Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  Right. And I was leaving town tomorrow to sing backup for Justin Bieber.

  “Just call me glutton for punishment,” I muttered to my mocha. “And don’t worry, it’s not your fault you can’t cheer me up today. Some issues even chocolate can’t touch.”

  “Addison, if you don’t quit talking to your coffee, I’m not giving you double shots anymore,” Bert called from the counter, where he wiped down the display case with a rag.

  “Can’t a girl have a bad day?” I held up my mug. “Besides, where are my sprinkles?”

  “I told you I ran out yesterday.”

  “And I told you that wasn’t acceptable.”

  Bert scowled then held up his hands in surrender. “Some days I swear, kid, if you weren’t the preacher’s daughter …” His voice trailed off, and he winked to show he was joking—sort of. Not like I hadn’t heard it before. People were often scared to say their mind to me, even when joking. (Claire would be an exception.) It’s like they thought since Dad was a pastor, I had a more direct line to God than they did. Or maybe they just thought I was a tattletale.

  Trust me, neither was true.

  I wondered what God thought about this infatuation with Wes that I couldn’t seem to shake. Probably the same thing my dad would think about it—abomination. Okay, maybe that was a little extreme, but this was Crooked Hollow, and my dad was my dad, and God was, well—you know. Yet here I was camped out in a corner of a coffee shop hoping to see my piece of forbidden fruit waltz in. If I didn’t know better, I’d be keeping a weather eye out for rogue lightning bolts. But God didn’t work that way.

  Still, I was glad the sun was out.

  I went back to staring at my sprinkle-less mocha, and Bert went back to cleaning, now humming as he did so. Great, more punishment on an already-glum day.

  The bell jangled, and I looked up with as much pathetic enthusiasm as I had the last six times people came in and out. Too bad James Bond didn’t hold private lessons. I was an utter failure as a spy—might as well stamp a blinking neon arrow over my head.

  That time it was Bert’s wife, Megan, with her weekly ledger book. She waved at me (now you know I’m a regular) and headed toward the partition to the employee side of the counter.

  Someone caught the front door before it closed completely, and Wes walked inside. This time I managed to keep my head down as my heart rammed in my chest like a drummer on steroids. I followed his black-booted feet from under my lashes as he stopped near the counter, talked in low tones with Bert, and then headed once again to the piano. Don’t look up, don’t look up…. Oh, who was I kidding? I lifted my gaze and watched as he turned his back in my direction and slid onto the long piano bench. He shed his leather jacket, tossed it over the bench beside him, and then began to play.

  And I don’t mean “Chopsticks.”

  A complicated melody filled the air, and I stared, mesmerized, as his fingers danced over the keys. The muscles in his broad shoulders bunched then stretched beneath his dark-green thermal shirt as his arms moved the span of the keyboard.

  Without even fully realizing it, I stood and made my way toward him as if drawn like a magnet. Or more accurately in mycase, like a moth to a fire.

  Nothing but danger.

  I stopped a few feet away and continued to watch. He didn’t see me. I was invisible to him, yet again. The fact made me more angry than awestruck, and without thinking, I plopped sideways onto the chair closest to the piano and draped my arms over the top rung.

  “So the rebel without a cause has musical ability.”

  His hands stopped midnote, and he darted a look sideways, his dark hair falling across his forehead. “You might say that.” He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown. Neutral Wes. The only emotion he ever showed was sarcasm or teasing, and really, were those even emotions? My frustration grew. How dare he flaunt Poodle Girl in my face, on my street, act as if he was interested in me, and then run away when I tried to make an effort in return? What kind of player did he think he was?

  I wanted to insult him, but his playing had been nothing but praiseworthy. I opened my mouth then shut it.

  Wes quirked an eyebrow. “You look like a fish when you do that.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Seriously, Addison, just say what you want to say. I think I can take it.” He shifted on the bench to face me, his familiar scent of leather and aftershave washing over me like a tidal wave of attraction. I instinctively leaned away.

  “I was going to say you play really … well.”

  He smirked. “Way to tell me off, PK.”

  “That’s why I hesitated. I didn’t want to give you a compliment.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why?” I met his steady stare and held it until I had to look away or risk never catching my breath.

  “You’re a piece of work.” He shifted over on the bench.

  “Can you play, too?”

  Was that an invitation? There was enough room for my backside on the bench, but barely. Could I subject myself to that kind of proximity? I gulped. “Not really.”

  I hesitated, curiosity finally overcoming all other emotion. “Can you read music?” There wasn’t any on the empty shelf in front of him, so he either couldn’t or didn’t need to. Playing by ear or memorization was more impressive anyway. Too bad I could do neither.

  “Somewhat.” He began to play again, but this time the movements were less fluid, and I could tell I was making him nervous. The fact bolstered my spirits. I smiled.

  His fingers slipped off the keys, and he cursed. “Quit grinning at me like a monkey.”

  “Then give me a banana.”

  Wes turned once again to face me. “Listen, Addison, let’s cut to the chase. Are you going to tell anyone about this or not?” He gestured to the piano.

  I feigned deep thinking. “Of course. I was just brainstorming the graphics for the billboard I’m going to put up. Wasn’t sure how many tattoos to give you in the caricature, though.”

  He didn’t laugh. “I’m not kidding.”

  I wanted to say neither was I, but he was actually being serious for the first time since I’d met him, and that had to mean something. A step forward?

  I swallowed my smile. “I won’t tell.”

  He studied my eyes, as if determining my trustworthiness, and finally nodded once. “Thanks.” He started to play again, this time with more confidence. I leaned against the back of my chair, closed my eyes, and listened.

  Today might have been a step forward, but when it came to Wes, I still had no idea which path I was heading down.

  Chapter Eight

  I still don’t see why heading up a fund-raiser means I have to suffer through the auditions,” I muttered as Marta linked her arm through mine and literally propelled me down the slightly sloped, dimly lit auditorium floor toward the stage.

  “You’ve got to be at least a little curious.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I know I am.” She muscled me into the tenth or eleventh row and plopped down in the aisle chair, blocking any escape attempts on my part.

  I crossed my arms and leaned back in the uncomfortable folding seat, wincing as Tyler Dupree hit the wrong note on his violin. We apparently weren’t the only curious souls from the school, as several students filled sporadic chairs across the auditorium. Two or three rows of pathetic—sorry, make that hopeful—teens waiting their turn to try out lined the rows directly in front of the stage.

  “Maybe seeing whom you’re promoting will help you devise an advertising scheme.” Marta leaned close to be heard over the screech of what Tyler was trying—unsuccessfully—to pass off as music. “Although I am not sure how to positively market … everyone.”

  “Don’t worry. I doubt he makes it that far.” Seemed safe to say, since Mrs. Lyons had both hands clamped over her earsand shook her head at Tyler so wildly her hair swung across her glasses.

  Unless there were fewer people trying out than the allotted time slots—then everyone got into the
show by default.

  Yikes. Tyler might have a chance after all. People could want their money back after his performance. I shook my head at the thought. “Besides, the Foundation said they have a special newsletter they can send out locally to help raise awareness for the show.”

  “Ja, that will help,” Marta agreed. We both stared in silence at the stage, Marta probably thinking the same thing I was—that at this rate, we’d be lucky if even the parents showed up.

  Tyler mercifully left with his violin tucked between his legs (not literally), and Jessica Daily took his place with a confident smile. While I wasn’t exactly Jessica’s biggest fan (she had plenty of those), at least I could count on my ears getting a break.

  “She’s good,” Marta said without a trace of the bitterness that would have tinged my own voice. Not that I was jealous of Jessica, exactly—I had no desire to sing well—but I had to admit, having the courage to get front and center like that in front of a ruthless group of peers, with such confidence, well—it was admirable.

  Stupid Wes. If I hadn’t run into him in the candy aisle of the grocery store that day, I wouldn’t be stuck worrying if being sweet and careful were suddenly bad qualities.

  Jessica’s song ended, and everyone in the small audience clapped. She took a dramatic bow and waved to her fans. When she blew a kiss into the darkened room, I rolled my eyes. Looked like I would be marketing everything from a “warning, bring your own earplugs” to “warning, diva alert” for the fund-raiser.

  I followed Marta’s cue, leaning over to whisper. “Surely there’s got to be some in-between talent in this school. Isn’t there someone who can do something well, yet not flaunt it?”

  She laughed. “That might be asking too much. This is high school.”

  Too true. “We might have to get creative with how we promote this.”

  “Good job, Jessica.” Mrs. Lyons motioned for her to leave the stage, where she appeared to be glued to the center.

  “Do you think that’s the best song choice for me?” Jessica waited, hands clasped behind her back. Apparently those American Idol auditions had brainwashed her.

  “It was very nice.” Mrs. Lyons flapped her hands sideways, as if trying to fan Jessica down the steps.

  She remained standing, feet braced apart. “I also plan on having live accompaniment on the piano the night of the show, for a more dramatic presentation than just that CD sound track.”

  “That will be lovely, dear.” Poor Mrs. Lyons flapped so hard I thought she might take off in flight.

  “And I—”

  “Next!”

  A guy from the football team and his ventriloquist dummy bumped Jessica into the wings. I winced. Those things always freaked me out. Jessica must have agreed, judging by the way she quickly fled the stage.

  The football player took his place on a stool and braced the doll on his lap. “Hello, everyone.” He used a high voice as he opened the mouth of the doll, but his own lips were clearly moving—obvious even from this distance.

  Marta and I exchanged glances. Looked like we were going to have to get very creative.

  Mystery meat again. High school was so cliché. I inched my way up in line at the cafeteria, debating the lesser of two evils. Gowith a veggie plate and be hungry later, or risk death by meat loaf?

  If that was even meat loaf.

  “So I hear you’re helping with the talent show.” Claire’s voice rang out behind me, a mixture of scorn and disbelief.

  I refused to turn and give her the satisfaction of my full attention, so I just slid my tray along the rails in front of the protective food covers. “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean?” She pressed in close behind me, as evidenced by a sudden waft of her designer perfume. Not a pleasant aroma when mixed with the smell of lumpy gravy.

  “I’m organizing a fund-raiser so the proceeds this year can go to a good cause.”

  “How noble of you.” Claire snorted.

  “Thanks.” Treat sarcasm with sarcasm—worked with Wes, anyway. I nodded when the cafeteria server offered me mashed potatoes and shook my head vehemently when she held up a spoonful of steamed spinach. At least here at school I had the freedom to choose what I wanted to eat without worrying about Dad following in my carb-lover’s footsteps.

  Claire’s tray clattered onto the rails behind mine. “I saw you watching the auditions. What did you think?”

  “Of what?” If she was fishing for compliments, I wasn’t about to bite.

  She nodded at the cafeteria lady to load her plate with the mystery meat. Brave soul. “My piece. I’m doing a fashion demonstration.”

  Why was I not surprised? I shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t see it. We left early.” More like Marta and I ran for our lives after suffering through Jack Johnson’s bumbled misquoting of “The Raven.” I could just picture Edgar Allan Poe rolling in his grave.

  “We?” Claire frowned.

  “Marta and I.”

  Claire’s nose tilted toward the ceiling at Marta’s name as if yanked up by a marionette string. “Oh.” Disdain dragged the word out several syllables longer than necessary. “Well, whatever. You should have stuck around for the good stuff.” Claire accepted a dollop of congealed mac and cheese from the server.

  I bypassed it and went for the fruit cup, debating whether to defend Marta or let it go and avoid yet another showdown at Crooked Hollow High. “I think good is relative at this talent show.” Best to simply focus on the subject at hand until I could escape with my sorry excuse for a lunch.

  “Then it should make choosing the winners all the easier to decide.” Claire tossed her hair and smiled with that same overconfidence that used to merely strike a nerve. Now that smirk grated me so badly I wanted to smear it with macaroni.

  I picked up my tray with both hands before I could indulge my impulses. “Maybe so. See ya.” I headed toward a back table, where Marta had saved me a seat. Lucky girl brought her lunch today. We were supposed to go over our list of what needed to be done and set a date to start painting flyers.

  “Addison, wait.” Claire’s tray nearly knocked into mine as she hurried to catch up beside me. “Exactly how involved are you with the advertising for the talent show?”

  I stopped. “I’m writing up the ad copy to give the Foundation for their newsletter and website promo. But why do you care?” Out of patience now, I braced my tray against my hip to support its weight. Claire had never been Miss School Spirit unless there was something in it for her—like the glory of cheerleading or the popularity of running for class office.

  “I just—” Claire’s jaw clenched as if the words she attempted to say tasted bad. She finally spit them out. “I don’t want our little misunderstanding to give me bad publicity.”

  My eyes narrowed. “You call ditching me and treating your best friend badly a misunderstanding?” Man, she had some nerve! “And don’t think I don’t notice how you talk about Marta. Leave her out of this. She’s just being a good friend to me—something you could stand to learn about.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Addison.” Claire’s voice tightened, and she leaned in closer, our trays touching. “I couldn’t care less about your little foreign groupie. But there could be scouts at this show, and I refuse to let a chance to be discovered get ruined because of some grudge you’re holding against me.”

  I couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of my mouth. “You really think a talent scout is going to come to a small-town high school talent show? This isn’t America’s Next Top Model or American Idol, Claire. Did you or did you not hear Kelly on the accordion?”

  Claire’s lips pressed into a thin line, and an angry spark lit her eyes. “Just because you—”

  “Hey, beautiful.” A male voice registered in my ears seconds before something solid knocked against my back. I stumbled forward, my tray colliding hard with Claire’s and upsetting her plate, which slid to the edge of her tray and sloshed gravy down the front of her white ruffled top.

  Cl
aire shrieked as she held her dripping tray away from her. Austin laughed as he brushed past me, convicting himself as the culprit. “Careful with your tray there, cheerleader.” He laughed before high-fiving a football buddy at a nearby table. What a jerk. I grabbed some napkins and offered them to Claire. “I’m so sorry. Austin is such a—”

  “Don’t. Touch. Me.” Claire snatched the napkins from my hand, dropped her tray at my feet, and stalked out of the cafeteria to a chorus of guffaws. I stared down at the mystery meat now clinging to my favorite shoes. Claire’s threat about my not wanting her for an enemy rang in my mind like a warning bell.

  A little late for that now.

  “Do not let her get to you.” Marta offered me half of her strawberry pie, which I gratefully accepted. No way could I eat my lunch after seeing what it looked like smeared across Claire’s shirt. “She was embarrassed. She’ll calm down.”

  “You don’t know Claire.” I shuddered.

  “Doch! I feel I do, after watching the way she’s treated you lately.”

  “Our friendship has always been complicated.” I speared a mushy strawberry with my fork. “We used to be close, but now it’s more like she’s the boot and I’m the doormat. I got sick of it.”

  “You don’t deserve that,” Marta agreed. She raked a spoonful of whipped cream from the plate between us.

  “Deserve it or not, I saw that look in her eyes. She’ll label this incident my fault, not Austin’s. Maybe if I had big muscles and a football uniform I’d get out of all responsibility, too.” I rolled my eyes.

  Marta snorted. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “And she’ll never forget it.”

  “But remember, she can’t be too mean to you because she is afraid of your advertising powers.” Marta grinned and finished her half of the pie. “So you’re safe for now.”