Whoops, sorry.” I patted the person’s shoulder in apology before realizing it was Mr. Keegan.

  He smiled down at me. “No problem.”

  I averted my gaze, certain my feelings were welling in my eyes. Could he tell I’d just been daydreaming about his son? Would he care?

  Heaven knew my father would.

  “Excuse me.” I tried to ease around him, but Mr. Keegan stepped to the side, motioning me to join him.

  “I’m glad I saw you. I need to ask you a question.” Mr. Keegan hesitated, his deep-brown eyes, so like Wes’s, troubled. “I’m a little worried about how my son is fitting in here at Crooked Hollow. Have you met Wes?”

  I tried to swallow the knot tightening my throat, to no avail. I coughed, eyes watering. Great, I was going to die in the third pew of my church in front of Wes’s father. I coughed again and finally managed a nod. “Once or twice.” Little did he know I could give him a mental transcript of every word Wes and I had spoken together.

  “Good.” Mr. Keegan rocked back on his heels. “You grew up in Crooked Hollow. Maybe you could show him around.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice, his breath so minty fresh I wondered if he’d downed an entire pack of Altoids. “Help him find some good friends.” His emphasis on the word good made me wonder if he’d seen Wes with Poodle Girl as well. If so, no wonder he looked so tired. She wasn’t exactly the type of girl to bring home to the parents.

  I hesitated, not sure exactly what I was agreeing to. “You want me to be your son’s tour guide?”

  “Unofficially. Just make friends with him.” He smiled. “You seem like a nice girl. Good influence.”

  My heart sank, but I forced a smile in return and agreed to give it a try. After all, isn’t that what good ol’ gummi bears do?

  Chapter Five

  I can’t believe you sold me out in Mr. Black’s class.” Claire slammed my locker shut, barely missing my hand as I yanked it out of the way.

  I met her venomous stare full-on. Usually I hated conflict—especially on a Monday morning—but Claire had pushed one button too many. “If anyone should be upset, it’s me. You never showed up at the library Friday and ignored my six hundred texts all weekend.”

  Claire flipped her hair and averted her gaze as a group of students shuffled past us. “I had things going on.”

  “Well, I did, too.” I spun the combination and tugged my locker back open, my indignation heating into a boil. “Like getting a decent grade on a joint project that I had to do alone.”

  “I got an incomplete! That’s worse than an F.”

  Seriously? I was so sick of this. All Claire could think of was herself. Typical. I shook my head as I switched out my books. “I believe that’s your own fault.”

  “You’ve always covered for me before. What gives?” Claire hitched her Coach bag higher on her shoulder, and I wished I had the guts to grab it from her and throw it into my locker. Her expression would be priceless. But that wouldn’t be very PK of me.

  Though today it was hard to care.

  “I’m just tired of being the fallback plan, okay?” I grabbed my English text and slammed my locker closed, even harder than she had. “You took advantage of me. If it hadn’t been for Marta, I’d have been sunk. You know my grades are important to me.”

  Claire frowned. “Who the heck is Marta?”

  “A foreign-exchange student from Germany who saved my behind helping me think of the edible cell idea for our project. Since you ditched me.” I crossed my arms, hugging my textbook against my flushed chest.

  “Weird.”

  “Not weird—nice. Considerate. Helpful. All of those things that you aren’t exactly being anymore.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Claire planted one hand on her jean-clad hips, disbelief shading her overly made-up eyes.

  “I’m saying that’s it. Either you’re going to be my friend and act like a friend, or I’m done.” I couldn’t believe I’d actually said it. Yesterday’s exchange with Poodle Girl and my own emotional and mental roller coaster over Wes had put me over the edge. I was tired of being perpetually sweet. There was a fine line between being good and being a doormat. And I think I crossed that line with Claire years ago.

  Claire’s eyebrow twitched. “You don’t want me for an enemy, Addison Blakely.”

  She was right. But I was too upset to care. “See you around.” I brushed past her, accidentally bumping my shoulder against hers.

  Or maybe not so accidentally.

  For once I could honestly say I wasn’t in the mood for Shakespeare. But in English class, we were reading various scenes from Hamlet, having thankfully finished Romeo and Juliet before Austin got any more twisted ideas about love. In his case love was a four-letter word—one that more accurately spelled L-U-S-T.

  “You okay?” Luke whispered across the aisle.

  I gave him a quick nod before pointing at my textbook and holding my finger in front of my mouth. Ms. Hawthorne might have been forgiving once, but I wasn’t one to test a teacher’s limits. I’d had about as much conflict today as I could handle. The memory of Claire’s shock still rang in my head, and I couldn’t help but smile. She’d always tried to get me to be more aggressive. Guess she just didn’t mean toward her.

  “You seem sort of dazed.” Luke obviously didn’t get my hint. Apparently one verbal save from an overly testosteroned football player, and Luke now considered himself my best buddy. I guess there were worse things in life, though—he seemed nice enough. Besides, my list of friends seemed to be shrinking drastically.

  “Just had some drama with a friend before class. You know how high schoolers can be.”

  He snorted back a laugh, and Ms. Hawthorne looked up from her desk. Luke quickly turned the chuckle into a cough, and Austin “helped” by jumping up and pounding him on the back—with much more force than necessary. They exchanged hard glances, and for a minute I wondered if this incident would turn into a full-blown fight.

  Ms. H
awthorne stood behind her desk. “Everything all right back there, boys?”

  I couldn’t help but smile at her choice of the word boys instead of guys or men. She called it as she saw it.

  They offered mumbled replies before Austin returned to his seat.

  “Austin, if someone is coughing, they aren’t choking.” Ms.

  Hawthorne leveled him with a warning gaze as if she knew exactly what he’d been doing, and then she sat back down. “Back to Hamlet, everyone. Act five.”

  I fought the urge to look over at Luke, knowing I’d laugh if I did. But Hamlet blurred on the pages before me, and I sneaked a peek at my former rescuer. He shrugged. “We’ll talk later,” he mouthed.

  Austin must have seen him speak to me because he tapped the back of my chair with his foot. Jealous dork. I couldn’t respond without risking Ms. Hawthorne’s attention again, so I ignored the thumping and went back to reading. But Hamlet wasn’t exactly a pick-me-up sort of play. Thankfully Claire wasn’t in this class with me, or I had a feeling we’d create our own act 6.

  The bell rang, and I shut my book with a grateful snap. “Addison, if you please?” Ms. Hawthorne gestured me forward to her desk. I groaned, the sound thankfully lost in the shuffle of everyone packing up their books and exiting the room. She needed to see me again? At least this time it wasn’t in front of everyone.

  I carried my textbook to the front of the room. “Yes, ma’am?” No small talk today. She was nice enough, but bonding with teachers wasn’t my thing. I wanted the good grades, but a suck-up I was not. I liked earning my way.

  My gaze dropped to the floor. Even if Ms. Hawthorne was wearing really cute black leather boots.

  “I was hoping your parents were coming to the open house next Friday evening.” She looked up at me from her seated position, her hands folded together over her grade book.

  Now what had I done? My mouth dried. “Um—”

  “You’re not in trouble, don’t worry.” Ms. Hawthorne smiled. “I’m just eager to meet them. It’s not often I get a student with your scholarly reputation in my class.”

  Sad that since I didn’t get in regular trouble and enjoyed making As, I was considered an oddity worthy of parental meeting. What’d she want to do? Shake my dad’s hand on a daughter well done? Thank him for raising me better than the herd of buffoons who didn’t care about their future or college?

  I forced a smile in return, suddenly realizing I’d been staring at her in silence. “I think my dad will be here.” I actually hadn’t even planned on telling him, but I supposed now I didn’t have much choice.

  “Wonderful.” Ms. Hawthorne stood up, effectively dismissing me. “I look forward to meeting him.”

  Grateful she didn’t ask me about my mom, I just nodded and slipped out the door.

  I eased into the second row of desks in my Spanish II class, surprised to see Marta occupying the seat on the aisle. Finally, a chance to thank her in person since our impromptu meeting at the library last Friday.

  “Tausend Dank.” I slid into the desk beside her and grinned at her delighted expression. Her face lit up like the church congregation’s did at the close of a budget meeting.

  “Bitte! You’re welcome. And you’ve been practicing.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Dare I ask if you’ve learned more?”

  “It was the least I could do to say thanks, after you helped me in the library. Your idea was great. I think my project will get an A.” I set my backpack at my feet. “I’m so relieved.”

  “Did your friend find you? Claire, was it?” Marta leaned forward in her desk, blue eyes attentive.

  I shook my head. “That’s a long, bad story.”

  “I’m so sorry.” She looked as if she actually meant it,despite barely knowing me.

  “No biggie.” I shrugged. “Hey, I don’t remember seeing you in this class before.” Not that I’d been paying much attention to anything other than my pathetic attempts at learning a new language I hadn’t practiced all summer. Foreign languages didn’t come easily to me. In fact, I refused to admit how long it took me to get the pronunciation right for that German thank-you.

  “I usually sit in the back. But I did miss the first few classes because of meetings with the principal and different teachers. Apparently exchange students are more of a headache on paperwork than plain ol’ Americans.” Marta rolled her eyes but smiled as if she were getting used to the drama.

  “So this will be your third language?”

  “Fourth.” Marta ticked off the names on her fingers. “German, English, Spanish, and French. I’m not fluent in French yet, but I know enough to get by.”

  “That’s impressive.” She must’ve been crazy smart—and patient. I had the brains and the discipline to become fluent, I knew I did, but I tended to get distracted by other interests. Hard to want to learn a new language when there were plenty of classic books waiting to be read in English first.

  “What can I say? I like to be well versed.” She grinned. “Besides, it gives me an excuse to beg my father to send me to a Spanish-speaking country next.”

  Nice. I opened my mouth to reply, but Señora Martinez stepped in front of her desk at the front of the room and called the class to order. “Atención, atención.” She clapped her hands, a significant feat seeing how she wore a giant ring on almost every one of her fingers. Her bangle bracelets jangled as she held up a colored flyer—the same one that had been on Claire’s locker last week. “The annual school talent show will be held the week before Thanksgiving break. It’s time to start signing up.”

  Half the class groaned while the other half cheered. I just stayed silent and sighed inwardly. Nothing personal, but talent shows were for girls like Jessica Daily, who’d already auditioned for American Idol, or for guys like Tripp Larson, who could dance better than even a video-edited Usher. If I sang, it was in the shower, and even then I worried about offending my bar of soap—and dancing, well … if I had trouble just walking in a straight line sometimes, it should be obvious that rhythm wasn’t my strong suit.

  Marta raised her hand, but Jessica slipped her tanned arm in the air first. At Señora Martinez’s nod, she lowered her arm. “Do we have to audition? Or does everyone who wants to perform get to perform?” I could tell she wasn’t worried about passing an audition so much as sharing the stage with those less worthy.

  “It depends on the turnout,” Señora said. She perched on the edge of her desk, her flowing blue cape settling around her legs. Did she really dress in Spanish garb 24-7, or was it just part of her role as teacher? Because honestly, I could probably learn Spanish better from someone in jeans.

  Señora tapped the flyer. “There are thirty time slots available on Wednesday. If more people show up for the audition, they’ll go ahead with tryouts. If not, those who want the slots will get them.”

  “Not a problem.” Jessica flashed her pearly teeth, and I wondered not for the first time this year how often she Crest white-stripped.

  “Marta, you had a question as well?” Señora Martinez pointed at Marta.

  She nodded. “I was curious what the proceeds from the show went toward.”

  “Proceeds?” Señora frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Proceeds from ticket sales, refreshment sales …” Marta’s voice trailed off, and she threw me a confused look. Sadly, there was no language barrier here, just plain lack of caring from the people involved.

  I leaned over and whispered, “Usually any money earned just gets thrown into the school’s general fund or the drama department. It’s always more for performance than for a good cause.” More accurately, a way for the popular to grow more popular and the ridiculed to become more ridiculed, but that was a point to share another time.

  “Doch! That’s such a waste.” Unfortunately, Marta didn’t whisper, and now the entire class was all ears. She realized the attention and stood formally to her feet. “Why not charge extra this year and find a good cause to donate funds? That’s what we do in S
tuttgart. European teenagers are much more involved with their communities and beyond than what I’ve seen here. I think we should change that.”

  Señora crossed her arms over her chest and nodded thoughtfully. “Marta, that’s a wonderful idea. I’ll bring it up to the principal and the school board at our next meeting. I don’t see why they would object.”

  Um, I could—because someone would have to be in charge of picking a good cause, researching it, adding that tidbit of information to the flyers and other means of advertising, helping promote in new ways so we’d actually bring in some decent proceeds, rallying the students to actually care enough to put on a quality performance, and keeping up with the funds raised, as well as getting the money to the charity afterward. Somehow I didn’t see any of the staff willing to go to all that trouble without personal or direct school benefit.

  I raised my arm to explain the hazards involved, although I hated to contradict Marta. It was a good idea. But there would be a lot involved that could backfire on her later.

  “Addison, excellent!” Señora clapped her hands with excitement, bangles dancing. “You’ll make a perfect leader for this. Thanks for volunteering.”

  My arm slipped back down to my lap, suddenly numb, as Marta enthusiastically patted my back.

  What just happened?

  Chapter Six

  Still lingering in my post-volunteer shock even as the bell rang an hour later, I shuffled into the hallway with the throng of fellow escaping students. Though there was no escaping this particular mess I’d made.