Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (5 page)

“Nice try.” He actually smiled, and I found myself relaxing at his lack of pinched brow.

He must have had a good day. Certainly better than mine. It was probably wise not to tell him about my near run-in with the law at the grocery store. Although really, I doubt they’d have even noticed it if I hadn’t come back. Sometimes a high moral code is more hassle than benefit. However, being a PK busted for theft is not a scandal I wanted to experience personally.

But dating the local bad boy is?

My conscience taunted me, and I slapped the oven mitt on the counter to drown it out. “Who wants brownies?” My falsetto sounded unconvincing even to my own ears as my dad enthusiastically raised his hand. I hid my burning face in the refrigerator, pretending to search for the eggs that sat on the top shelf directly in front of me.

Too bad the answers I craved weren’t as easily accessible.

Sunday morning came way too quickly, but I guess that’s what happens when one spends her entire weekend preparing a group project solo. I buttoned the top button of my purple cardigan, knowing I’d be more likely to get away with wearing my above-the-knee skirt and knee-high brown boots if my top half screamed conservatism. It was either pure genius how well I’d pegged my dad’s radar over the years—or pitiful.

The birds greeted me with a chorus as I stepped outside and locked the door behind me. Dad had given up long ago on convincing me to go to church as early as he did on Sunday mornings. I made him late—which to him meant showing up one hour before service started instead of two—enough times that I wiggled off that particular hook.

I adjusted my purse on my shoulder, heavy with Jane Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice
, which was silly since I knew I wouldn’t read in church even if I could get away with it. Mrs. Vanderford, the lady who always sat in the second pew to my third, had big hair all right, but not that big. Still, I felt lonely without a book in my constant possession.

Likely yet another reason I was sixteen and without a boyfriend.

The birds’ song grew slightly more bitter than pretty as I huffed up the corner to Victoria Street, already regretting my choice of pinching footwear. The bad thing about living in a small town—okay, one of the many bad things about living in a small town—was that since everywhere I had legitimate reason to go was in walking distance, it was pointless to have my own car. Or so Dad said. Frankly, I thought he just used that as an excuse not to have to up our insurance plan, but whatever. Pipe dream not to walk the tips or soles off at least one pair of my shoes.

I turned right onto Georgiana Drive and caught movement from the corner of my eye. I did a double take. Poodle Girl—wow, I really needed to learn her name—was getting a newspaper from the end of her driveway, dressed in a fluffy pink robe with curlers in her hair and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. She hesitated as she saw me, and I wished I had the guts to snap a picture on my cell phone. Wouldn’t Wes like to see what his Barbie-doll girlfriend looked like in real color?

She straightened, the plastic bag dangling from her hand as she inhaled on her cigarette. “What are you looking at?” The hard stare returned, replacing the previous moment of vulnerability. Her gaze dropped to the Bible in my left hand, and her eyebrow twitched.

“Nothing.” I shrugged. “Nice robe.”

“Nice boots.” She studied me so intently I couldn’t decide if she meant the reply as a genuine compliment or insult. Sincethey were clearance rack, probably the latter. I started to walk again, unwilling to engage in a verbal showdown before church. What was the point?

“He talks about you, you know.”

I stopped and slowly turned to meet her gaze, my heart pounding in my chest. “Who?” But we both knew I knew exactly who she meant.

She blew out a puff of smoke. “He says you’re cute.” She smirked, and this time I knew without a doubt it was an insult. Lemon drops versus gummi bears.

I was too sweet.

My chest heated under my sweater, and I abruptly kept walking without reply, hearing only her haughty laughter trailing in my wake. The birds’ treetop melody once again pierced the morning as I hurried up the street toward the church.

This time they sounded downright angry.

I wasn’t supposed to be that bored at church. But the beauty of it was I’d learned to hide it over the years. Everywhere else you looked, teenagers popped their gum, scribbled notes on their bulletin about where they wanted to eat lunch (actually, the deacons did that sometimes, too), and whispered as if the pulpit wasn’t ten yards away. I guess that’s why they didn’t sit by me anymore. I’d had a bunch of church friends in elementary school, then once we all became teenagers and realized there were actual consequences for our choices, I was unofficially shunned. I guess they thought I’d tattle on their gossiping during the hymns and flirting during the sermons. Ridiculous, as Dad could easily see all that for himself. Though maybe part of me wanted to join them some mornings, just for the entertainment value.

Don’t get me wrong, my dad wasn’t a bad preacher. He was good, as far as that went. He had the composition down right, the presentation. But lately he lacked passion. I tried to pinpoint a point in time, tried to figure out exactly when his zeal had dissipated, but I couldn’t be sure.

I couldn’t even be sure I’d ever felt it for myself in the first place.

Across the aisle, tall, dark-haired Mr. Keegan shifted positions, tugging his almost-too-short pant leg down over his black dress socks and nearly knocking his Bible from his lap. I quickly looked away before he caught me staring. Mr. Keegan had been in the congregation for at least five years, yet I’d never spoken more than two words to him until I met Wes and realized they were father and son. Actually, we spoke the same two words, followed by a polite nod.
Good morning
. That’s about it. It was sort of awkward looking him in the eye, knowing how I felt about his son.

And knowing what would happen if anyone else knew.

I tuned back in as Dad wrapped up his extended sermon on David, running for his life from his numerous enemies. Once a king in a palace, now hiding away in a cave in the wilderness. Funny how things change.

In front of me, Mrs. Vanderford shifted positions, temporarily blocking my view of Dad with her big, dark hair.

And funny how they don’t.

The organ played a closing chorus to the invitation down the aisle, and I gathered my Bible and purse, eager to beat the crowd out the front doors and get home. This time I’d take the longer route a block over to avoid Poodle Girl’s house. Not that she’d likely be in the driveway again—I didn’t exactly peg her for the outdoorsy type—but I wasn’t ready for round two. Not while still reeling from round one. I still couldn’t figure out why her words had affected me so badly. Was she lying about Wes talking about me? Playing the exchange back over in my mind, I could almost detect a hint of jealousy in her voice. Or was that just wishful thinking?

In my distraction, I nearly mowed over a man making his way down the aisle in front of me. “Whoops, sorry.” I patted the person’s shoulder in apology before realizing it was Mr. Keegan.

He smiled down at me. “No problem.”

I averted my gaze, certain my feelings were welling in my eyes. Could he tell I’d just been daydreaming about his son? Would he care?

Heaven knew my father would.

“Excuse me.” I tried to ease around him, but Mr. Keegan stepped to the side, motioning me to join him.

“I’m glad I saw you. I need to ask you a question.” Mr. Keegan hesitated, his deep-brown eyes, so like Wes’s, troubled. “I’m a little worried about how my son is fitting in here at Crooked Hollow. Have you met Wes?”

I tried to swallow the knot tightening my throat, to no avail. I coughed, eyes watering. Great, I was going to die in the third pew of my church in front of Wes’s father. I coughed again and finally managed a nod. “Once or twice.” Little did he know I could give him a mental transcript of every word Wes and I had spoken together.

“Good.” Mr. Keegan rocked back on his heels. “You grew up in Crooked Hollow. Maybe you could show him around.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice, his breath so minty fresh I wondered if he’d downed an entire pack of Altoids. “Help him find some
good
friends.” His emphasis on the word
good
made me wonder if he’d seen Wes with Poodle Girl as well. If so, no wonder he looked so tired. She wasn’t exactly the type of girl to bring home to the parents.

I hesitated, not sure exactly what I was agreeing to. “You want me to be your son’s tour guide?”

“Unofficially. Just make friends with him.” He smiled. “You seem like a nice girl. Good influence.”

My heart sank, but I forced a smile in return and agreed to give it a try. After all, isn’t that what good ol’ gummi bears do?

I
can’t believe you sold me out in Mr. Black’s class.”
Claire slammed my locker shut, barely missing my hand as I yanked it out of the way.

I met her venomous stare full-on. Usually I hated conflict—especially on a Monday morning—but Claire had pushed one button too many. “If anyone should be upset, it’s me. You never showed up at the library Friday and ignored my six hundred texts all weekend.”

Claire flipped her hair and averted her gaze as a group of students shuffled past us. “I had things going on.”

“Well, I did, too.” I spun the combination and tugged my locker back open, my indignation heating into a boil. “Like getting a decent grade on a joint project that I had to do alone.”

“I got an incomplete! That’s worse than an F.”

Seriously? I was so sick of this. All Claire could think of was herself. Typical. I shook my head as I switched out my books. “I believe that’s your own fault.”

“You’ve always covered for me before. What gives?” Claire hitched her Coach bag higher on her shoulder, and I wished I had the guts to grab it from her and throw it into my locker. Her expression would be priceless. But that wouldn’t be very PK of me.

Though today it was hard to care.

“I’m just tired of being the fallback plan, okay?” I grabbed my English text and slammed my locker closed, even harder than she had. “You took advantage of me. If it hadn’t been for Marta, I’d have been sunk. You know my grades are important to me.”

Claire frowned. “Who the heck is Marta?”

“A foreign-exchange student from Germany who saved my behind helping me think of the edible cell idea for our project. Since you ditched me.” I crossed my arms, hugging my textbook against my flushed chest.

“Weird.”

“Not weird—nice. Considerate. Helpful. All of those things that you aren’t exactly being anymore.”

“What are you trying to say?” Claire planted one hand on her jean-clad hips, disbelief shading her overly made-up eyes.

“I’m saying that’s it. Either you’re going to be my friend and act like a friend, or I’m done.” I couldn’t believe I’d actually said it. Yesterday’s exchange with Poodle Girl and my own emotional and mental roller coaster over Wes had put me over the edge. I was tired of being perpetually sweet. There was a fine line between being good and being a doormat. And I think I crossed that line with Claire years ago.

Claire’s eyebrow twitched. “You don’t want me for an enemy, Addison Blakely.”

She was right. But I was too upset to care. “See you around.” I brushed past her, accidentally bumping my shoulder against hers.

Or maybe not so accidentally.