Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK

by Betsy St. Amant

  “Who? What?” Marta’s whispered questions also went unanswered as I stepped gingerly into the room. A paint-speckled sheet covered the floor under the props, the green drips still fresh.

  “Looks like someone beat us here.” Maybe the school did have a ghost—or an elf, like the ones in my favorite childhood fairy tale that repaired shoes for the cobbler. “And obviously someone without a key.” I nudged the doorknob on the floor with the toe of my shoe.

  “Someone broke into the school in the middle of the night to fix the trees? Why not call and volunteer first?” Marta frowned. “Besides, outside of the talent-show contestants, no one even knew what happened yesterday.”

  Good point. I sort of doubted Bert had a sudden change of heart.

  “There you are! I was hollering for you.”

  We turned as Janitor Todd’s husky voice sounded behind us, breathless like he’d been running—which would be quite the feat for him.

  I took one look at his wide eyes and flushed face and fished my cell phone from my pocket. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He looked like he’d drop from a heart attack at any minute. I posed my finger over the 9 button, ready to call an ambulance.

  “I think the school had an intruder last night. The chain on the back door was broken.” He braced one arm on the door frame and took a deep breath. “We need to call the police.” Huff. Huff. “And clear out of here.”

  My eyes met Marta’s, and as one, we looked to the doorknob on the floor by Janitor Todd’s feet.

  “Come on, girls. It might not be safe.” He looked over his shoulder, as if he expected the burglar to leap out at any moment. “We’ll call the police from the yard.”

  “I can assure you, if there was a criminal, he’s the most generous one I’ve ever met.” I gestured to the newly repaired props behind us, and Janitor Todd stared, blinking rapidly. Then he fished glasses out of his uniform pocket, slid them on, and blinked again. “Well, I’ll be a tiger’s uncle.”

  “It looks like they broke into this room, too.” Marta handed him the loose doorknob.

  Janitor Todd turned it over in his hands, frowning. “This will go back on with a few screws. Only takes a minute. Wonder why whoever did this didn’t just put it back before they left.”

  “Apparently they were in a hurry.” I looked back at the trees, my mind racing. I was so relieved at least one of the disasters hovering over the talent show was resolved that I almost didn’t even care who had pulled off the anonymous good deed. Marta was right—I should have had more faith. Mrs. Lyons was going to freak.

  “Still, I’d feel better if we waited outside for the police. I have to file a report, even if the intruder did us a favor.” Janitor Todd ushered us forward. “Let’s go.”

  As I followed, I turned to give the room one last glance. A hammer half covered by the canvas caught my eye. I darted back into the room and picked it up then jogged after Marta and fell into step beside her in the hallway.

  “Our mysterious handyman left this.” I showed her the hammer, keeping my voice low. In case the tool had identification on it, I didn’t want Janitor Todd to see it. Despite the fact that someone had broken the law to help us, they’d still saved my hide. I didn’t want them to get in trouble.

  “Interesting.” Marta took the hammer from me, keeping it discreetly at her side as we hurried after Janitor Todd toward the front yard, where he called the cops from a giant phone that looked as old as Zack Morris’s from Saved by the Bell. “Wait, is that writing?”

  She flipped the hammer over in her hands, and big, bold letters jumped out at us from the wooden handle. KEEGAN.

  After Principal Stephens found several twenty-dollar bills slipped under the door in his office, the school decided not to press charges or open an investigation on the intruder. “Obviously whoever did this intended to do a good deed and left money to cover the cost of the broken chain,” Principal Stephens had told Janitor Todd and the policemen. “It doesn’t seem right to punish them, even if the gesture was a bit unconventional.”

  The cops had simply shrugged, finished the paperwork, and driven away before the first of the school buses pulled into the parking lot.

  Marta and I had stashed the hammer in her locker during the commotion in the school yard, agreeing to keep Wes’s secret exactly that. At least until after I talked to him and figured out why he’d done it—and how he even knew about the broken props in the first place.

  And I knew where to find him.

  The melody filling Got Beans wrapped its chords around my heart and tugged. But not nearly as much as the sight of Wes, sitting on the piano bench, fingers dancing over the keys, eyes closed as he played. His leather jacket draped over the back of the chair at the nearest table, and I automatically inhaled, remembering its smell, its warmth. Would I ever get to wear it again?

  Did I even want to?

  The conflicting answers to both questions left a bitter taste in my mouth, and I made my way toward the back of the shop, nodding at Bert as I passed the counter. He pointed at his watch with a frown, clearly indicating I should be in school. I just waved the excuse slip Principal Stephens had given me (after much cajoling and blaming of all things talent show related) and sidled up to the piano.

  “You forgot this.” I held out the hammer, his last name on the handle suddenly seeming even bigger and bolder than before.

  Wes stopped playing, his hands sliding off the keys to land in his lap. He twisted toward me, head tilted, lips pursed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It says Keegan.” I wiggled it in front of him.

  “We’re not the only Keegans in town.” Wes shrugged. “Common name.” His eyes flickered with an emotion I could relate to but not quite indentify. Mainly because I was feeling the same thing in the pit of my stomach.

  With a sigh, I set the hammer on the table, grabbed his hands, and turned them over, palms up. His fingers curled, revealing flecks of Evergreen Dream staining his fingernails and dotting his calloused skin. “Do I need to call a forensic team to prove anything else, or are you satisfied?”

  “Are you?” He jerked his hands away, turning back to the piano. He picked at the keys, the music not nearly as fluent as it had been before he’d seen me. I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or flattered.

  “You sure know how to swing a hammer.”

  “Surprise.” He kept playing.

  “How’d you even find out about the props in the first place?”

  He shrugged again, and from the corner of my eye, I saw Bert wiping down the counter. “Ah, Bert. That’s how. You must have come in Got Beans right after Marta and I left last night.”

  “Ding ding, give the lady a prize.” Wes’s dry voice didn’t miss a beat as he played on.

  “Why’d you do it?” I wanted to sit but couldn’t commit to staying that long. Not after promising Principal Stephens I’d be back in an hour. Not with the jealousy of knowing Wes had gone to Sonya burning in my gut.

  Not with the tears pressing behind my eyes, threatening release with every one of his keystrokes on the piano.

  The music continued, jerky and almost amateur. “Do what?”

  “Come on, I’m not stupid.” A wave of anger pushed back the tears. He had a good enough heart to do me a giant favor, but not enough to confess to it? What game was he playing?

  “Never said you were.” Plink, plink.

  Blood pounded in my veins, and my chest grew hot at his indifference. “Just admit it, Wes. Who else in this town would break into a school? You saved me on this.”

  Plink, plink.

  Frustration boiled over, sizzling in my ears, drowning out all sense of reason. “Just admit it!”

  He shoved away from the piano and stood, leaning in close to my face. He threw his arms out to his sides in aggravation. “Okay, so I did it. Why do you care?”

  “Why do I care?” The tears came then, hot and heavy and out of control, dripping off my cheeks and onto my ratty T-shirt. “
Because I thought you didn’t!”

  Without waiting for a reply, I sank into the chair at the table and hid my face in my hands. Great—it figured the meltdown I’d been refusing to have for a week would hit right in front of him. I pressed my palms against my mouth to stifle the sob welling in my chest. I’d said it. It was out there. Maybe now I could move on.

  “How can you think that?” Wes sank to the ground at my feet, kneeling in front of me. One hand rested lightly on my jean-clad knee, the impression branding straight through to my soul. “Why would I break into a school and fix those stupid trees if I didn’t care?”

  “You left.” I mumbled into my hands, refusing to look him in the eye, refusing to let him change my mind about him. “You didn’t get what you wanted, so you disappeared. And then you went and found it with Sonya.”

  “Yes, I was upset that night we went for a drive. You shot me down—it bruised my ego. I was embarrassed. But I wasn’t mad at you.” Wes tugged my hands away from my face, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. I stared at the green on his wrists, avoiding his eyes. “And I didn’t disappear.”

  I allowed my gaze a quick meeting with his and snorted. “You pulled a better vanishing act than David Copperfield.”

  He smirked. “Hardly. There were no skyscrapers or elephants involved.”

  “So now you’re a magician and a comedian?”

  “Addison.” Wes fairly growled my name, squeezing my hands in his. “You drive me crazy.”

  I snatched my hands free, wondering what on earth I’d been thinking. “Well you’re not exactly a walk in the park yourself.”

  He slapped one hand on the tabletop. “Would you let me finish?”

  “Why? Is Sonya waiting for you?” I bit my lip, but the words had already escaped. Damage done.

  The sound of a blender revving up behind the counter made me realize how loud we’d gotten. Since there weren’t any other customers for Bert to serve, I figured he probably wasn’t even making a drink—just trying to drown out the private conversation we were attempting to have in public. Embarrassment snapped my mouth shut, and I traced the grain in the tabletop with my finger.

  Wes exhaled sharply, stood, and pulled the chair out beside me. He sat down, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “I’m only going to say this once, so try to listen, PK.” His voice lowered, and he waited until I looked up. “I didn’t go to Sonya. Not like you think.”

  My stomach balled into a knot. Now he was going to lie his way out of it? “Whatever. I heard you on the phone. You had that fight with your dad, and you called Sonya. Said you’d be there in ten minutes.” There was so much more I wanted to say, so much threatening to spill out of my mouth, but I pressed my lips tightly together. Insulting Sonya wouldn’t change what happened, and pointing out how he got what he wanted from her instead of me wouldn’t rewrite the past.

  And I still didn’t think it needed to be rewritten. Not all of it.

  Wes shook his head with a little laugh. “I went to her house that night, yeah.”

  “So you do admit it.” The knot tightened until I could barely breathe. “Thanks for finally being honest.” I started to stand, but Wes tugged me back down.

  “I left my Nickelback CD at her house—weeks ago. She was threatening to throw it away if I didn’t come get it.”

  “A CD, huh?” Right—probably an excuse just to see him again. I bet she opened the door in a silky number from Victoria’s Secret, too. Or had he forgotten it on purpose? Neither scenario felt good.

  “That’s all it was. I got it, and I left.” Wes swiped his hand through his hair. “As you probably heard at the store, I had another project I needed to help my dad with.”

  A hundred detailed questions hovered unasked between us, but I remained determined not to bring them up. Not to be that girl. Besides, did I have the right? I wasn’t his girlfriend. He didn’t owe me any information.

  Funny how I didn’t realize that until right then.

  I stood abruptly. “Well, I hope you enjoy jamming to Nickelback again.”

  “That’s it?” Wes looked at me from his chair. “You’re just going to ask me about Sonya and leave?”

  “I have to get back to school.” I pointed to the hammer. “And just a thought—next time you want to be secretive, you shouldn’t leave your ID lying around.”

  “It’s my dad’s hammer.” Wes stared at it absently, his eyes darkening, and I wondered if he was imagining his father using the tool to rebuild the coffee table he’d broken while drunk.

  My resolve to leave faltered, and I looked toward the door, then at Wes, and back again. My heart twinged, and I gently touched his shoulder. He jumped slightly at the contact then brought his hand up to rest on mine.

  I reveled in the warmth of his fingers, my throat closing as more tears begged for release. Why did this feel like good-bye? I coughed in a vain effort to unclog the dam. “Thanks for telling me the truth.”

  “Guess it’s not enough.” He stared straight ahead, his fingers sliding off mine to land back in his lap.

  Confusion swirled in a sickening vortex in my stomach. “I don’t know what would be right now.” Too much to process. If Wes was telling the truth, if he wasn’t mad at me for refusing to have sex and hadn’t gone running back to Sonya, where did that leave us? Where did it leave me?

  And why wasn’t that answer as obvious as I thought it’d be?

  I shrugged away the voices jumbling in my head and clutched the permission slip from the principal in both hands like a lifeline. “Thanks again for fixing the props. Mrs. Lyons is thrilled.”

  “Then I’m glad I made someone happy.” Wes cut his eyes to me at the word someone, and guilt knocked on the door of my heart. But I didn’t answer. He’d put me through enough this past week. Good deed today or not, I couldn’t pretend like none of it had ever happened. Because even though his sins might not be what I thought they were, I still wasn’t convinced we were on the same page.

  I made my way to the door, indulging in one last glance back. Wes had already slipped onto the piano bench, fingers running noiselessly over the keys. After a minute, with a bowed head, he began to play again.

  The notes flawless and perfect.

  I pushed open the door, regret blasting in my stomach like a series of miniature bombs. Same page?

  At this point, I’d be okay just knowing we were even in the same book.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  What do you mean, you can’t find your CD?” I stared at Tripp, my bitten-to-a-nub fingernails digging into my clipboard. “You’re on next. Next!”

  Tripp just shrugged, fiddling with the zipper on his oversized hooded sweatshirt. From his lack of reaction, you’d think he’d just told me he was having a bad hair day or something equally insignificant.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing, the side seams of my black dress protesting with every inhale. What was it? In through the mouth, out through the nose—or vice versa? Either way, I would hyperventilate if I kept this up. I opened my eyes, forced a smile, and nudged Tripp toward stage right. “Just get your crew ready to go on. I’ll find the CD. If they call your name before I get back, stall.”

  Tripp’s eyes widened. “Stall? How?”

  “Tell jokes. Stand on your head. I don’t care—just stall.” I couldn’t help the niggle of joy that filled my spirit as I rushed away. Finally, an emotional response—and someone realizing I wasn’t necessarily superwoman after all.

  If only I could convince Mrs. Lyons of that.

  Now, if I were a CD, where would I be?

  Claire suddenly stumbled into me from the wings and caught my arm. “Addison, I’m sick.” Her washed-out complexion made the splatter of freckles across her usually tanned nose seem as stark as if someone had drawn them on with a Sharpie.

  I gasped. “Wow. You should sit down.” She clutched my arm tighter and slowly sank to the floor, nearly pulling me with her.

  I wrestled free of her grasp and
knelt in front of her, tugging the hem of my dress over my knees. “Were you in the bathroom again?” I stared until she met my eyes, and she slowly nodded.

  A sarcastic response filled my mouth, something about her being a genius, but I bit it back. “Wait here.” I had to help her—even if she’d made my social life miserable of late. Maybe pulling a Good Samaritan would get her off my back permanently.

  Plus, I refused to lose another contestant. Nick and his ventriloquist act had been scratched from the agenda because of a broken dummy—though on second thought, that might actually have been a blessing in disguise.

  Walking past the curtains, I vaguely became aware of Melanie Johnson’s flute solo from the other side. I hadn’t dared to look out at the audience yet. Assuming there even was one. If I peeked out and saw only a small scattering of parents and grandparents, I’d lose it completely. Best not to know.

  Focus, Addison. CD and food. CD and food.

  And not necessarily in that order.

  I picked up my pace backstage. A basket of granola bars and peanut butter crackers sat on a far table against the wall, along with several bottles of water and a punch bowl of lemonade. Shocking, since I hadn’t remembered organizing a refreshment table for the cast. Who knew—maybe Mrs. Lyons had actually done something herself.

  I grabbed a package of crackers and one of the cereal bars, caught the flash of a silver disk sticking out from behind the stereo in the corner, and plucked Tripp’s sound track from the tangle of cords. Yes! Progress.

  The remaining strains of Melanie’s flute solo faded away, and I jogged past Claire on my way to Tripp. “Here! Eat that. All of it.” I tossed the food in her lap, ignored her moan of protest, and practically landed on Tripp as I stumbled up the stairs to the stage.

  “Here.” I shoved the CD at him, and his eyes flooded with relief.

  “Cool. Thanks.” He stuck his finger through the hole in the center and twirled the disk around.

  “Try again. How about, ‘I owe you a mocha, thanks’?”

  Tripp rolled his eyes but grinned as he gathered his dance team. “We’re up!”