Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (12 page)

“Scoop?” I stared at her like she’d lost her mind until the language barrier cleared, and I cracked up. “You mean
dish?”

Marta fluttered one hand in the air. “Dish, scoop, whatever. Tell me what’s going on. Why are you doodling Wes’s name on anything, much less in red paint?”

“Because you had the blue?”

She glared in mock impatience, and I shifted in my seat, hating the attention. I wasn’t the gossipy girlfriend sort, especially not over my love life. I’d never had one to speak of, and sadly enough, still didn’t. “I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing going on.” Other than Wes coming to my house and sitting in my driveway and cracking open that bronzed heart of his and revealing wounds from his past…. Okay, maybe there was something to tell.

I took a deep breath. “Wes came over last night. When I said we were just friends, we are. His dad wanted me to look out for him, but I sort of had been doing that anyway. I’m drawn to him.”

Marta nodded, urging me on. “But?”

“Well, I was lying in my driveway, which I know is weird, but it’s this thing I do sometimes, and he showed up and sat with me.” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat. “We talked about parental stuff, and he actually opened up a little. Lost the macho act for once, you know?” I stared at my cup, which was easier than looking into Marta’s understanding, encouraging gaze. “We really connected. Until he tried to kiss me.”

She gasped, and my eyes darted to her face, which was flushed with excitement as if she’d been the one in danger of losing her heart instead of me. “Did he?”

“I stopped him.” Even as I said the words out loud, I mentally smacked my forehead with one hand in regret while proudly patting myself on the back with the other. “It’s not right. We’re too different.” Like night and day. Oil and water.

Gummi bears and lemon drops.

“I thought the rule was opposites attract.” Marta smiled, but it faded when I didn’t smile back. “Oh, Addison. Do you regret it?”

“Yes. No.” I pushed my mocha around the table in a smallcircular pattern. “It would have been my first kiss.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Impressive.”

“I guess it is sort of rare.” Sixteen and never been kissed. I used to be proud of that, like I’d reached some sort of pinnacle of PK success. Avoid temptation, check. Protect virginity at all costs, check. Even then my true-love-waits ring glinted under the lights of Got Beans, a shimmering, solid white-gold band my dad gave me when I was twelve that I hadn’t taken off since. I stared at it now, somehow doubting Sonya’s father ever got her one. Did they really help? Or was it the fear of God drilled into me working the protective powers instead?

Marta leaned forward, her voice lowering. “If it makes you feel better, I’ve been kissed, but I’m still a virgin.”

“You are?” I wasn’t shocked, just somewhat surprised. Marta had such a cultured, adult attitude to her that I could have realistically seen that one going either way. But it did make me feel better. A lot better. Now there were at least two confessing virgins in the eleventh grade. Probably more hiding in the chess team.

I wasn’t naive enough to think everyone saying they’d done it had actually done so—I knew the power of peer pressure could lead to embellishments and lies to save face. Thankfully, since I’m a PK, no one ever asked me about it. They assumed, and they assumed correctly, and likely blamed my dad for a lot of my decision. So no persecution for that one. It was like I got a free pass.

Or was that just another wall of my father’s I hid behind?

“I made that decision years ago,” Marta said. “For personal reasons, for faith-based reasons, for family reasons.” She shrugged. “It’s the right choice for me.”

“I thought European teenagers were more … advanced … in that area of life.” It was hard to say the actual terminology outloud, even to Marta. Sex was a four-letter word in our house. I never got “the talk” from my dad—I got a book and a brochure.

“Statistically, European teens have more experience. But the teen pregnancy rates are lower. We’re taught differently about sex education and protection.” Marta waved one hand in the air. “All of which is good, but I wish more of my friends would choose abstinence for themselves. It’s one thing to protect against an unwanted pregnancy or disease, but you can’t protect yourself against the emotional side effects of having that kind of intimate relationship at our age. I’ve seen what those choices do, the hurt they leave behind.” She tapped her finger against her coffee cup. “I decided for myself it wasn’t worth it.”

“I agree.” And I did. Didn’t I? Funny, this wouldn’t have ever crossed my mind in the first place if not for Wes’s random appearance last night. Though I had to admit, the thought of him making out with Sonya and then offering a kiss to me burned my insides up with too many emotions to define.

“Besides, abstinence before marriage is what the Bible instructs, and I figure God has a reason for His rules.” Marta winked. “But you know all about that.”

Oh, trust me
.

She continued. “So why didn’t you kiss him? Because you didn’t want him to be your first kiss? Or because you think there is no hope for a relationship there?”

“Definitely not the first.” My lips twisted to the side as I thought. “Somewhat the latter.”

“I’m guessing there’s a third reason lurking?”

“He has a girlfriend, who isn’t his girlfriend.”

Marta just sat back and shook her head like she wasn’t even going to try to figure that one out.

“Remember the lemon-drop girlfriend I mentioned lasttime we were here and saw Wes?” I gestured around the shop.

Marta nodded. “What is that reference about, again?”

“Long story. But anyway, Wes told me last night when I asked about her that he’s not into labels.” I took a fortifying sip of my mocha. “And I’m not into knockoffs.”

She blew out her breath. “So it’s not ideal.”

“Not at all.”

We stared at our coffees until Marta finally looked up. “Guess we should get back to the gym and paint some posters—ones without boys’ names on them.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that as we gathered our trash and slipped outside. Too bad it wasn’t as easy to paint over the impression Wes left on my heart.

S
ince I had “volunteered” to organize the fund-raiser for the talent show, everyone assumed I also needed to be at every rehearsal and paint party between now and then.
The final list of chosen contestants had been posted earlier in the week, thankfully minus Kelly’s accordion and Tyler’s violin. I was glad to see a couple of popular names listed under hip-hop group dancers, as well as a ballet solo. Maybe this wouldn’t be such an epic fail after all.

I don’t know who had the biggest laugh over seeing my name written as assistant director under Mrs. Lyons—me or Marta. But when I realized it wasn’t a joke, I stopped laughing.

“It will be a good experience,” Marta consoled me as I banged my head against a bank of lockers.

Looking up at the six-foot backdrop we were supposed to paint and my two “volunteers”—two football players playing sword fight with the only available brushes—I could pretty much assure her it wouldn’t be. “Hey, guys, can we focus?”

They turned surprised glances my way, as if realizing I was there for the first time. I fought the urge to steal their “swords” and bean them on the head. “The black background goes on first.” That should have been common sense, but with these guys, it wasn’t worth the risk of assuming. They dutifully got to work, pausing only once to dab each other’s T-shirt sleeves with paint. That was probably as good as it would get.

“Just keep it on the canvas, okay? No paint on the floor.”

The cavemen grunted what I hoped was an agreement, and I made my way through the wings toward the stage, clutching the clipboard Mrs. Lyons had given me, as if it possessed magical powers that would somehow give these teenagers a sense of decorum.

Jessica Daily struck a high note from where she practiced out of turn on the first row, totally overpowering the less obnoxious singer currently on the stage.

While I was wishing, make that decorum
and
humility.

Claire breezed past me, her arms loaded with material that I could only figure were the clothes for her fashion demonstration. What
was
a fashion demonstration anyway? I checked my clipboard, but it didn’t give me a description. I sighed. “Claire, wait.”

She stopped, pivoting on four-inch heels to face me. “What do you want?” Now that the first blitz of posters had been hung around the school and the surrounding neighborhoods, she seemed less inclined to be polite. The disaster in the cafeteria a few weeks ago likely had something to do with that. One doesn’t get gravy out of a white blouse very easily—or at all.

“I need more info on your talent.” I tapped my clipboard, grateful for the protection it put between me and Claire’s venomous gaze. “I’m helping Mrs. Lyons arrange the order of events.”

She snorted and shifted the load in her arms. “Whatever you do, just don’t put me after that stupid ventriloquist act.”

“No problem.” I still hadn’t figured out how he’d passed auditions in the first place, though I guess if his competition had been the accordion or the violin solos, he was golden. I made a quick note. “You’ll go after one of the group dance numbers. Does that work?”

“Whatever.” She tossed back her hair. “I’m modeling some clothes, including a few of my own designs.”

Claire sewed? This was a news flash. Though it was possible she just borrowed Daddy’s credit card and hired it out. “Do you need an emcee?”

She stared blankly at me.

“An announcer. You know, someone to talk about the clothes as you come down the runway?”

“No way.” She frowned. “I’m going to prerecord it myself. I can’t trust something that important to some random person.”

Of course. Because reading from note cards into a microphone was impossibly hard. “Fine.” I made another note that she would need a CD player.

“Is that all?” She shifted her weight impatiently.

Tension still palpitated between us. I wished I could make her believe I hadn’t bumped her tray on purpose. I hated conflict and hated burned bridges even more, but at the same time I wasn’t eager to dive back into a faux friendship again, either. Things had changed. We had changed.

One of us for the worst.

I let out a slow breath. “Yeah, Claire. That’s all.”

She rushed off without another word. I stared at the list in my hands and closed my eyes against the stress headache pounding in my temples. This talent show just kept getting better and better.

Wednesday night while my dad was in church and I was supposed to be doing homework in the kitchen, I threw on my denim jacket and snuck out (is it still sneaking out when you’re home alone and use the front door?) to grab a coffee from Got Beans. My brain felt fried from the busy week of school and talent-show preparations. I hadn’t even had time to read for fun in what felt like forever. Who knew being an assistant director meant so much work?

The scary thing was I sort of enjoyed it.

One thing was certain—caffeine would be the only way I’d hunch back over my English textbook tonight and finish reading that chapter. I opened the door of Got Beans, and piano music immediately washed over me, a soothing ointment to ease the lingering pain of screeching, off-key singers and bass guitars that had assaulted my eardrums this past week.

My heart knew it was Wes before my eyes confirmed the fact. His fingers fairly danced over the keys. He sounded even better than the last time I heard him play. I took a closer look—his eyes weren’t even open! How did he do that? Here I’d been suffering through mediocrity at a so-called talent-show rehearsal when real skill lurked a few blocks away.

“We’re closing in thirty minutes,” Bert warned from the counter, jerking me away from my intense focus on the piano. Okay, more like on Wes. But he didn’t need to know that. I snapped to attention, though my words jumbled like I’d never ordered coffee before. “Mocha? Um, big?”

Bert snorted. “Someone’s been hitting the books.” He snatched the large cup from the towering pile and went to work making my drink. I leaned against the counter while I waited, casually looking back at Wes as I pulled a few one-dollar bills from my jeans pocket. He must not have heard the bell chime on the door when I came in or else he would’ve quit playing. Should I interrupt? Or just enjoy the music?

The song ended as Bert handed me my steaming paper cup—the paper part being an obvious “to go” suggestion—and answered my dilemma for me. I hesitated, not sure I wanted to face Wes in front of an audience for the first time since our driveway talk nearly two weeks ago.

Even if that audience shucked his stained apron and headed off to the storage room in the back. Oops. We were alone.

Wes caught my eye, and my feet moved toward him before my brain could send an alternate signal. “Hey.” Wow, deep. I swear I got an A on my last vocabulary quiz.

“Hey.” He didn’t stand but swiveled to face me on the bench. I took a chair at the table closest to the piano and tried not to think of it as “our spot.” Just because we’d been there once didn’t make it official.