Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  I swallowed my disappointment. It looked like our best chance at success would equal a house full of parents and a money bag full of loose change—at best. I cleared my throat, wishing I were tall enough to actually kick myself in the rear. “I’m sorry, Debra, I remember what happened now. I had a personal crisis that night and—”

  “Addison!” Mrs. Lyons’s frantic voice nearly knocked me down the stairs. I caught the edge of the heavy velvet curtain just in time, only stumbling over the top step.

  Oh, that was professional—there I was on the phone with a respected organization, admitting my failure at responsibility, while being screamed at by a dramatic drama teacher. I bit back the sarcasm threatening to pour out of my mouth and jabbed a finger at the phone, hoping Mrs. Lyons would get the hint and wait. One crisis at a time.

  Mrs. Lyons shook her head repeatedly, waving her arms like she wasn’t only three yards away, and I shook mine back, trying to catch what Debra was saying. Go away.

  Mrs. Lyons insisted, and finally I covered the mouthpiece again. “I’m having an emergency here.” Debra’s voice squawkedin my ear, and I quickly moved my hand. “No, Debra, not you. Sorry, my teacher is trying to—”

  “The background.” Mrs. Lyons’s eyes widened behind her glasses, and I swear tears actually shone behind the thick lenses. “The stage background is ruined!”

  My lips opened, yet no sound would come out. I clenched the cell in my hand and closed my eyes. I didn’t think my heart could sink any lower to the ground. “Debra, I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “I’m so glad you got that extra paint.” Mrs. Lyons stood beside me and Marta in the prop room, staring down at the trees that used to stand straight and proud in front of our starry night backdrop but were now mangled and broken.

  I raised one eyebrow at my drama teacher. She had no idea what that paint had cost me, money notwithstanding—and obviously had no idea that paint didn’t double as superglue. These trees needed a lot more than a coat of Evergreen Dream. They needed a saw, a hammer, and several other tools I had no idea how to use.

  Marta patted my shoulder. “We can fix it.”

  “How?” I stabbed my fingers through my hair as a sudden heat wave of stress built sweat beads along my neck. “Are you secretly a handyman by night? It took the guy who did these for us two weekends to build. I doubt he can work us back in for a redo three nights before the show.”

  Forget the fact that I had originally thought the trees were pointless. Mrs. Lyons had been right—they’d given the set a dimension, created the feel of an outdoor stage under the stars. Maybe they weren’t imperative to the show in general, but in Mrs. Lyons’s mind, they were as crucial as any of the performers. I’d have a better chance convincing her to cancel the show altogether than I would encouraging her to toss the props in the Dumpster and move on.

  “What happened?” Marta asked. “Everything was fine at the last rehearsal.”

  “It looks like they broke in half. Like they fell over and then were crushed.” I stepped closer to the ruined props, pointing to the wide crack running straight through the middle of each. A blob of brown in the corner of the room caught my attention, and my eyes narrowed as I reached down and plucked a football from the wreckage. “This looks familiar.”

  Mrs. Lyons gasped. “They wouldn’t.”

  “The same football players who were having sword fights instead of working? I think they would.” Probably not on purpose. But they were definitely immature enough to not think about the consequences of playing ball near an open prop-room door. I could just see one of the guys going long, running backward, and crashing into the set.

  Then bailing and leaving behind the evidence.

  “Well, then, they will just have to fix it.” Mrs. Lyons planted her fists on her hips and peered over her glasses, looking every inch the role of an old-fashioned, superintimidating schoolmarm. I almost felt sorry for the guys.

  Until I remembered that if they didn’t fix the set, it would somehow—as usual—fall on me. Maybe Dad could help. No. I dismissed the idea as quickly as it formed. Not only did I want him far away from this school, but he wasn’t exactly Mr. Fix-It. He might be able to coax a sinner down the aisle of the church, but he couldn’t unstop a toilet, install a ceiling fan, or build a bookcase to save his life.

  “Addison, I trust you’ll find the culprits and make sure this set gets fixed?” Mrs. Lyons turned to me, her voice authoritative in tone but her eyes so hopeful I couldn’t bear to follow my instincts and run offstage. Screaming. All 300-plus miles to Kansas City.

  I just nodded as Marta squeezed my arm in sympathy. Once again I’d somehow volunteered my way into something I had no business doing.

  “Oh, I forgot to ask. What did Debra say on the phone?” Mrs. Lyons brushed her hands together, as if ridding herself of the problems before us. I wasn’t about to pass over another one, even though at the moment her arms looked pretty empty and mine felt pretty full.

  I pasted on a smile. “She was just wishing us good luck on the upcoming performance.” Hey, Debra might have said that—after all, I’d missed the last half of the conversation before I’d all but hung up on her. And if she hadn’t wished it, she should have.

  Because boy, were we going to need it.

  “This is a disaster.” I stared into my mocha, watching the sprinkles bob along the top of the melting whipped cream like tiny colored boats.

  Marta reached across the table and snagged a napkin from the Got Beans canister. “What? Too much chocolate?”

  “No. And FYI, that’s impossible.” I ran my finger around the rim of my mug. “I meant the talent show.”

  She offered a smile, slightly coated with latte foam. “It will work out.”

  “You’re overly optimistic.” Like, to the point it made Taylor Swift seem depressed.

  “You don’t think God will provide?”

  I shrugged, exhaustion weighing on my shoulders. “More like I don’t think God is all that interested.”

  “How can you say that?” Marta frowned, her blond eyebrowsknitting over her eyes. “You know God cares.”

  “I know He does in general. But this isn’t world peace.” This was real life. And so far, I hadn’t seen much holy intervention. Not when I was the joke of the school because of my father dating my teacher. Not when Wes had made mosaic tiles out of my heart. Not when the talent show was falling apart before my eyes.

  How pathetic was it that I couldn’t even raise money for a good cause without somehow screwing it up? It was my fault I’d gotten so hung up with Wes that I forgot to send the e-mail on time. That wasn’t God’s problem. So how could I expect Him to bail me out now? I knew how the game worked. Obey, stay out of His way, and hope to get some blessings for being good—just like with my dad.

  Except, well, it hadn’t really been working lately.

  With either of them.

  “You’re a preacher’s daughter, and you think God is only halfway invested in your life?” Disbelief coated Marta’s voice.

  Maybe more like because I was a preacher’s daughter. But she wouldn’t get that. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the negativity, but it lingered. “I don’t know what I think anymore.” I swirled my mocha, watching the sprinkles dance. “Everything is just different.” Unexpected tears pricked my eyes, and I ducked my head so Marta wouldn’t notice.

  “Maybe that’s because you finally have to decide for yourself what you think.”

  Marta’s soft tone struck a nerve, and I jerked my gaze to meet hers. My tears instantly dried as a rush of indignation flooded my senses. “What do you mean?”

  “You have made comments, Addison, ever since we first met. About what you believe, about why you believe it. About the decisions you make. It sounds like you aren’t sure why you decide what you do.”

  Now she sounded like Wes. “Well, geez. I’m surprised you didn’t keep a journal of it all.” The sarcasm sprang forth, an immediate defense mechanism I couldn’
t control. I rolled in my lower lip as reality stung. I was doing exactly what Wes did to me—and everyone else who tried to get close to him. When had he rubbed off on me like that? I’d always had a sarcastic streak, but never out of anger or cruelty. I was practically snapping at Marta, and this wasn’t the first time.

  I took a long sip of my drink, avoiding Marta’s careful gaze. Finally, I set my mug down with a clatter. “Let’s just change the subject, okay?” I didn’t want to argue, yet I couldn’t agree with her, either.

  “Ja. Fair enough.” She raised both hands as if in surrender. “So, what did the football players say when you confronted them?”

  “You mean outside of the grunts of denial?” I rolled my eyes. “They played dumb until one of the guys in the dance group told me he saw two of the football players run into it, just like we thought. But if they won’t admit it, it doesn’t help me much.” I smirked. “If I’d been on the other side of that crash, I’d probably have denied it, too. Mrs. Lyons can be scary.”

  “Ja. But that means you have to fix it.”

  “Surprise, surprise.” The sprinkles in my drink had finally melted, turning my once-brown mocha into a cloudy, unappetizing gray. It matched my level of motivation. Was this show even worth it now? Who cared if we had a beautiful backdrop on the stage if the audience was only filled with obligatory attendees? Even if every performer had two or three family members show up, we still wouldn’t make enough money to give a donation to the Let Them Read Foundation without completely embarrassing the school. Sure, something was better than nothing in theory, but this fund-raiser wore my name. I wanted it to be a success. I wanted to make a difference.

  I wanted to prove I wasn’t completely invisible.

  I chugged back the rest of my mocha and stood, ready to return my mug to the counter and get home. “Guess I’ll have to stay late after practice tomorrow and see what I can do about fixing the props myself.”

  That should be interesting. I cringed at the image of me and a hammer in a silent stare down. I kind of doubted I’d win.

  Bert reached across the counter for our mugs. “Thanks.” I slid my empty one to him, and he took it with a nod.

  “You should buy stock in sprinkles.” He whisked the dish into the sink behind the counter.

  “Maybe after college.” I smiled and turned as Marta shoved her chair under our table and joined me.

  “Maybe Luke will stay and help.” Marta handed her half-empty mug to Bert, who took it with a disappointed frown at the contents still coating the bottom. “Most guys know a little something about woodworking. And like Mrs. Lyons said, at least we have the extra paint now.”

  “Do you really think Luke will want to do me any more favors?” I wrinkled my nose at Marta as we waved good-bye to Bert.

  Her hesitant silence confirmed my suspicions.

  “I’ll figure it out. I always do.” I jutted my chin out as we headed for the front door, projecting confidence. Too bad I didn’t believe myself.

  “Ladies, is there a problem?” Bert called us back.

  I held the door halfway open with my hip, enjoying the rush of cool night air that flooded my cheeks and neck. “That depends. Are you secretly a whiz at carpentry?” Despite my better judgment, hope rose. Maybe Bert still remembered some aspects of shop class from back in the day. Maybe he’d help us out if I promised to go easy on the sprinkles for the next few weeks—well, days, anyway. Sacrifices could only go so far.

  “Carpentry?” He paused, holding Marta’s discarded mug over the sink.

  My hopes dipped lower at his confusion. “You know. Woodworking. Like, building sets?”

  Bert snorted, nearly dropping the cup. He fumbled to catch it as he bent over, laughing. “Wait until the wife hears that one.” He hooted. “She’ll be cracking up into next Thursday.”

  Well, at least someone would be.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I can’t believe we’re at school at five in the morning. On purpose.” I blinked sleep from my eyes and squinted at Marta, who looked annoyingly fresh and chipper in her skinny jeans and striped top, hair pulled back and tied in a trendy knot with a scarf.

  “You looked so depressed last night leaving Got Beans, I had to do something.” She pounded on the side entrance door of the school with her fist, her other hand clutching a bag full of tools she said she scrounged up from her host dad’s basement.

  “Calling Principal Stephens at home and arranging for the custodian to meet us here at the crack of dawn—make that before the crack of dawn—seems like an extreme method.” I covered a yawn with my hand. “Why couldn’t he have given us the phone number of a handyman instead?” Then I could still be under my warm covers, drifting in and out of sleep and dreams about Wes.

  On second thought, maybe it was better to be standing here in the frigid autumn air, begging to be let inside school more than two hours early.

  “You know Mrs. Lyons said the budget for this show was maxed.” Marta knocked again, louder this time. The sound echoed through the deserted building. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the window. Janitor Todd made his way slowly down the long hall, mop in hand. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, despite the cold that threatened to freeze my eyelashes together.

  “Too bad Principal Stephens didn’t excuse us from classes today while he was at it.” I stepped away from the door and crossed my arms over the wrinkled long-sleeved T-shirt I’d thrown on after my alarm had blared at 4:30 a.m. The hooded sweatshirt I’d added last minute offered little protection against the wind that picked up and stirred the nearly naked tree branches. I hopped on the balls of my feet to get my blood flowing.

  “That’d have been nice.” Marta smiled and waved at Janitor Todd through the window. Surely he was almost to the door by now.

  “I really don’t see what good us staring at a heap of broken wood for two hours before class starts is going to do.” I bounced again, grumpiness taking over my usually charming personality—along with hunger. I hadn’t eaten breakfast before stumbling out the front door. Maybe Janitor Todd had doughnuts stashed somewhere.

  “It’s better than admitting failure, isn’t it?” Marta patted my shoulder. “Have a little faith.”

  I tried not to cringe at her choice of wording. After our talk at Got Beans, paranoia crept in. Did I not have faith? Was I wrong to think I was bothering God for wanting to be involved in the little things?

  Did He even really want to be, or was that just Marta’s opinion?

  Marta continued, oblivious to my early morning mental drama. “Janitor Todd told the principal he would try to help—even if we have to wrestle the pieces back together with duct tape and paint over it. The stage will be covered in shadow because of the spotlights. Maybe it won’t look that bad from the audience.”

  Sure. And maybe Simon Cowell would show up to judge the talent show.

  I hated to burst her happy bubble, but this level of perky was hard to take first thing in the morning—and without a mocha no less. I opened my mouth to argue when the door finally swung open, nearly knocking Marta sideways.

  “Come in out of this cold.” Janitor Todd stepped back to allow us inside, as if it were our idea to stand out there so long.

  The hallway wasn’t much warmer, but at least it was free of the wind. I cupped my hands and exhaled into them in a futile attempt to ease the chill. Marta held up her tote bag of tools. “Ready to get started?”

  “I need to check on a few things first.” Janitor Todd rubbed the gray bristle coating his chin, emitting a sandpaper sound that made me want to cover my ears. “I’ll meet you ladies there as soon as I get this building warmed up.”

  “Deal.” Any extra heat would be appreciated. I could pretend to swing a hammer until he got there. I nudged Marta down the hallway. “Let’s go.”

  Marta’s low heels clipped a rhythm on the floor as we made our way through the dimly lit hall toward the auditorium. “A little eerie, is it not?” She darted glances into e
ach empty classroom that we passed.

  “I’m too sleepy to be scared.” I pulled open the door that led into the backstage area of the auditorium. “I’ll probably have nightmares about this later once I’m caffeinated.” Just add it to the reasons-not-to-sleep list. I’d already tossed and turned last night, dreading the outcome of the talent show. Dreading what the smile on my father’s face meant when he hung up from his nightly chat with Ms. Hawthorne. Dreading the inevitable next time I would run into Wes.

  Marta led the way to the prop room. The door was open, which was unusual. Mrs. Lyons usually kept it locked unless we were having a rehearsal. I stopped several yards away, suddenly wide awake as the hair on the back of my neck prickled. All thoughts of being too sleepy to be spooked faded away as goose bumps dotted my arms. “Wait.”

  Marta looked over at me, her scarf swishing against her shoulders. “What is it?”

  I rubbed my arms, suddenly chilled again. “That door should be locked.” Not that a ghost would break into a theater and leave a door open—and not that I believed in ghosts in the first place. Mostly. But in the wee hours of the morning, with the sun still down and in the silence of the hushed, deserted school, well, logic was a little out of reach.

  Marta did a double take at the open door. “The prop room? I am sure Janitor Todd unlocked it for us earlier. He knew we were coming.” She offered a grin that on anyone else would have just been condescending, but on Marta it simply leaked amusement.

  “Right.” Duh. If I hadn’t been food and caffeine deprived, I probably could have figured that out on my own. I shook off the lingering heebie-jeebies and joined Marta in the room.

  Her shocked gasp made me plow into her back, and it was then I noticed the doorknob had been taken off the prop-room door and sat on the floor by the frame. “What in the world?”

  My question hung between us, irrelevant, as we both stared at the two trees standing in the middle of the prop room—the tall, proud, unbroken trees, glistening with a fresh coat of Evergreen Dream.