Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (17 page)

“Need some help?” Marta appeared before me, dropping her backpack on a chair away from the paint-splattered canvas.

“You’re here!” I actually hugged her. Between her appointments and shopping dates with her host mom lately, I felt like I hadn’t seen her in forever.

Luke fake-pouted across the room. “Hey, I didn’t get that same kind of greeting.”

“Marta didn’t pretend to be a cowboy,” I shot back.

She frowned as she pulled away from me. “Did I miss something?” Then she shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Sorry I missed the last practice. I know I told you I’d help, but my host mom is on a rampage.” She lifted her shirt an inch above her jeans. “Like my new belt?”

It was turquoise and covered in rhinestones. I bit my lip. “I do if you do.”

“Doch! Don’t pretend. It’s awful.” She giggled. “That’s why I didn’t tuck my blouse in.”

“Trust me, that belt is punishment enough, so I won’t yell at you for being absent lately.” I showed her my clipboard. “Item one, two, or three?”

She wrinkled her pert nose. “Those are my choices?”

“Welcome to the world of drama. And need I remind you, you talked me into this.” I tilted my head to one side. “You know, you could always just take over for me since you were the one so gung-ho about this fund-raiser from the beginning.”

Marta’s lips twisted to the side. “I don’t know what ‘gung ho’ means, but I know what ‘take over’ means, so I’m just going to choose item number one.”

“Good girl. Have fun.” I ripped the paper with the phone number she needed off the board and handed it to her. Now for the dance team.

I found Tripp Larson and some other guys practicing some break-dancing moves in the corner while they waited for their turn onstage. I hesitated to interrupt, not wanting them to snap a bone because of me. “Hey, guys?” The music coming from the portable stereo on the floor clarified the importance of my mission. I cringed. “Tripp? Guys!”

“Addison, the stage props are finally finished.” Mrs. Lyons rushed over to me, which was fine since the dance team hadn’t so much as even looked up yet. “Would you get some of the boys to move them to the storage closet?”

“The two trees?” Mrs. Lyons had wanted cutout trees built and painted to stand in front of the backdrop onstage, for a “three-dimensional look,” as she’d put it. Frankly I thought the whole thing was overkill and wasn’t sure why we were using a forest in the first place, though I guess it did go nicely with the stars. “Sure, I’ll get them moved.”

“You’re a doll.” She beamed.

I just nodded. “No problem.” So far, according to Mrs. Lyons, I’d been an angel, a doll, a sweetie pie, and a blessing in disguise.

Not sure why she’d added the disguise part, but oh well.

“Oh, and someone is sick in the bathroom. Would you check on them?” She rushed off before I could morph from doll into Chucky Doll. Again? Why was the offstage bathroom the “get sick” room of choice for this school? I made my way toward the shut door and tapped twice. Claire opened it from the inside. I reeled back. Talk about déjà vu. “Let me guess. More food poisoning?”

She shrugged, but her face waxed pale. “Think what you want.”

I grabbed Claire’s arm and tugged her into the hallway, away from the sick smell. “I think you’re throwing up on purpose. Are you?”

She shrugged again.

“Claire, that’s dangerous. Why would you do that? You’re what, a size four?” I jabbed at her skinny waist. “Don’t be stupid.”

She lifted her chin. “I need to be a size two for the show.”

“That’s ridiculous, Claire. They’re
your
clothes. Just let the seams out.”

“Like you’d ever understand.” She started to walk away, but I snagged the back of her shirt.

“Then enlighten me, before I go tell Mrs. Lyons that it’s you who keeps getting sick in the bathroom. Trust me, if anyone has the right to throw up around here, it’s me after dealing with Michael and his stupid lucky socks.”

Confusion pinched her bland expression. “Who?”

“Forget it. Just tell me why you think losing weight—especially this way—matters so much.”

Claire crossed her arms over her sparkly pink top. “It’s the fastest way I know how.”

“Um, not eating cheese fries in the cafeteria might help, too.”

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “This is easier.”

“And gross. Not to mention dangerous.”

“You said that already.”

“Then believe me. What is this really about, Claire?” I clutched my clipboard in front of my chest, wishing I could use it to beat some sense into her. Crash diets were one thing, but bulimia? Crazy.

“We’re not even friends anymore. Why do you care?”

I softened at the hardness in her eyes. “Not being friends was your choice. But I still don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“How noble. This is your fault anyway.”

I reared back. “How is you shoving your finger down your throat my fault, exactly?”

“Austin.” Claire’s face twisted into a pout. “If you would have just dated him when he wanted to, he’d have moved on by now and wouldn’t be ignoring me to chase after you. But you just had to dis him. Now he’s obsessed.”

“Dis him? What is this, a reality show?” I briefly closed my eyes. The entire school was going crazy. We didn’t need a theater department—there was plenty of drama right here offstage. “I don’t like Austin. Never have, never will. I still don’t see how that makes your eating disorder my fault.”

“Simple. I have to work harder to get his attention now because of you.” Claire ran her hands over the front of her flat stomach.

“Right, because puking on purpose is so very attractive.”

“I just need to look my best on the stage that night, all right? It’s the only way I can think of to get him to finally notice me. If I think that means losing five pounds immediately, then why do you care? Just leave me alone. I’ll quit after the show.” She glared at me. “And don’t even think about telling Mrs. Lyons. She’ll have me bonding with the school counselor, and rumors about me needing counseling are the last thing I need right now.”

“Oh, like rumors about my dad and my English teacher are on my Christmas list?”

We stared at each other, anger sparking between us until Claire slowly wilted. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have made that worse.” She paused. “So are you going to tell on me?”

I hesitated, her apology throwing me off guard. The show was in less than a month. Surely she couldn’t do any permanent damage to her body in that time. Besides, Mrs. Lyons didn’t need any extra headaches, and this show didn’t need any bad publicity. Not that Claire’s eating disorders would make the newspapers, but in a small town, people talked. And if word got out that something like this had come up because of a school production, the show would suffer. Funds would suffer. The Let Them Read Foundation would suffer.

“Fine.” I sighed. “But if I catch you doing this one more time after the show is over, I’m going straight to Principal Stephens. Or your mom.” I shuddered, not sure which would be worse.

“I promise.” Claire backed away, her eyes averted. “And, uh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” I watched her go, a mixture of anger, frustration, and regret swirling in my stomach. Anger at her choices, frustration over her pathetic reasons, and regret over the way a lifelong friendship had turned out. Maybe sharing this secret would make things better between us.

Or at least keep her quiet about my dad.

T
here was a rose in my mailbox.

I backed up a few feet away from the box and peered cautiously inside, as if the red petals would explode on contact. I’d never gotten flowers before. Somehow I expected my first flowers to accompany a bouquet of balloons or lie in a beautiful basket of greenery—not on top of the latest copy of
Seventeen
magazine and the electric bill.

I instinctively looked over my shoulder, but of course no one was there. Besides, who did I think it was from? Mrs. Kilgore and her PK spy camera? Doubtful. Speaking of spies, I decided I better handle the flower invasion privately before it became official church business.

Careful of the thorns, I plucked the mail and the rose from the box and shut the lid like any other Wednesday afternoon. I casually flipped through the mail as I strolled up the driveway to the house, though I was really checking out the small white envelope pinned through the stem of the rose. JILLIAN’s F
LOWERS
& GIFTS was embossed across the paper. A store-bought rose—in a mailbox? Obviously whoever sent it was someone who wanted to do something nice but couldn’t afford a full bouquet and delivery charges.

Someone who sounded a lot like unemployed Wes.

My stomach cramped, and excitement bubbled in my chest before I could tamp it down. Maybe he was apologizing for riding away and leaving me on the street that Thursday night. Had it already been two weeks? I’d avoided Got Beans like I was allergic to mochas, which only served as double punishment. No Wes sightings,
and
no liquid caffeine. But I couldn’t handle running into him, couldn’t stand near him after all that had passed between us and pretend like it was all okay, like my heart didn’t still have more cracks in it than the sidewalk in front of Screamin’ Cones.

Once inside the house, I dropped the mail on the table and ripped open the envelope. My thoughts raced in competition with my heartbeat, and I gave myself a paper cut. I paused to suck my ring finger then shook off the irritating pain and yanked the little card free of the envelope.

The envelope fluttered slowly to the floor, and I stared down at the rose, its deep red not nearly as vibrant as it’d seemed outside. Sweet gesture, but not from the guy I wanted it to be from. I should have known, though. Wes would be more likely to send a coupon for a discounted tattoo than a single red rose. Why had I even hoped?

I reread the message and smiled. Typical Luke. The perfect combination of sincerity and humor—with a dash of romance. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the boy read romance novels on a regular basis. Guys his age just didn’t believe in chivalry and earning a girl’s heart anymore. Instead they overdosed on hair gel and protein shakes and expected us to swoon while they flexed and talked back to teachers as if attitude equaled attractiveness. No, Luke was a rare breed for sure.

But he still wasn’t Wes.

I brushed my finger across the soft petals, wondering where this left my growing friendship with Luke. Ignoring his gesture and continuing on with our teasing, half-flirty way of interacting felt wrong. But confronting him and telling him I only considered him a friend felt really aggressive.

Lifting the rose to my face, I inhaled the spicy-sweet scent.
Oh, Luke
. Why couldn’t it have been a white rose? Or yellow? Any color other than the in-your-face-I-like-you shade of red that practically bled hope across my kitchen table. I hated to dash his dreams with a big ol’ dose of reality.

I knew all too well how it felt.

I stood, tossed the envelope in the trash, and hurried up the stairs to stash the card in my desk drawer with other keepsakes. It seemed wrong to throw it away after he went to so much effort. I dropped the rose on my nightstand and realized the petals had reddened my fingers. Now it was obvious I’d received it. Man, I really hated to risk losing our friendship over something like this. Luke made me laugh. Made me relax. Made me believe not all boys were scum.

But he did it in such a brotherly kind of way.

I stared at the rose, which seemed to be staring back at me, and groaned. Maybe I could just play it off. Take Luke’s lead at school tomorrow and see if he talked about it. If he didn’t, I would be off the hook, and we could continue as usual—joking, insulting, being friends.

If he did, well, then to make it up to him, I’d have to start a mission to find Luke a woman more wonderful than myself. One more open to a relationship.

I rubbed my red-tinged fingers together in a vain effort to remove the stain. One whose heart didn’t bleed hope for another.

Enough was enough. If I didn’t get a mocha soon, I’d self-destruct. I strode inside Got Beans with my head up, my shoulders back, and my coffee money rubbing a hole in my jeans pocket, begging to be free. I’d just get it to go—that way if Wes was there, I could slip out before he saw me. If he wasn’t there, well, I knew better than to sit around and wait. Besides, Dad was at church again, and I didn’t want to remember the last time I’d run into Wes on a Wednesday night. My stomach shivered thinking about it.
Black and white … rules … would it even matter…

Bert blinked twice at me as I walked up to the counter, like I was a mirage. “About time you came back. You get lost?” He laughed at his sorry excuse for a joke as he got to work on my mocha.