Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  I met Wes’s steady gaze, and my heart thudded painfully. So much for falling. I was about to crash-land in a heap bigger than the one in English class.

  And with much more dire consequences.

  “Maybe I could try again.” My voice sounded small, timid, and I didn’t even believe myself. Wes didn’t either. He shot me a look, half contempt, half pity, and it turned my stomach. What did he see when he looked at me—the girl next door? The girl without a life? The girl with the conservative wardrobe? What did he think?

  More importantly, when would I stop caring so much?

  I tried to lift my chin, tried to act as if his approval or disapproval of my choices meant nothing to me. But my head felt heavier than the helmet still locked in my grip, too many what-ifs weighing it down. “I’m sorry.”

  He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “You apologize too much.”

  I bit my tongue before I could say “sorry” again. Wes reached out, and my heart skittered before I realized he just wanted his helmet back. I handed it to him, our fingers brushing. The electricity that passed between us did nothing to curb my nerves, and I just wanted to sit on the street and cry.

  Why couldn’t I be that girl? His girl? What was holding me back? The thought of hurting my dad, yeah. I didn’t want to do that. But was that really it? I obviously possessed enough moxie to get on the bike in the first place. Not enough to stay on, but something in me had been strong enough to climb aboard.

  Then weak enough to bail.

  I shook my head, my conflicting thoughts forming a headache in my temples. I felt like I was morphing into one of those girls right there on the street in front of my house, turning into a person that cared more about what a guy thought about her than she did herself. When did I equate not taking risks with weakness? That wasn’t me.

  At this rate, I’d be heading inside to turn all my sweaters into belly shirts. All I needed was some bubble gum to pop.

  “You gonna be okay?” Wes’s voice broke through the cacophony in my head. He sounded impatient now, like he just wanted to leave. Like I’d had my chance.

  And blown it.

  “I’d give you a ride back to your house, but, you know …” His voice trailed off as he gestured to the motorcycle in silent explanation.

  “Right. No, of course. I’m fine.” My heart screamed liar, but I wasn’t going to turn further into someone I wasn’t. The last thing I wanted—or that Wes wanted to see—was for me to shrivel up even more. Wounded pride fought for domain over potent embarrassment, and I straightened my shoulders in an attempt to look controlled. Together. Unaffected.

  I’d have been able to pull off “aloof” a whole lot better if I hadn’t been wearing pajamas and house boots.

  Wes brushed his knuckles against my cheek, and the gentle touch was almost my undoing. “Hey, I tried.” His fingers lingered for a moment. I closed my eyes, and then they were gone, replaced by a gust of cold air. He revved the engine again and called over the noise. “See ya, PK.” He roared away, his parting words sounding more like a final benediction than a casual good-bye.

  I stood on the street, hugging my arms across my chest. The wind teased my hair, gently now instead of the wild whipping it’d doled out when I was on the bike. Weird how I missed that already. I watched Wes turn the corner at the next block and felt something break inside me as his image faded into the night.

  There weren’t enough mochas in the world to drown this ache.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’d dodged a bullet.

  That was the mantra that kept playing in my head Friday morning at school as I went through the routine of attending classes, taking notes, and trying to scrounge up interest in my bland, undersalted lunch. Last night with Wes had been a war scene, and I’d emerged unscathed. Anything could have happened had I stayed on that motorcycle, and I didn’t just mean physical injuries from a potential wreck. I had no business on that death machine, and as much as it pained me to admit it, I had no business with Wes. He was out of my head. Out of my heart. Done. Over.

  Gone.

  “I know that chicken isn’t exactly appealing, but I promise it’s already dead.” Luke slid into the chair across from me in the cafeteria and grinned.

  “Huh?” I stared at him, so lost in my thoughts I’d almost forgotten where I was. I shook my head to clear it, realizing for the first time I had been sitting completely alone. I normally ate with Marta, but she was out this afternoon for a dentist appointment.

  Luke took a sip of milk from his carton and motioned to the fisted grip I had on my fork. I followed his gaze from my silverware to the multiple stab marks I’d made in the gravy-covered fowl on my tray and winced. “Busted.”

  “Bad day?” He started to cut into his own chicken then pushed it aside and went for his Jell-O cup. Smart man.

  I twisted the lid off my bottled Coke. “No worse than others. But I think I’m paranoid.”

  “What about?” He spooned a scoop of red Jell-O into his mouth and looked at me as if he had nothing better to do than hear my conspiracy theories. Sort of a refreshing notion, after my conversation with Dad at breakfast had consisted of deep conversation such as “pass the pepper,” “isn’t that enough salt already?” and “here’s your napkin.” I guess that was partially my fault, though. I hadn’t exactly tried to talk to Dad about Wes. What was I supposed to say? Uh, remember the movie Grease 2? Just call me Cool Rider. No thanks.

  I fidgeted with the lid from my bottle. “Have people been talking about me?”

  “You mean, more than usual?” Luke grinned.

  “I’m serious. It mostly seems like people from Ms. Hawthorne’s class. Earlier this morning I came up on two girls from English, and they shut up as soon as I got near. Then they walked away before I could even ask for a pen.”

  “You ran out of pens? Ms. Prepared?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I have pens. They ran out of ink. Quit avoiding my question.”

  “Since you insist, there has been some—how should I put it—general discontent about Ms. Hawthorne letting you off the homework hook yesterday.” Luke shifted in his seat. “Not from me, of course.”

  “Of course.” I rolled my eyes at him.

  “Just seems odd since she came down so hard on Austin recently for the same thing—though that wasn’t his first time to miss an assignment.”

  I nodded slowly, remembering Austin’s indirect “teacher’s pet” comment. Great. “So people think she’s playing favorites with me?”

  Luke shrugged. “It’s high school, Addison. Everything has to be equal, or people get worked up whether they really care or not.” He lifted his chin and lowered his lashes, taking on a mock regal form. “And trust me, I don’t care because I do my homework.” He sniffed. “Unlike others.”

  “Cut it out.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “It was one time. Maybe that’s why Ms. Hawthorne gave me a break.”

  “Maybe.” Luke looked quickly back down at his tray.

  Too quickly. I frowned. “What are you not telling me?”

  He all but whistled with fake innocence. “Nothing.”

  “This fork can stab your arm as easily as it did my chicken.” I wiggled it in front of him. “Talk.”

  “Fine, but not because I’m scared of your cutlery.” Luke leaned forward, bracing his arms on either side of his tray. His sandy-blond hair fell across his forehead. He looked over his shoulder then lowered his voice even though there didn’t appear to be any fellow students within hearing distance. “I’ll tell you because if these rumors were about me, I’d want to know.”

  My stomach tightened into a hard ball. “Rumors?” So I wasn’t paranoid. I knew it. Of all the things I ever got to be right about, it had to be this. Perfect. No wonder I had been sitting alone when Luke came up.

  “Word in the hallway is that your dad and Ms. Hawthorne looked pretty cozy during the open house the other week.”

  I laughed. “Is that all? That’s ridiculous. They’re
old friends, catching up. Apparently they went to school together or something.” I sat back, relieved. That was hardly noteworthy of being labeled a teacher’s pet. I took a long sip of Coke.

  Luke hesitated then slowly reached across the table and took my fork off my plate. What was he doing—?

  “They were also seen ‘catching up’ at Got Beans last weekend.”

  I sprayed Coke across Luke’s tray. “That’s impossible.”

  He blinked at me and made a show of wiping his napkin across his damp forearms. “Then a modern miracle occurred because apparently several of Austin’s buddies from our class went there to study together for that big test coming up and saw them laughing over some lattes.”

  “My dad would never go on a date and not tell me.” But the words sounded hollow even to my own ears. I normally knew Dad’s schedule better than I knew the U.S. states in alphabetical order, but with all the time I’d spent at school, after hours working on the talent-show preparations—or stalking Wes at Got Beans—it was actually very possible for him to have squeezed in a life without my knowing it.

  But why the secrecy? My stomach turned. Dad would think nothing of having coffee with an old friend on the weekend, taking a much-needed break from sermon preparations. He’d done it before, though it was usually with a deacon. If this coffee date—no, not date, meeting—was not a big deal, then why didn’t he mention it to me? Or did he just not mention it because it wasn’t a big deal? My head swam, and I pushed my fingers against my temples.

  “Just don’t shoot the messenger, okay?” Luke handed my fork back.

  I started to say something sarcastic then realized he was still dripping and slid some napkins his way. “Looks like you already bore the brunt of my surprise.”

  “Next time I have news, I’ll bring an umbrella.” He smiled, and when I didn’t return it, he reached across the table and touched my hand. “You all right?”

  I nodded then shook my head instead. Tears burned the back of my throat and I coughed, embarrassed at the sudden emotion. Even if Dad really did have coffee with Ms. Hawthorne, why did it bother me? She was my teacher, so yeah that sort of sucked, but it went deeper than that. Dad had never dated. I always figured it was because he kept my mom on such a pedestal—where she belonged.

  Was she losing her place?

  Luke’s hand gently squeezed my fingers. “It was just coffee, Addison.”

  “I know.” For now. I forced a smile at Luke, took in his steady, sympathetic eyes, his brow pinched in concern. I lowered my gaze and stared at the place where our hands met, wishing Luke’s touch sent even half the shiver up my arm that Wes’s did. Yet all the contact did was remind me how much Luke wasn’t Wes.

  The emotion built in my chest, and fresh tears crowded my eyes. Wes. My dad dating. It was too much. I pulled my hand away and stood so fast my chair tipped backward. “I’ve got to go.” Now, before I cried in the middle of the cafeteria and gave everyone even more gossip for the ugly mill. I tossed my trash onto my tray, my vision blurring.

  Luke held out his hand, the one I’d just let go of. “Stop, I’ve got it. Go on.” He nodded his head toward the cafeteria door. His compassionate expression hinted that he understood I needed to be alone to process.

  I nodded my thanks, still not trusting my voice, and bolted for the girls’ room. Once again, Luke was my hero, the knight in shining armor coming to my rescue.

  And all I could think about was the dark villain breaking my heart.

  I recovered with only minor blotching from crying and breathed a long sigh of relief when the final bell of the day rang. At least now I could go home and avoid any more whispers or hints of rumors—both the real and the imagined.

  Until I remembered there was a talent-show practice this afternoon, and I had promised Mrs. Lyons I’d be there to help. The poor woman was getting so frazzled about the show and the lack of seriousness the students were giving it that she’d started talking to herself. I caught her in the hallway yesterday muttering phrases like lack of respect, bunch of monkeys, and the Bahamas.

  I trudged to the auditorium, dropped my backpack on the aisle seat in the front row, and grabbed my clipboard from Mrs. Lyons’s outstretched hand. She had two pencils shoved in her hair, and her eyes were wide behind her glasses.

  “The backdrop needs salvaging. Let’s just say Tweedle Dee and Tweedle—I mean, the football players lost their painting privileges.” Mrs. Lyons swiped her hair out of her face and pointed to the next item on the list in my hands. “Jessica’s pianist has yet to show up for a practice, but she swears she’s still on board. Try to confirm that for me. And Michael from the hip-hop dance group thinks that not changing socks between now and the night of the performance is going to make him ‘lucky.’ For everyone’s sake, can you try to change his mind?”

  I flinched. “Uh, sure.”

  “You’re an angel.” Mrs. Lyons flitted back to her seat.

  I’m glad she didn’t see the face I made. Angels probably felt a little more compassionate and cherubic than I did at the moment, but then again, how many angels were in charge of sweaty footwear? I’d read the entire Bible (usually once a year to please my dad) and that wasn’t anywhere in their job descriptions that I’d ever found.

  I stared at my list, debating which item to check off first. Michael would be last, that was for sure. Looked like Jessica would be the less evil option. I waited, listening, and sure enough heard her practicing from stage left even though it wasn’t her turn yet. I made my way up the stairs, ducked behind the curtain, and pasted on a smile that hopefully looked more sincere than it felt.

  She stopped midchorus. “What?”

  “Mrs. Lyons is a little worried about your piano player. Is she definitely going to make it?” I hovered my pen over my list, trying to appear professional. Jessica just looked bummed I didn’t compliment her on her song.

  “She’s been sick lately. She’ll be here for our next rehearsal.” Jessica flapped the sheet music in her hand and turned hopeful eyes on me. “Do you want to hear me practice this next verse? I’m totally not good singing a cappella.”

  Tapping my clipboard with my pencil, I shook my head. “Sorry, long to-do list.” I left out the fact that I’d hear her anyway. I headed for the production room behind the stage, where we’d painted and stored the backdrop, hoping that “salvage” was an overly dramatic term. Mrs. Lyons was the drama teacher, after all, so maybe it wasn’t as bad as she’d implied.

  On my way, I passed the closed door to the single-stall bathroom and stopped at the sound of retching. Someone was sick. I hesitated and then tapped twice on the door. “Everything okay in there?” Ew. I hoped they’d say yes. I didn’t know what I wanted to major in when I got to college, but nursing was definitely last on the list.

  Water ran in the sink, and then the door opened. Claire stood framed inside, drying her hands on a paper towel. “Do you always check on people when they have to pee?”

  “It sounded like you were puking up your guts.” A distinctive odor drifted from behind her, proving my point. “Claire, you can’t deny that smell.”

  “I didn’t deny it. I had a bad lunch, that’s all. Food poisoning.” She tossed the towel in the trash and grabbed the can of air freshener on the counter by the sink. With liberal sprays, the smell morphed into a field of flowers.

  By a garbage dump.

  “Whatever. Sorry I cared.” Too bad the posters for the show were already hung. Otherwise someone’s name might have gotten left off the list. I turned to leave.

  “No problem.” Claire loudly cleared her throat. “And by the way, next time your dad goes out with Ms. Hawthorne, get him to tell her Austin needs an A on his next quiz. For the football team, you understand.” She smirked and sauntered away before I could reply.

  Not that there was anything I could say.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I let the front door slam and didn’t feel even an ounce of remorse. “Dad!” I hollered up the stairs before r
ealizing he sat at the kitchen table with his Bible and a variety of commentaries. Nice. Hard to play the angst-driven, angered teen when confronted with a Bible. I stopped in the middle of the entryway, unsure how to proceed.

  “Something on your mind?” Hearing his rare use of dry wit almost made me change my mind. But I slid into the chair he scooted out for me, averting my gaze from the Bible. Preacher or not, he was still my dad.

  And he was dating my teacher.

  My temper flared again. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  His eyebrow rose—just one, which is where I’d learned the trick. “I’m assuming so, from your tone. But I don’t know what it is.”

  “Think hard.” I crossed my arms over my chest and waited.

  “Did you get a haircut?” His eyes flitted over my hair, which was the same as always.

  My hands fell to my lap in surrender. “Do you really think I’d stomp in the house yelling because you didn’t notice my haircut?”

  “It looks nice.”

  I slumped forward until my head hit the table. Good grief. I couldn’t even act like a normal, hormonal teenager without feeling sorry for my clueless father. My anger subsided, and I rolled my head sideways and peered at him from under my curtain of hair. Come to think of it, it probably did need a trim. “It’s not about my hair, Dad.”

  “Then can you please point it out for me? I have a lot of studying to get done tonight.” He tapped his books. “The sermon Sunday is on Job. I’ll probably be up for a while.”

  “Why don’t you get some coffee at Got Beans, then?” I held my breath.

  A shadow passed over his face then disappeared. “I don’t need caffeine this late.” He squinted at me. “You’re still limiting your pop intake, aren’t you?”

  “As much as you’re limiting your carbs.”

  “You’re a growing teenager—you don’t need a lot of caffeine at your age.”

  I sat up straight. “Tell me this. Did you need caffeine when you took my teacher for lattes?”