Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (28 page)

I sighed, trying to make sense of the contradictions swirling in my head and in my heart. “But if that’s true, why do I feel so awful? I should be mad at Wes—furious, even. Him treating me like this makes him a jerk.” Yet the anger I felt in the store was strangely absent. In its place lingered sorrow, regret, and this deep ache that wouldn’t go away.

“You’ve been interested in him for a long time. Maybe it is just hard to let go.” Marta adjusted a plaid pillow under her head. “Try to picture him the way he is—the way he acted in the store, the way he acted that night he pressured you. That should make it easier to move on.” She waved her hand at me. “Go on, try it.”

I closed my eyes in an effort to appease her. But I didn’t see the sarcastic, rebellious, I’m-a-jerk-with-a-chip-on-my-shoulder-the-size-of-Mt.-Everest Wes. I saw the hurting, reaching, I’m-acting-out-because-my-family-sucks-and-I-feel-alone Wes.

And despite all he’d done to me, I couldn’t make myself give up on him.

“Better?”

Marta’s voice brought me back to the present. I opened my eyes, forcing a nod. “A little.”

True—just not in the way she’d hoped. Marta was a good friend, wanting me to make wise choices. If our roles had been reversed, I’d probably be giving her the exact same advice. To forget the jerk and find a good guy—a guy like Luke. Someone who brought me flowers just because, who helped out with the things that interested me, who walked me to class at school. Someone with gelled hair and a pressed polo. Someone who could charm my father into his blessing. Someone practical. Logical. Safe.

But I didn’t want safe. I’d known safe my entire life. I wanted the guy who would argue with me in the pouring rain, not just stand by carrying the umbrella. I wanted the guy who wore leather and took risks but at the same time made sure I was protected. The guy who possessed a secret passion for classic novels and could play the piano better than Alicia Keys, yet had no idea of his own skills. The guy who made me cry, but also made me
feel
.

I wanted the guy capable of breaking my heart.

I
never knew time could drag and fly by at the same time.

Every time I thought of my encounter with Wes at Crooked Hollow Hardware, every time I envisioned him knocking on Sonya’s front door, my heart plummeted into my stomach, and the hands on the clock all but stilled. Had it really been two weeks since that night at the hardware store? Felt like years.

Yet when I glimpsed my father rushing out the door for yet another coffee date with Ms. Hawthorne, or when I saw how much work the talent show needed before the rapidly approaching opening night, the pages seemed to fly right off my calendar. Not that I was surprised. My heart and mind had yet to sync with each other. It figured time also refused to fall in line.

Mrs. Lyons, however, was all too aware of the clock, and it seemed with each passing moment, she grew even more jittery about the talent show—if that was possible. But hey, she had a prop-room closet full of green paint and a cast that, while they might not shine like the stars on the backdrop behind them, at least wouldn’t flat-out embarrass themselves. We’d come a long way.

Now if we just had people show up, all would be well.

“Addison, that Let Them Read Foundation representative called you again. I don’t know why they insist on calling my cell when you’re clearly in charge of this.” Mrs. Lyons’s exasperated voice carried from the first row of theater chairs by the stage, where she’d set up camp for this last rehearsal with her handy-dandy clipboard, a half-eaten cheeseburger, and an unmarked white Styrofoam cup that I couldn’t help but wonder had a little something extra mixed into her Diet Coke. “Can you handle this?”

“Sure, I’ll call Debra back.” Though I couldn’t imagine why she’d be calling this close to the show. Everything they needed for advertising had been handled long ago, and since the fund-raiser hadn’t actually happened yet, there was nothing to report. A pinch of dread clenched my stomach. This couldn’t be good.

Mrs. Lyons rattled off the number I already had programmed in my cell, and I nodded and pretended to write it on my clipboard as I turned my back and hit C
ALL
. I’d learned these past several weeks that with Mrs. Lyons, control was everything—even the appearance of it. If she thought she was handling things—even if handling meant delegating—then she could function. With or without her Diet Coke.

And wasn’t that how we all were?

“This is Debra.” The brisk voice of the representative carried into my ear, and I made my way into the wings stage right.

“Hey, it’s Addison, with Crooked Hollow High. Mrs. Lyons said you’d called?” I forced a smile, hoping my sudden rash of nerves didn’t show in my voice. “Were you just checking in with our progress?”
Please, please just be checking in
. Unlikely, however, since I’m sure the entire Let Them Read Foundation had better things to do than make unnecessary phone calls to high school students in Kansas.

But I was desperate for hope. We couldn’t handle any more catastrophes. Not when Mrs. Lyons’s hair was finally startingto defrizz. Not when Michael had changed his socks, and I hadn’t caught Claire throwing up in the bathroom in a solid week. If this fund-raiser didn’t go as planned, not only would I be the laughingstock of the school—again—but I’d lose the one thing in my life that was actually going positively right now. Concentrating on a bigger picture for once was a nice reminder that the world kept revolving and I really could make a difference somewhere out there.

Even if my own life sucked.

“Once again, we’re so grateful your school chose our foundation to donate to,” Debra said. Papers shuffled from her end of the connection as I waited for the inevitable “but.” “But I’m afraid there’s a problem with our advertising agreement.”

Marta appeared in the wings, stage left. “Everything all right?” she mouthed across the expanse of stage.

I shook my head, clamping my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Complications.” I ducked my head back to the phone. “What sort of problem? Everything was on the paperwork I scanned and e-mailed to you. Just like you asked.”

“We never received it.”

My heart jump-started. “What? I sent it two weeks ago. The day before the deadline you gave me.” My thoughts rushed together. I clearly remembered writing the ad copy, taking it to the school office, and scanning it on the assistant principal’s machine.

“I’m sorry, Addison, it’s not here.”

“But I scanned it at the school office and e-mailed it to you that—” I broke my own sentence with a gasp. That night. The night Wes came to my window. I was supposed to have gone home from the talent show, pulled up my e-mail from my computer, and sent the attachment. I’d even started to put a reminder on my phone until my dad’s random appearance at the rehearsal knocked me off balance. “Oh no. Oh no.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Debra’s kind voice sounded a million miles away. “I just wanted to let you know it’s too late for the newsletter. But I’m sure your other advertising efforts will draw a crowd. Don’t worry.”

My face grew hot. What other efforts? Besides vague word of mouth and a few posters hung around town and around the school, there were no other efforts, outside of the tiny ad printed in the local newspaper. I’d been counting on this newsletter reaching a venue I couldn’t and giving the talent show a prestige it simply didn’t have without a foundation’s name behind it.

I swallowed my disappointment. It looked like our best chance at success would equal a house full of parents and a money bag full of loose change—at best. I cleared my throat, wishing I were tall enough to actually kick myself in the rear. “I’m sorry, Debra, I remember what happened now. I had a personal crisis that night and—”

“Addison!” Mrs. Lyons’s frantic voice nearly knocked me down the stairs. I caught the edge of the heavy velvet curtain just in time, only stumbling over the top step.

Oh, that was professional—there I was on the phone with a respected organization, admitting my failure at responsibility, while being screamed at by a dramatic drama teacher. I bit back the sarcasm threatening to pour out of my mouth and jabbed a finger at the phone, hoping Mrs. Lyons would get the hint and wait. One crisis at a time.

Mrs. Lyons shook her head repeatedly, waving her arms like she wasn’t only three yards away, and I shook mine back, trying to catch what Debra was saying.
Go away
.

Mrs. Lyons insisted, and finally I covered the mouthpiece again. “I’m having an emergency here.” Debra’s voice squawkedin my ear, and I quickly moved my hand. “No, Debra, not you. Sorry, my teacher is trying to—”

“The background.” Mrs. Lyons’s eyes widened behind her glasses, and I swear tears actually shone behind the thick lenses. “The stage background is ruined!”

My lips opened, yet no sound would come out. I clenched the cell in my hand and closed my eyes. I didn’t think my heart could sink any lower to the ground. “Debra, I’m going to have to call you back.”

“I’m so glad you got that extra paint.” Mrs. Lyons stood beside me and Marta in the prop room, staring down at the trees that used to stand straight and proud in front of our starry night backdrop but were now mangled and broken.

I raised one eyebrow at my drama teacher. She had no idea what that paint had cost me, money notwithstanding—and obviously had no idea that paint didn’t double as superglue. These trees needed a lot more than a coat of Evergreen Dream. They needed a saw, a hammer, and several other tools I had no idea how to use.

Marta patted my shoulder. “We can fix it.”

“How?” I stabbed my fingers through my hair as a sudden heat wave of stress built sweat beads along my neck. “Are you secretly a handyman by night? It took the guy who did these for us two weekends to build. I doubt he can work us back in for a redo three nights before the show.”

Forget the fact that I had originally thought the trees were pointless. Mrs. Lyons had been right—they’d given the set a dimension, created the feel of an outdoor stage under the stars. Maybe they weren’t imperative to the show in general, but in Mrs. Lyons’s mind, they were as crucial as any of the performers. I’d have a better chance convincing her to cancel the show altogether than I would encouraging her to toss the props in the Dumpster and move on.

“What happened?” Marta asked. “Everything was fine at the last rehearsal.”

“It looks like they broke in half. Like they fell over and then were crushed.” I stepped closer to the ruined props, pointing to the wide crack running straight through the middle of each. A blob of brown in the corner of the room caught my attention, and my eyes narrowed as I reached down and plucked a football from the wreckage. “This looks familiar.”

Mrs. Lyons gasped. “They wouldn’t.”

“The same football players who were having sword fights instead of working? I think they would.” Probably not on purpose. But they were definitely immature enough to not think about the consequences of playing ball near an open prop-room door. I could just see one of the guys going long, running backward, and crashing into the set.

Then bailing and leaving behind the evidence.

“Well, then, they will just have to fix it.” Mrs. Lyons planted her fists on her hips and peered over her glasses, looking every inch the role of an old-fashioned, superintimidating schoolmarm. I almost felt sorry for the guys.

Until I remembered that if they didn’t fix the set, it would somehow—as usual—fall on me. Maybe Dad could help. No. I dismissed the idea as quickly as it formed. Not only did I want him far away from this school, but he wasn’t exactly Mr. Fix-It. He might be able to coax a sinner down the aisle of the church, but he couldn’t unstop a toilet, install a ceiling fan, or build a bookcase to save his life.

“Addison, I trust you’ll find the culprits and make sure this set gets fixed?” Mrs. Lyons turned to me, her voice authoritative in tone but her eyes so hopeful I couldn’t bear to follow my instincts and run offstage. Screaming. All 300-plus miles to Kansas City.

I just nodded as Marta squeezed my arm in sympathy. Once again I’d somehow volunteered my way into something I had no business doing.

“Oh, I forgot to ask. What did Debra say on the phone?” Mrs. Lyons brushed her hands together, as if ridding herself of the problems before us. I wasn’t about to pass over another one, even though at the moment her arms looked pretty empty and mine felt pretty full.

I pasted on a smile. “She was just wishing us good luck on the upcoming performance.” Hey, Debra might have said that—after all, I’d missed the last half of the conversation before I’d all but hung up on her. And if she hadn’t wished it, she should have.

Because boy, were we going to need it.