Most of all, I just hoped Wes would actually call me.
Chapter Twenty-One
This is for a good cause! Do you people not even care?
Have you no respect?”
I winced at the frustration in Marta’s rising voice and stood, dropping my clipboard on the stage as I hurried around the heavy velvet curtain. Where was she—and more importantly, why was she yelling about pride and commitment? I stopped short stage left, where Marta actually stood on a cardboard box, hands on her hips as she lectured those poor souls brave enough to stick around and listen.
“This is your school. And if that doesn’t make you care, then what about the fact that all the funds received from this show are going to help kids learn how to read?” Marta pointed her finger at Jessica’s face, and to her credit, the girl didn’t even flinch. “You are supposed to be one of the strongest singers here, but instead of helping someone else, all you do is sing in front of the mirror. It is pathetic.”
Oh boy. She’d lost it. “Uh, Marta?” I tugged at her sleeve, but she batted me off. I glared at her, wishing I had the whistle Mrs. Lyons had stolen last week from Coach Thompson. That thing performed miracles when it came to redirecting attention.
“And you.” She swung her finger around to point at Tripp, who stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall by the electrical outlet. “You’re the best dancer here. Why aren’t you getting your team ready? Don’t think I didn’t see Michael’s last rehearsal. Your boys have a long way to go before opening night.”
Tripp straightened and opened his mouth to protest, but Marta wasn’t done. “You should all be helping each other, working together to put on a quality performance. Yet all you’re doing is parading around like every act is a solo act, and worse than that, leaving all the hard work to Addison and Mrs. Lyons. Guess what? This is a group project. You might flaunt your specific talent during your time slot, but the final product represents this entire school. You should all be helping make it the best it can be.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and I saw a hint of turquoise belt peeking from beneath the hem of her shirt. “You are all ridiculous.”
“Okay, show’s over, everyone.” I grabbed Marta’s arm and pulled her from her literal soapbox. “Back to rehearsal.”
The majority of the group eagerly dispersed, but Tripp lingered. “Hey, uh, Addison? Is there anything you need me to do before my time spot?”
I stared, my mouth open in what I’m sure was a totally unattractive way. Tripp Larson? Asking to help? After getting railed publicly by a foreign-exchange student? I glanced at Marta. “I think that belt has superpowers.”
Marta nudged me, and I turned back to Tripp. “Uh, I mean, yes. That’d be great. Just ask Mrs. Lyons what was next on my list and have at it.”
Tripp nodded, and I quickly called him back. “I didn’t check this off yet, but I already scanned the copy for the Foundation’s advertising. I’ll be e-mailing that in to the representative tonight, so don’t do that part.”
He just lifted one hand in acknowledgment and swaggeredaway. Even his walk had rhythm. Then you had guys like Michael…. I sighed. One miracle that afternoon was enough. I couldn’t be greedy and ask for two.
“What’s wrong with you? And by the way, your accent gets thicker when you’re mad.” I took Marta’s elbow and steered her away from the few students who still lingered by the curtain. Some shot her curious glances, but none of the stares carried disdain or anger like I expected.
“Just like I said.” Marta cocked her hip to one side, her eyes blazing. “Everyone is acting like a bunch of babies, and I’m tired of it. We—you especially—are being worked to death for something you didn’t even mean to sign up for. While everyone else jokes their way through rehearsal and expects the final product to magically come together with zero effort. If the town shows up for this, it’s going to be, what do you call it? A gigglestock?”
I snorted. “Laughingstock.”
“It’ll be even worse than that.” Marta let out a loud huff. “Then they’ll demand their money back or refuse to come next year. Or worse, the school will decide it wasn’t worth it, and there will be no more fund-raisers.”
“Don’t think I’m not grateful. That was downright impressive.” I pointed after Tripp. “But seriously, why do you care so much? You won’t even be here next year.”
Marta’s crossed arms dropped to her sides in defeat. “This just isn’t what I’m used to. Students in Europe are a lot more universally oriented. They aren’t so selfish.” She grinned when I raised my eyebrow in disbelief. “Really. They’re still teenagers, and they’re still divas at times, but they think outside the box.”
“I guess I can see that.” It didn’t take a prescription lens to notice our small-town school wasn’t nearly interested enough in worldwide events—or even local charities. Other schools played the morning news in homeroom and discussed current events. We threw spitballs.
Marta brushed her blond hair back from her face and shrugged. “I guess I’m realizing how quickly my year here is going by, and I’d hoped to leave a little of this mind-set when I went home.” She wrinkled her nose. “I do not want the only thing I leave behind to be this belt.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re amazing.” I gave Marta an impromptu hug. “Don’t think for a minute you haven’t done something worthwhile. Just take exhibit A.” I stepped back and held out my arms in a wide gesture. “A year ago—no, six months ago—I would have never even considered organizing a fund-raiser or helping direct a school production. And look at me! Coerced, but still kicking.” I grinned, and Marta finally smiled back.
“Maybe you are right.”
“I’m always right.” I nudged her with my elbow. “Now come on, Miss Do-Gooder. Let’s see if we can tackle the rest of my clipboard tasks together—assuming Tripp wasn’t so motivated by your freak-out back there that he finished the list by himself.”
Marta linked her arm through mine as we made our way across the stage to snag my clipboard. “Ja, wouldn’t that be something?”
I stopped short. “Speaking of clipboard tasks, I need to make myself a note so I won’t forget to e-mail Debra the ad copy for their newsletter. We really need that free advertising. It’ll be sent to a bunch of local businesses in Crooked Hollow and the outskirts of town.”
“Every little bit will help,” Marta agreed. She waited as I pulled up my settings on my phone and began making a notation for a reminder when a familiar voiced sounded from the wings. “Nice set.”
Another familiar yet female voice echoed the sentiment. “I agree. Beautiful backdrop. This is really coming together.”
No. No. No. My fingers froze over the keys on my cell. Marta’s soapbox presentation must have gone to my brain. Surely I was imagining things. Surely that wasn’t my—
Dad stepped out of the wings, Ms. Hawthorne close on his heels. They smiled when they saw me, though Ms. Hawthorne’s grin looked more like an apologetic grimace. A rush of heat flooded my body, and I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles turned white. A spasm of pain bit into my wrist, but I clenched even harder. Better my hands than my teeth.
“Addison, there you are!” Dad practically beamed, as if he’d made a unique discovery. Like I was the one out of place in this cozy little scenario.
“What are you doing here?” The words hissed from my lips, and I wished the stage would open up and swallow me whole. I wasn’t even in the show, yet this auditorium was about to witness a drama like it’d never seen if my dad didn’t exit stage left. Now.
“I came to follow Kathy to the mechanic. She’s getting her car worked on, so I offered to give her a ride home.” Dad shrugged like this made perfect sense.
He couldn’t have just met her at the garage instead and spared me this moment? My mouth opened, but words refused to come out. I gaped like the pet goldfish I used to have in elementary school. Bubbles. I sort of wished I could join Bubbles in the ground under the backyard oak tree right
about now.
Dad stopped in the middle of the stage and leaned closer to the backdrop for a better glimpse. “Looks like the show is shaping up nicely.”
A sudden amused snort from behind garnered my attention.
Claire stood behind me, waiting her turn to go onstage, her arms loaded with clothes. A satisfied smirk danced across her expression, amusement highlighting her eyes. “Wow, Addison. Is your dad going to stick around to help Mr. Adger with his car, too? Or does he only chauffer pretty English teachers?”
If I hadn’t still been paralyzed with shock, I’d have slapped her with my clipboard.
Ms. Hawthorne gently tugged at my dad’s arm. “I think we should let the kids get back to rehearsal.” She pulled harder at my father’s reluctance to follow, mouthing “I’m so sorry” to me over his shoulder.
“David, the mechanic will close in fifteen minutes.” I recognized the desperate plea in Ms. Hawthorne’s voice, and I realized with a start she was on my side. Just like in Got Beans.
“Oh, right. Let’s get going, then.” He lifted his hand in a wave as they traipsed down the stairs to the auditorium floor. At least he didn’t try to hug me. “See you for dinner, Addison. Kathy’s staying for meat loaf.”
Just get him out, get him out. The stage dipped and bobbed, and I closed my eyes briefly against the flux of dizziness as another wave of mortifying heat washed over my body. The only way this situation could get worse is if I actually fainted. Wouldn’t that be just the icing on this cake of nightmares? I inhaled deeply through my nose and let it out slowly through my mouth. Wasn’t working.
Staying for meat loaf. There were so many things wrong with that sentence I wasn’t even sure where to start. I just nodded weakly, leaning against Marta’s supporting arm as my dad and my English teacher marched up the center aisle together.
“Amen.”
I lifted my bowed head and stared at Ms. Hawthorne across a platter of meat loaf. This. Was. So. Weird. And not just eating together. But praying together? Listening to her quiet murmurs of agreement to my dad’s blessing over the meal? I mean, really, we were dealing with runny meat loaf and overly crisped garlic bread. What was there to agree with?
Ms. Hawthorne smiled at my dad, who grinned back like a schoolboy as he passed the pot of canned green beans he’d thrown together. Mondays were typically my day to make dinner, but since I’d been staying late several nights at the school for talent-show prep, he’d taken over some of the cooking. Which was good and bad. Mostly bad.
I reluctantly scooped up the serving spoon and ladled just enough of the meat loaf onto my plate to avoid being questioned about my appetite. To be honest, we could have had filet mignon and loaded baked potatoes and my taste buds still wouldn’t have been interested.
And if Dad asked me about my English grade in front of Ms. Hawthorne …
“So, Addison.” Ms. Hawthorne—Kathy? I still needed to figure that one out—turned her beaming smile toward me like we were all the best of friends and this awkward meal happened every day. “How’s the talent show coming along?”
Oh, sure. Bring that up during the few seconds I’d actually managed to forget my dad had mortified me in front of my class. I forced my lips up at the corners, but I’m sure the effort failed miserably. “Pretty good now. Thanks to Marta. She really fired everyone up today.” More like blasted them with a Taser.
“Isn’t she your foreign-exchange friend?” Dad took a sip from his water glass, peering at me over the rim.
I nodded. “From Germany. She’ll be going back after the school year ends.” Speaking of Marta … I checked the cell phone I’d snuck into my lap, having sent Marta an SOS text shehad yet to answer. I needed backup during this meal—moral support to remain seated in this chair like the mature teenager I was, when every instinct inside me wanted to run to my room and blare my music at top volume.
Although, come to think of it, most of the CDs I owned were Christian rock, and somehow they just didn’t give off the same effect. Foiled again.
“Marta’s a sweet girl. I’ve heard good things about her.” Ms. Hawthorne took a delicate bite of meat loaf, though the consistency was so thin it would barely stay on her fork. Hmm. Maybe Dad’s lack of cooking ability would turn her off and send her running back to her own table for one. Again, I had nothing personal against the woman, but meshing school life and home life was about as explosive as teen boys and cherry bombs.
“Naturally. Addison has always made good choices when picking friends.”
Dad’s sudden comment sent my head jerking in his direction. I narrowed my eyes as he eagerly spooned a bite of overly salted green beans. What happened to our quiet dinners together, just the two of us? Now that we had company, he felt free to compliment me and make pleasant small talk? I wasn’t about to be the prize horse he showed off. My grip tightened on my fork.
“Luke is also quite the gem. I see you and Marta hanging out with him at school. He seems to have particularly taken to Marta recently.” Ms. Hawthorne set her glass down, sending an amused glance my way. “I try not to pry into my students’ personal lives, but some things are a little obvious.”
Man, she was way off. I opened my mouth to argue that no, Luke was into me. But that would be just the ticket my dad needed to try to steer me away from Wes, and I wasn’t up for that particular argument tonight. Not when two hours of homework waited for me upstairs, including English. How unfair was it that I had to go read chapters and write summaries while my English teacher lingered over coffee with my dad downstairs? The very picture churned my stomach, and I set my napkin on the table.
I quickly interrupted their animated chatter about my good grades, my good choices, and my impeccable attendance record at school. “May I be excused?” This trophy daughter needed some privacy, stat.
Dad looked down at my plate, like I was five years old again and he wanted to make sure I ate all my meat before I had dessert. “You didn’t eat much.”
“Not hungry.”
Ms. Hawthorne turned a concerned expression my way. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m tired and have a lot of homework.” I shot Ms. Hawthorne a pointed glance, which she missed while piercing another piece of meat loaf with her fork. Brave soul. Was she that desperate for a date or for a ride home from the mechanic? From the way she looked at my father, that didn’t seem to be the case. No, she was here quite happily by choice.
And it didn’t look like she was budging anytime soon.
My stomach rolled again, and I stood up despite not having been excused. If Dad wanted to pretend like we were some Leave It to Beaver family, fine. I wasn’t going to play the game.
“Don’t forget I’ll be taking Kathy home after dessert.” Dad dabbed his mouth with his napkin then gestured over his shoulder to the oven, where a frozen apple pie heated up.
“Fine. Good night to you both.” I dipped my head at Ms. Hawthorne, feeling obligated to include her, despite wishing she’d just leave now. I took my plate to the kitchen sink and then retreated to the stairs.
As I crept up to the second floor, I heard Ms. Hawthorne’s soothing voice consoling my father. “I think she’s still a little upset about your showing up at the auditorium today.”
A few dates with my father and she was suddenly an expert on my feelings? I slammed my door, the harsh sound a welcome respite to the gentle tones below. The worst part was, she was right. I was still upset, but not just about that. I’d pay that price tomorrow, especially if Claire followed through with the mischievous gleam in her eye. We might have had a tentative truce, but this kind of gossip would be far too juicy for her to pass up.
But even knowing what was sure to come tomorrow, at the moment I was more upset about Ms. Hawthorne inching her way into our lives—and my dad holding wide the proverbial front door.
I flopped on my bed with a groan and glared at my backpack, wishing for once that homework would just do itself. Any other kid in my position would blow it off and le
t Ms. Hawthorne figure out why I hadn’t done the work. But being forgiven for a missed assignment again wasn’t worth being treated differently than the rest of my class.
With a sigh, I lugged my backpack toward me.
Ping.
I glanced at my window. Ping. The tiny sound came again. I pulled back the curtain, and there was Wes, throwing rocks. I yanked up the sill and leaned out, careful to keep my voice down. “You do realize I have a cell phone.”
“Too modern.” He squinted up at me with a grin, the moonlight doing dangerous things to his eyes.
My stomach fluttered. “Right. Because your leather jacket and motorcycle are so vintage.”
“You never gave me your number.”
“You never took it.”
We stared at each other in a silent showdown until Wes finally shrugged. “You coming down or not?” He acted like he was about to lob another rock, and I ducked on instinct.
“Very funny.” I leaned my hip against the window frame, letting the brisk night air cool my temper. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the oak tree beside my window, a familiar, comforting sound that had put me to sleep many times growing up. “I’m not exactly having a great night.”
“So make it better.” Wes motioned for me to join him, as if jumping from a second-story window was that easy. “I got the Jeep again, don’t worry.”
A million excuses and justifications flooded my mind, fighting for top billing. I couldn’t just leave with Wes for a few hours, though the idea was much more inviting than hunching over my schoolwork all evening. And Dad was about to take Ms. Hawthorne home, so he wouldn’t even miss me for a while—especially since that pie was still in the oven. Still …
I closed my eyes, my previous frustration and anger boiling up again. Ms. Hawthorne, spearing green beans like we were all a happy little family. Dad, not even giving a second glance to the framed photo of Mom on the end table. Ms. Hawthorne, whispering secrets to my father about my own thoughts and feelings, like she knew me. Like she belonged.
Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK Page 17
