Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (24 page)

“Amen.”

I lifted my bowed head and stared at Ms. Hawthorne across a platter of meat loaf. This. Was. So. Weird. And not just eating together. But praying together? Listening to her quiet murmurs of agreement to my dad’s blessing over the meal? I mean, really, we were dealing with runny meat loaf and overly crisped garlic bread. What was there to agree with?

Ms. Hawthorne smiled at my dad, who grinned back like a schoolboy as he passed the pot of canned green beans he’d thrown together. Mondays were typically my day to make dinner, but since I’d been staying late several nights at the school for talent-show prep, he’d taken over some of the cooking. Which was good and bad. Mostly bad.

I reluctantly scooped up the serving spoon and ladled just enough of the meat loaf onto my plate to avoid being questioned about my appetite. To be honest, we could have had filet mignon and loaded baked potatoes and my taste buds still wouldn’t have been interested.

And if Dad asked me about my English grade in front of Ms. Hawthorne …

“So, Addison.” Ms. Hawthorne—Kathy? I still needed to figure that one out—turned her beaming smile toward me like we were all the best of friends and this awkward meal happened every day. “How’s the talent show coming along?”

Oh, sure. Bring that up during the few seconds I’d actually managed to forget my dad had mortified me in front of my class. I forced my lips up at the corners, but I’m sure the effort failed miserably. “Pretty good now. Thanks to Marta. She really fired everyone up today.” More like blasted them with a Taser.

“Isn’t she your foreign-exchange friend?” Dad took a sip from his water glass, peering at me over the rim.

I nodded. “From Germany. She’ll be going back after the school year ends.” Speaking of Marta … I checked the cell phone I’d snuck into my lap, having sent Marta an SOS text shehad yet to answer. I needed backup during this meal—moral support to remain seated in this chair like the mature teenager I was, when every instinct inside me wanted to run to my room and blare my music at top volume.

Although, come to think of it, most of the CDs I owned were Christian rock, and somehow they just didn’t give off the same effect. Foiled again.

“Marta’s a sweet girl. I’ve heard good things about her.” Ms. Hawthorne took a delicate bite of meat loaf, though the consistency was so thin it would barely stay on her fork. Hmm. Maybe Dad’s lack of cooking ability would turn her off and send her running back to her own table for one. Again, I had nothing personal against the woman, but meshing school life and home life was about as explosive as teen boys and cherry bombs.

“Naturally. Addison has always made good choices when picking friends.”

Dad’s sudden comment sent my head jerking in his direction. I narrowed my eyes as he eagerly spooned a bite of overly salted green beans. What happened to our quiet dinners together, just the two of us? Now that we had company, he felt free to compliment me and make pleasant small talk? I wasn’t about to be the prize horse he showed off. My grip tightened on my fork.

“Luke is also quite the gem. I see you and Marta hanging out with him at school. He seems to have particularly taken to Marta recently.” Ms. Hawthorne set her glass down, sending an amused glance my way. “I try not to pry into my students’ personal lives, but some things are a little obvious.”

Man, she was way off. I opened my mouth to argue that no, Luke was into
me
. But that would be just the ticket my dad needed to try to steer me away from Wes, and I wasn’t up for that particular argument tonight. Not when two hours of homework waited for me upstairs, including English. How unfair was it that I had to go read chapters and write summaries while my English teacher lingered over coffee with my dad downstairs? The very picture churned my stomach, and I set my napkin on the table.

I quickly interrupted their animated chatter about my good grades, my good choices, and my impeccable attendance record at school. “May I be excused?” This trophy daughter needed some privacy, stat.

Dad looked down at my plate, like I was five years old again and he wanted to make sure I ate all my meat before I had dessert. “You didn’t eat much.”

“Not hungry.”

Ms. Hawthorne turned a concerned expression my way. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m tired and have a lot of homework.” I shot Ms. Hawthorne a pointed glance, which she missed while piercing another piece of meat loaf with her fork. Brave soul. Was she that desperate for a date or for a ride home from the mechanic? From the way she looked at my father, that didn’t seem to be the case. No, she was here quite happily by choice.

And it didn’t look like she was budging anytime soon.

My stomach rolled again, and I stood up despite not having been excused. If Dad wanted to pretend like we were some
Leave It to Beaver
family, fine. I wasn’t going to play the game.

“Don’t forget I’ll be taking Kathy home after dessert.” Dad dabbed his mouth with his napkin then gestured over his shoulder to the oven, where a frozen apple pie heated up.

“Fine. Good night to you both.” I dipped my head at Ms. Hawthorne, feeling obligated to include her, despite wishing she’d just leave now. I took my plate to the kitchen sink and then retreated to the stairs.

As I crept up to the second floor, I heard Ms. Hawthorne’s soothing voice consoling my father. “I think she’s still a little upset about your showing up at the auditorium today.”

A few dates with my father and she was suddenly an expert on my feelings? I slammed my door, the harsh sound a welcome respite to the gentle tones below. The worst part was, she was right. I
was
still upset, but not just about that. I’d pay that price tomorrow, especially if Claire followed through with the mischievous gleam in her eye. We might have had a tentative truce, but this kind of gossip would be far too juicy for her to pass up.

But even knowing what was sure to come tomorrow, at the moment I was more upset about Ms. Hawthorne inching her way into our lives—and my dad holding wide the proverbial front door.

I flopped on my bed with a groan and glared at my backpack, wishing for once that homework would just do itself. Any other kid in my position would blow it off and let Ms. Hawthorne figure out why I hadn’t done the work. But being forgiven for a missed assignment again wasn’t worth being treated differently than the rest of my class.

With a sigh, I lugged my backpack toward me.

Ping
.

I glanced at my window.
Ping
. The tiny sound came again. I pulled back the curtain, and there was Wes, throwing rocks. I yanked up the sill and leaned out, careful to keep my voice down. “You do realize I have a cell phone.”

“Too modern.” He squinted up at me with a grin, the moonlight doing dangerous things to his eyes.

My stomach fluttered. “Right. Because your leather jacket and motorcycle are so vintage.”

“You never gave me your number.”

“You never took it.”

We stared at each other in a silent showdown until Wes finally shrugged. “You coming down or not?” He acted like he was about to lob another rock, and I ducked on instinct.

“Very funny.” I leaned my hip against the window frame, letting the brisk night air cool my temper. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the oak tree beside my window, a familiar, comforting sound that had put me to sleep many times growing up. “I’m not exactly having a great night.”

“So make it better.” Wes motioned for me to join him, as if jumping from a second-story window was that easy. “I got the Jeep again, don’t worry.”

A million excuses and justifications flooded my mind, fighting for top billing. I couldn’t just leave with Wes for a few hours, though the idea was much more inviting than hunching over my schoolwork all evening. And Dad was about to take Ms. Hawthorne home, so he wouldn’t even miss me for a while—especially since that pie was still in the oven. Still …

I closed my eyes, my previous frustration and anger boiling up again. Ms. Hawthorne, spearing green beans like we were all a happy little family. Dad, not even giving a second glance to the framed photo of Mom on the end table. Ms. Hawthorne, whispering secrets to my father about my own thoughts and feelings, like she knew me. Like she belonged.

Like she was my mother.

I opened my eyes and gave Wes a firm nod before I could change my mind. “Do me one favor?”

“What’s that?” Wes tilted his head to one side, his dark hair falling across his forehead.

I reached for the closet branch of the oak and took a deep breath. “Catch me.”

T
he stars twinkled above my head through the open roof as the Jeep glided down the two-lane country highway, away from Crooked Hollow.
I took a deep breath of the night air and felt myself relax for the first time in days. “I’m glad I came.”

“Me, too. You looked like you were about to crack.” Wes adjusted his rearview mirror then sent me a quick glance. “You sure you’re all right, PK?”

My worries over Wes not having called me all weekend faded away at the concern in his voice. “I’m fine now.” Especially since I’d successfully climbed down the tree and not broken my neck.

I hesitantly moved my hand to the console, and Wes twined his fingers through mine. I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes, listening to the melody of the open road, the night air, the hum of distant traffic.

The click of a blinker.

“Where are we going?” I asked as Wes turned off the highway onto a tree-lined side street.

He flashed me a smile. “It’s a surprise.”

“When did you have time to plan a surprise? Thirty minutes ago you didn’t even know if I was coming with you.” I held on to the roll bar as he made another sharp turn to the left, this time onto a gravel road barely wide enough for one car, much less two.

“I figured you would.”

I squinted at him. “A little cocky, are we?”

“Just roll with it, PK. Everything doesn’t always have to be scheduled.”

Or black and white, if your name was Wes Keegan.

He maneuvered the Jeep around a series of potholes and finally pulled over to the side. An open pasture, covered in autumn’s tall grass, spread for miles. The sky, away from streetlights and the city’s glare, seemed blacker than ink.

“Come on.” He opened his door and climbed out, and I followed suit, trying not to notice how he didn’t open mine for me—again. I shut the door behind me and stood silently, drinking in the unobstructed view of the stars. It felt good to get away. Sometimes a girl just needed a moment of peace. Away from English teachers, overprotective, distant fathers, stacks of schoolbooks two feet high …

Away from her own conscience.

Wes joined me after a moment, his arms laden with a folded blanket and a picnic basket. “Hungry?”

Wes, with a picnic basket? Somewhere especially warm must have frozen over. I crossed my arms over my chest and grinned. “Hey, Yogi Bear called. He wants his basket back.”

“Funny. You hungry or not?”

“Aren’t I always?” I followed him to a flat patch of ground several yards away from the Jeep. I’d take a moonlight picnic for two over his opening the door for me any day. “I’m starved, actually. I sort of bailed on dinner.”

“Don’t blame you.” He shook out the blanket and set the basket on top then motioned for me to have a seat. The night air chilled my arms, and he tossed another, lighter blanket my way. “Here, it’s colder out than I’d realized.”

I draped the quilt around my shoulders and watched, fascinated, as Wes brought out paper plates and several containers from the wooden basket. Who’d have thought this guy had even one romantic bone in his body, much less an entire skeletal structure? After fixing two plates with grapes, sliced strawberries, and cheese squares, he handed me a wine glass. “And for the finishing touch.” He uncorked a bottle of red wine and poured us each a glass.

A full glass.

I stared at the burgundy liquid and started to shake my head before I even spoke. “No thanks. I’m good.”

“It’s just wine, Addison.”

“And last time I checked, I wasn’t twenty-one. Neither are you.”

“I’m old enough to vote; I should be old enough to drink.” He took a sip then set the glass on the edge of the blanket away from his plate. “It’s relaxing. Takes the edge off.”

“Takes the edge off what? Your sense of balance? Your judgment?”

“Don’t make this a big deal, PK. If you don’t want any, fine. Just don’t give me grief, okay?”

“Okay.” I bit into a strawberry, not wanting to ruin the night he’d obviously made great effort toward. Besides, as long as he only had one glass, he should be fine to drive me home. I wasn’t against taking the keys from him later if need be. Maybe there were some things in my life lately I felt unsure about, but riding around with a drunk driver wasn’t one of them.

He leaned back on his elbows, popping a cube of cheese into his mouth. “You’re not the only one having a rough night. Or having father issues.”

“Oh yeah? So what’d your dad do? Date your old school principal?” I crossed my legs Indian-style, turning slightly to face him.

Wes snorted. “Hardly.” He reached for his glass, taking a sip of the wine and swirling it around absently. “He yells a lot. Stupid stuff.”

I shrugged. “Parents yell. It seems common. Not everyone is as quiet as my dad.” And not everyone was me, who hardly ever gave cause for yelling. Weird combo.

Pretty boring one, too.

“Oh yeah? Well, is this common?” Wes rolled up his sleeves and revealed a bruise the size of a fist on his arm.

A chill crept over my body that had nothing to do with the breeze. Mr. Keegan? No way. Yet that kind of bruise didn’t come from misjudging a door frame or edge of the counter.

Wes must have read my train of thought as he rolled his sleeve down. “Yeah, sweet ol’ parishioner Mr. Keegan. There’s more where these came from, when he’s drunk.” He shook his head. “Appearances are deceiving, Addison. Remember that.”

Drunk?

Suddenly it all made brutal sense. The glazed-over look in Mr. Keegan’s eyes every Sunday. The rearranging of the contents in his basket before he approached my father and me at Crooked Hollow Grocery. The abundance of breath mints.