Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (31 page)

I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing, the side seams of my black dress protesting with every inhale. What was it? In through the mouth, out through the nose—or vice versa? Either way, I would hyperventilate if I kept this up. I opened my eyes, forced a smile, and nudged Tripp toward stage right. “Just get your crew ready to go on. I’ll find the CD. If they call your name before I get back, stall.”

Tripp’s eyes widened. “Stall? How?”

“Tell jokes. Stand on your head. I don’t care—just stall.” I couldn’t help the niggle of joy that filled my spirit as I rushed away. Finally, an emotional response—and someone realizing I wasn’t necessarily superwoman after all.

If only I could convince Mrs. Lyons of that.

Now, if I were a CD, where would I be?

Claire suddenly stumbled into me from the wings and caught my arm. “Addison, I’m sick.” Her washed-out complexion made the splatter of freckles across her usually tanned nose seem as stark as if someone had drawn them on with a Sharpie.

I gasped. “Wow. You should sit down.” She clutched my arm tighter and slowly sank to the floor, nearly pulling me with her.

I wrestled free of her grasp and knelt in front of her, tugging the hem of my dress over my knees. “Were you in the bathroom again?” I stared until she met my eyes, and she slowly nodded.

A sarcastic response filled my mouth, something about her being a genius, but I bit it back. “Wait here.” I had to help her—even if she’d made my social life miserable of late. Maybe pulling a Good Samaritan would get her off my back permanently.

Plus, I refused to lose another contestant. Nick and his ventriloquist act had been scratched from the agenda because of a broken dummy—though on second thought, that might actually have been a blessing in disguise.

Walking past the curtains, I vaguely became aware of Melanie Johnson’s flute solo from the other side. I hadn’t dared to look out at the audience yet. Assuming there even was one. If I peeked out and saw only a small scattering of parents and grandparents, I’d lose it completely. Best not to know.

Focus, Addison
. CD and food. CD and food.

And not necessarily in that order.

I picked up my pace backstage. A basket of granola bars and peanut butter crackers sat on a far table against the wall, along with several bottles of water and a punch bowl of lemonade. Shocking, since I hadn’t remembered organizing a refreshment table for the cast. Who knew—maybe Mrs. Lyons had actually done something herself.

I grabbed a package of crackers and one of the cereal bars, caught the flash of a silver disk sticking out from behind the stereo in the corner, and plucked Tripp’s sound track from the tangle of cords. Yes! Progress.

The remaining strains of Melanie’s flute solo faded away, and I jogged past Claire on my way to Tripp. “Here! Eat that.
All
of it.” I tossed the food in her lap, ignored her moan of protest, and practically landed on Tripp as I stumbled up the stairs to the stage.

“Here.” I shoved the CD at him, and his eyes flooded with relief.

“Cool. Thanks.” He stuck his finger through the hole in the center and twirled the disk around.

“Try again. How about, ‘I owe you a mocha, thanks’?”

Tripp rolled his eyes but grinned as he gathered his dance team. “We’re up!”

A backward glance confirmed Claire was actually eating, so I sagged against the stair rail and allowed a moment of peace. Two catastrophes down. Actually, three down. I’d sent Marta on a sewing-kit emergency twenty minutes ago. Where was she? If we didn’t fix the loose strap on Jessica’s dress, she’d be singing in a gym uniform.

There were two pieces of good news I kept clinging to, despite the emergencies springing up all around me. One, Austin wasn’t in the talent show, and that was reason to celebrate right there. And secondly, regardless of how tonight ended (assuming it ever did), next week was Thanksgiving break. No school for a week, so I could soak in a hot bubble bath and reread my worn copy of
Pride and Prejudice
, or maybe
Emma
, and forget this entire performance ever existed.

My fingers trailed the edge of the heavy velvet curtain as I debated checking out the audience. No, not yet. For a moment, all was well. That could change all too quickly.

“I am back!” Marta’s breathless accent had never sounded so good.

I eagerly took the sewing kit from her outstretched hands. “You’re an angel.” I took in her disheveled appearance and winced. “Did you run all the way to the drugstore?”

She bent over, bracing her hands on her knees and wheezing. “Ja.”

“I’ll never make fun of your turquoise belt again.” I gave her a hug of thanks, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Addison!” A panicked voice filled my ears before I could even straighten. “Addison, this is awful.” Jessica’s stricken expression didn’t bring the typical wave of panic. With Jessica, we could be dealing with a broken nail.

“Relax, I have what we need to fix your dress.” I opened the sewing kit and plucked out a needle and a spool of white thread. “Just be still.”

“No, it’s not that!” She clutched the dangling strap of her dress with one hand, her red fingernails bright against the black of the gown. “My piano player backed out. She’s not coming!”

The needle fell to the stage floor. “Not coming?”

Marta stooped down and started feeling for the needle in the dim lights, her hand patting my ankle twice on accident before I had the sense to move out of her way. “So are you going to sing a cappella?”

The horrified look she gave me might have said a lot, but “no” was definitely part of the equation.

It figured. Of all the times during practice that we’d begged Jessica to confirm her pianist … I gritted my teeth. No time for lectures on responsibility. As Mrs. Lyons loved to say—over and over and over—the show must go on. I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered to the students loitering in the wings, waiting their turn. “Can anyone here read music?”

Blank stares were my only response.

A wave of frustration threatened to tug me under. I was so done. I wanted to quit. What did I care about broken dresses and starved contestants and bailing accompanists? I didn’t. But I did care about my reputation. And putting on a good performance. And raising money for a worthwhile cause.

I sucked it up. “I’ll figure something out. You’re not up yet, right?” I searched for my clipboard, which I must have left backstage when I grabbed the refreshments for Claire.

Jessica shook her head, chandelier earrings swaying. “I’m the last of the night.”

“Found it!” Marta popped up, holding the needle between two fingers.

“Great.” I handed her the kit. “Good luck.” She and Jessica both stared warily at the needle while I made a hasty exit. Claire was now standing where I’d left her instead of sitting, and she offered me a shaky smile as I passed. I hesitated, though I truly didn’t have time. “Feeling better?”

“I think so.” She rubbed her too-skinny stomach with one hand and held the empty package of crackers in the other. A granola bar wrapper lay at her feet.

“Good enough to perform?”

She nodded, her perfectly curled hair swishing around her face. “Addison, listen. I really didn’t deserve—”

“Don’t worry about it. Just get out there and shine, and eat a Big Mac on the way home, okay?” I smiled back, wondering if this particular truce would stick. Knowing Claire, probably not. But at least my conscience would be clear.

Tripp’s dance number wrapped up to a roar of applause, and my pulse thundered almost as loudly. That amount of noise couldn’t have come from the group I’d imagined had gathered.

Despite the emergency pressing me forward, I grabbed the curtain, took a deep breath, and pulled it aside just enough to peek out.

At a packed auditorium.

I jerked the curtain closed, eyes wide, staring at the burgundy fabric in front of my face, not daring to believe the truth. How in the world? … No way had that crowd shown up from word of mouth and the amateur posters we’d hung around town. Had Debra somehow managed to advertise for us without my participation?

I risked another glance, just to be sure. The panel of judges (Principal Stephens and two unbiased school board members) sat front and center at a separate table near the orchestra pit, pens posed over thick notepads. Mrs. Lyons claimed the aisle seat on the first row nearest to them, having told me she wanted to sit and enjoy the performance after having “worked” so hard.

My gaze flitted over the audience, disbelief still blurring my vision. My dad and Ms. Hawthorne sat in the second row. At least they weren’t holding hands. Luke sat behind them with some kids I recognized from our English class. And Bert and his wife took up the last two seats on the fourth row. It looked like not only had families shown up, but most of the town. There were several faces I’d never ever seen before.

The sea of faces farther away faded under the shadows of the dim houselights, yet one slouched position in the last row seemed familiar. I squinted, straining to make out features. Then the back auditorium door opened, allowing a sliver of light to temporarily highlight the person’s face.

I stared then blinked twice, certain I was imagining things. I stumbled backward as the curtain swished shut.

Wes.

My palms grew slick, and I clutched the velvet fabric like a life jacket as the stage threatened to dip under my feet. What was he doing here? He probably didn’t know anyone in the show, and even if he did, the Wes I knew wouldn’t be caught dead at such a performance. No one that snuck into a coffee shop at the slow times of day to secretly play the piano would—

My breath hitched.

Piano.

The surprise on Wes’s face as I snuck down the main aisle of the auditorium, grabbed his arm, and hauled him to the empty foyer turned to amusement as I voiced my request.

He crossed his arms over his leather jacket. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

My voice pitched like a preteen boy, and I held my arms out to the side, Jessica’s sheet music clenched in one hand. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

He studied me a moment from head to toe, the amusement fading from his chocolate-brown eyes. “No. You look beautiful.”

His quiet words stole my next line, and I inhaled sharply, suddenly wishing I’d gone for the updo Marta had suggested—then immediately hating how much I cared what he thought. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Tell the truth?”

“Be so nice.”

Our gazes locked and held, and Wes ran the back of one finger down my cheek before letting his hand hang at his side. “It’s hard not to.”

I snorted. “You never used to have trouble.”

He shrugged a little. “That was before I realized what an idiot I was.”

“Hard to argue with that.” We stared at each other. Did my eyes reflect the myriad of thoughts flickering through his own gaze? Regret. Desire. Hope.

Reality.

The sudden rush of air from the heater vents above drowned out the sounds of the muffled performance from inside, and I looked away. “We can’t have this conversation right now.”

“Then when?” Wes took a step toward me, and I automatically inched away in an all-too-familiar dance.

“I don’t know! In case you haven’t been listening, I have a lot on my plate tonight. In fact, I can’t even see the stinkin’ plate anymore.” I gestured wildly with the papers in my hand. “So far I’ve dealt with a wardrobe malfunction to rival Janet Jackson ala Super Bowl 2004, a lost CD, a bulimic contestant, and two last-minute agenda changes. If you don’t play for Jessica, I might go insane. And I’m pretty sure she
will
go insane.”

Wes tilted his head, looking down at me with an expression I couldn’t interpret. Mystery Man, at his finest—and most annoying. He finally spoke. “I don’t even know Jessica.”

“You know me.” I lowered my voice, wishing I didn’t need him, wishing I didn’t have to beg. “This show is important.”

“Why?” Wes scoffed. “It’s a bunch of high schoolers, showing off what they think is talent. And trust me, most of it isn’t.”

“Then why are you here?” I turned his question around, watched a tinge of red crawl up the hint of dark stubble on his cheeks.

I didn’t wait for his answer, mostly because I knew he wouldn’t have one he’d be willing to share. “I know why you’re here, and it’s the same reason you’re going to march yourself backstage to that piano bench and play for Jessica.”

“I don’t do high school, PK.”

“You’re not entering the competition. No one will even be looking at you. The piano is in the back corner of the stage. Trust me, Jessica will make sure all eyes are on her.” Judging by her nearly backless gown, Wes’s eyes probably would be, too. But I wouldn’t think about that. It didn’t matter.

Couldn’t.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” Wes ran his hand over his hair, ruffling the dark strands.

I reached up without thinking and brushed it out of his eyes, my bare arms breaking out into a series of goose bumps on contact. “I think I do.”

“Trust me.” He caught my wrist, holding it with a firm grasp. “You don’t.”

Tugging free, I shook my head. “I can’t fail at this, Wes.” I lowered my voice, waiting until a late audience member slipped past us and disappeared through the double doors. Another round of applause washed through the foyer before the doors eased shut. There wasn’t time to waste. Jessica would be up soon, and Wes hadn’t even glimpsed the sheet music I still held.