Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (16 page)

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.

I
let the front door slam and didn’t feel even an ounce of remorse.
“Dad!” I hollered up the stairs before realizing 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?”

He slowly closed the Bible in front of him, understanding dawning in his expression. “So that’s what this is about.”

Frustration washed over me in a wave. “No, Dad, it’s about the fact that everyone at school thinks Ms. Hawthorne is playing favorites with me because you’re dating her.” My voice rose, and I struggled to tamp it down despite the emotion once again clogging my throat. “I work hard for my grades, and the one time I don’t finish a homework assignment—the one time in my entire life—I get away with it. But not because I’m a good student, oh no. It’s because I’m suddenly the teacher’s pet.” I took my first breath in a full minute before continuing my rant. “And you know the worst part? I had to hear about it from Luke!”

Dad bristled. “Who’s Luke? Not your boyfriend.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement. Great,
now
Dad wanted to get involved in my life? After years of living through silent meals, passing each other on the way to the bathroom, and helping him lint-brush his suit jacket every Sunday? I played by the rules, to a fault, and his even remotely thinking that I didn’t made me want to throw them all out the front door.

“No, Luke is not my boyfriend.” And neither was Wes, thanks to Dad and my overly worked conscience. I gritted my teeth. “He’s just a guy in my English class, and that’s so not the point.” I swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell, Addison.” He let out a weary sigh, and for the first time in a while I noticed how drawn his face seemed, how slumped his shoulders were. Was that gray hair on his temples new?

“I don’t know what this Luke person told you, but I am not dating Ms. Hawthorne.” He ran his hand down the length of his face. “Yet.”

I bolted upright, a wave of heat flushing my throat. “Yet?” No, no, no.

“I ran into Kathy at Got Beans last weekend when I went to study my sermon notes. We started chatting, and I invited her to sit with me. We had a lovely discussion.” Dad traced the worn letters of his name on the cover of his King James. “I’d like to do it again.”

What about Mom?
But my voice refused to ask that question out loud. I pressed my lips together, trying to find the right way to speak my mind—and not cry. “If you’re ready to date, Dad, I can try to support that.” The words tasted funny in my mouth. “But why Ms. Hawthorne? Just because you knew her a long time ago doesn’t mean she’s the only woman out there. Why not someone from church?”

Dad just shook his head, and even I saw the dangers of that scenario. Dating a church member would be like someone dating their boss or counselor. Typically not a good idea.

“It’s not like I’m suddenly flinging myself on the dating train, Addison.” Dad scooted his books aside so he could brace his arms on the table. He held my gaze steady with his. “I don’t want to date just anyone. Kathy and I …” He looked down then back at me. “When you came home from school several weeks ago and told me your English teacher was Kathy Hawthorne, I wasn’t sure if it was the same woman I knew before. I went to your open house hoping it was, and also hoping it wasn’t.”

I frowned. “Dad, that doesn’t make sense.”

He exhaled loudly. “Kathy and I dated in high school. You might say we were high school sweethearts.”

My stomach dropped.
Oh
. That made sense.

And made my life a whole lot more complicated.

“We considered getting engaged after graduation, but our parents discouraged it. We were so young.” Dad slowly shook his head, his eyes lost in the past as he stared somewhere over my shoulder. “We went to different colleges, and I met your mother, and well, you know the rest.” He lifted one weary shoulder in a half shrug. “I never thought Kathy would end up back in Crooked Hollow.”

As my teacher. I wanted to tattoo that on his forehead, but I had the distinct impression it honestly didn’t matter. Dad might get along with the youth group at church, but he wasn’t exactly up to date on how the teenage world operated. I might as well paint a giant red target on my chest and pass out arrows.

“Is this all right with you?”

I started to shake my head, started to say,
Of course it’s not—are you crazy?
But as I watched my Dad’s hopeful expression and the way he held his breath at my answer, I knew anything other than yes would be the most selfish thing I’d ever done.

So once again, I folded my hands in my lap, pasted on a smile, and did what every self-surviving PK learned to do from day one.

Lie.

“I heard you needed an artist, little lady.”

I looked up from my clipboard of assignments as Luke swaggered across the production room toward me. He had paintbrushes tucked into the waistband of his jeans, his voice dramatically deep. “Just point me to the nearest watering hole, and I’ll get these here brushes ready.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “That is, unless you’d like to come riding with me.” He shot me an exaggerated, corny wink.

Shaking my head, I laughed. If Luke knew how many times I’d thought of him lately as my hero, he’d swagger for real. The past almost two weeks had flown by, what with my being so busy with talent-show prep and pretending I didn’t care that Wes had left me on the street corner in my pj’s. Not to mention the tiny task of adapting to the thought of my dad dating. Ugh.

I shook off the image. “Unless you have a stick horse tucked away in the wings, cowboy, fat chance.” I gently pushed him toward the giant backdrop. Unfortunately, Mrs. Lyons hadn’t been exaggerating when she said it needed to be salvaged. “See those blobs at the top?”

Luke squinted up at the backdrop, his performance over. “Sort of.”

“Yeah, those are supposed to be stars.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Exactly.” I sighed. “And these stick things over here are supposed to be trees, and Mrs. Lyons wanted this middle space swirled to look like fog. You know, for the theme of the show—’A Night with the Stars.’ “

“Clever.”

I watched his expression as he glanced back at the sorry excuses for stars the football players had painted. “Still feeling confident, cowpoke?”

Luke scratched his head. “Um. Yes?”

“Very funny. Now get to work. Call me when it looks like it’s supposed to.”

“Just so you know, I charge extra for every sarcastic comment.”

“Put it on my tab.” I swept past him toward the stage entrance, wishing I could stay and joke around. But that would mean no one would be around to call the newspaper to find out why our ad didn’t run, explain to the dance team why they couldn’t use explicit lyrics during their performance, or bring Mrs. Lyons water to take with her anxiety meds.

I’d given up on Michael and his socks and invested in nose plugs instead.