Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (8 page)

“I think that’s a great idea.” Principal Stephens nodded his approval, the fluorescent lights in his office reflecting off his bald head. “I’m happy to leave this in your capable hands.”

“You don’t want progress reports along the way?”

“No, Addison, that’s unnecessary. You’ve proven yourself to be trustworthy and respectful at Crooked Hollow High, and I have no reason to doubt your ability to see this through.”

High compliments, though not entirely shocking. “What about the money?”

He frowned. “Are you planning on keeping it for yourself?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Wow, he really did trust me.

“The drama teacher, Mrs. Lyons, can help you if you feel you need assistance, but I’m sure she will have her hands full with auditions and organizing the talent show.” Principal Stephens frowned as he paused to think. “How about you appoint a temporary treasurer from your class to keep you accountable and help collect the money at the door the night of the show? We can get reports from both of you afterward as to the full amount collected.”

“Sounds good. I choose Marta.”

Principal Stephens picked up his pen and hovered it over a sticky note. “Marta…?”

Uh-oh. I still didn’t actually know her last name. “The foreign-exchange student from Germany. We’ve gotten to be friends, and she helped me brainstorm this fund-raiser.”

“Wonderful. Marta from Germany it is.” Principal Stephens stuck the yellow note on top of the overflowing inbox on his desk. “Will that be all, Addison? I’m afraid I have a waiting room of not-as-trustworthy students to attend to next.”

“Right.” Now I felt like telling Principal Stephens good luck. I let myself out and walked quickly through the miniature lobby to the glass front doors. But I heard the whispers directed at my back. They didn’t exactly say goody-goody (I’m too much of a lady to repeat what technically came out of their mouths), but that was the gist. Was that how Wes saw me, too? Was that why Poodle Girl had him and I didn’t? Why did it even matter?

And why did being good suddenly seem so bad?

I pushed out of the office into the deserted hallway, wishing I had the courage to skip the rest of my math class and go hide out in the library to collect my thoughts. But those guys were exactly right. I wouldn’t do something like that. A risk taker I was not.

So I just headed to class like I was supposed to, the heavy rock of “what-if” in my stomach sinking lower with every step.

The fact that I sat inside Got Beans again after school had nothing to do with how I hoped Wes would make another random appearance. And the fact that I sat in the darkest, farthest corner from the piano, as if spying, also had nothing to do with anything other than how I liked coffee, and there was a draft from the air vent at my typical table.

Right. And I was leaving town tomorrow to sing backup for Justin Bieber.

“Just call me glutton for punishment,” I muttered to my mocha. “And don’t worry, it’s not your fault you can’t cheer me up today. Some issues even chocolate can’t touch.”

“Addison, if you don’t quit talking to your coffee, I’m not giving you double shots anymore,” Bert called from the counter, where he wiped down the display case with a rag.

“Can’t a girl have a bad day?” I held up my mug. “Besides, where are my sprinkles?”

“I told you I ran out yesterday.”

“And I told you that wasn’t acceptable.”

Bert scowled then held up his hands in surrender. “Some days I swear, kid, if you weren’t the preacher’s daughter …” His voice trailed off, and he winked to show he was joking—sort of. Not like I hadn’t heard it before. People were often scared to say their mind to me, even when joking. (Claire would be an exception.) It’s like they thought since Dad was a pastor, I had a more direct line to God than they did. Or maybe they just thought I was a tattletale.

Trust me, neither was true.

I wondered what God thought about this infatuation with Wes that I couldn’t seem to shake. Probably the same thing my dad would think about it—abomination. Okay, maybe that was a little extreme, but this was Crooked Hollow, and my dad was my dad, and God was, well—you know. Yet here I was camped out in a corner of a coffee shop hoping to see my piece of forbidden fruit waltz in. If I didn’t know better, I’d be keeping a weather eye out for rogue lightning bolts. But God didn’t work that way.

Still, I was glad the sun was out.

I went back to staring at my sprinkle-less mocha, and Bert went back to cleaning, now humming as he did so. Great, more punishment on an already-glum day.

The bell jangled, and I looked up with as much pathetic enthusiasm as I had the last six times people came in and out. Too bad James Bond didn’t hold private lessons. I was an utter failure as a spy—might as well stamp a blinking neon arrow over my head.

That time it was Bert’s wife, Megan, with her weekly ledger book. She waved at me (now you
know
I’m a regular) and headed toward the partition to the employee side of the counter.

Someone caught the front door before it closed completely, and Wes walked inside. This time I managed to keep my head down as my heart rammed in my chest like a drummer on steroids. I followed his black-booted feet from under my lashes as he stopped near the counter, talked in low tones with Bert, and then headed once again to the piano.
Don’t look up, don’t look up…
. Oh, who was I kidding? I lifted my gaze and watched as he turned his back in my direction and slid onto the long piano bench. He shed his leather jacket, tossed it over the bench beside him, and then began to play.

And I don’t mean “Chopsticks.”

A complicated melody filled the air, and I stared, mesmerized, as his fingers danced over the keys. The muscles in his broad shoulders bunched then stretched beneath his dark-green thermal shirt as his arms moved the span of the keyboard.

Without even fully realizing it, I stood and made my way toward him as if drawn like a magnet. Or more accurately in mycase, like a moth to a fire.

Nothing but danger.

I stopped a few feet away and continued to watch. He didn’t see me. I was invisible to him, yet again. The fact made me more angry than awestruck, and without thinking, I plopped sideways onto the chair closest to the piano and draped my arms over the top rung.

“So the rebel without a cause has musical ability.”

His hands stopped midnote, and he darted a look sideways, his dark hair falling across his forehead. “You might say that.” He didn’t smile, but he didn’t frown. Neutral Wes. The only emotion he ever showed was sarcasm or teasing, and really, were those even emotions? My frustration grew. How dare he flaunt Poodle Girl in my face, on
my
street, act as if he was interested in me, and then run away when I tried to make an effort in return? What kind of player did he think he was?

I wanted to insult him, but his playing had been nothing but praiseworthy. I opened my mouth then shut it.

Wes quirked an eyebrow. “You look like a fish when you do that.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Seriously, Addison, just say what you want to say. I think I can take it.” He shifted on the bench to face me, his familiar scent of leather and aftershave washing over me like a tidal wave of attraction. I instinctively leaned away.

“I was going to say you play really … well.”

He smirked. “Way to tell me off, PK.”

“That’s why I hesitated. I didn’t want to give you a compliment.”

“Why not?”

“Why?” I met his steady stare and held it until I had to look away or risk never catching my breath.

“You’re a piece of work.” He shifted over on the bench.

“Can you play, too?”

Was that an invitation? There was enough room for my backside on the bench, but barely. Could I subject myself to that kind of proximity? I gulped. “Not really.”

I hesitated, curiosity finally overcoming all other emotion. “Can you read music?” There wasn’t any on the empty shelf in front of him, so he either couldn’t or didn’t need to. Playing by ear or memorization was more impressive anyway. Too bad I could do neither.

“Somewhat.” He began to play again, but this time the movements were less fluid, and I could tell I was making him nervous. The fact bolstered my spirits. I smiled.

His fingers slipped off the keys, and he cursed. “Quit grinning at me like a monkey.”

“Then give me a banana.”

Wes turned once again to face me. “Listen, Addison, let’s cut to the chase. Are you going to tell anyone about this or not?” He gestured to the piano.

I feigned deep thinking. “Of course. I was just brainstorming the graphics for the billboard I’m going to put up. Wasn’t sure how many tattoos to give you in the caricature, though.”

He didn’t laugh. “I’m not kidding.”

I wanted to say neither was I, but he was actually being serious for the first time since I’d met him, and that had to mean something. A step forward?

I swallowed my smile. “I won’t tell.”

He studied my eyes, as if determining my trustworthiness, and finally nodded once. “Thanks.” He started to play again, this time with more confidence. I leaned against the back of my chair, closed my eyes, and listened.

Today might have been a step forward, but when it came to Wes, I still had no idea which path I was heading down.

I
still don’t see why heading up a fund-raiser means I have to suffer through the auditions,” I muttered as Marta linked her arm through mine and literally propelled me down the slightly sloped, dimly lit auditorium floor toward the stage.

“You’ve got to be at least a little curious.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I know I am.” She muscled me into the tenth or eleventh row and plopped down in the aisle chair, blocking any escape attempts on my part.

I crossed my arms and leaned back in the uncomfortable folding seat, wincing as Tyler Dupree hit the wrong note on his violin. We apparently weren’t the only curious souls from the school, as several students filled sporadic chairs across the auditorium. Two or three rows of pathetic—sorry, make that hopeful—teens waiting their turn to try out lined the rows directly in front of the stage.

“Maybe seeing whom you’re promoting will help you devise an advertising scheme.” Marta leaned close to be heard over the screech of what Tyler was trying—unsuccessfully—to pass off as music. “Although I am not sure how to positively market … everyone.”

“Don’t worry. I doubt he makes it that far.” Seemed safe to say, since Mrs. Lyons had both hands clamped over her earsand shook her head at Tyler so wildly her hair swung across her glasses.

Unless there were fewer people trying out than the allotted time slots—then everyone got into the show by default.

Yikes. Tyler might have a chance after all. People could want their money back after his performance. I shook my head at the thought. “Besides, the Foundation said they have a special newsletter they can send out locally to help raise awareness for the show.”

“Ja, that will help,” Marta agreed. We both stared in silence at the stage, Marta probably thinking the same thing I was—that at this rate, we’d be lucky if even the parents showed up.

Tyler mercifully left with his violin tucked between his legs (not literally), and Jessica Daily took his place with a confident smile. While I wasn’t exactly Jessica’s biggest fan (she had plenty of those), at least I could count on my ears getting a break.

“She’s good,” Marta said without a trace of the bitterness that would have tinged my own voice. Not that I was jealous of Jessica, exactly—I had no desire to sing well—but I had to admit, having the courage to get front and center like that in front of a ruthless group of peers, with such confidence, well—it was admirable.

Stupid Wes. If I hadn’t run into him in the candy aisle of the grocery store that day, I wouldn’t be stuck worrying if being sweet and careful were suddenly bad qualities.

Jessica’s song ended, and everyone in the small audience clapped. She took a dramatic bow and waved to her fans. When she blew a kiss into the darkened room, I rolled my eyes. Looked like I would be marketing everything from a “warning, bring your own earplugs” to “warning, diva alert” for the fund-raiser.

I followed Marta’s cue, leaning over to whisper. “Surely there’s got to be some in-between talent in this school. Isn’t there someone who can do something well, yet not flaunt it?”

She laughed. “That might be asking too much. This is high school.”

Too true. “We might have to get creative with how we promote this.”

“Good job, Jessica.” Mrs. Lyons motioned for her to leave the stage, where she appeared to be glued to the center.

“Do you think that’s the best song choice for me?” Jessica waited, hands clasped behind her back. Apparently those
American Idol
auditions had brainwashed her.

“It was very nice.” Mrs. Lyons flapped her hands sideways, as if trying to fan Jessica down the steps.

She remained standing, feet braced apart. “I also plan on having live accompaniment on the piano the night of the show, for a more dramatic presentation than just that CD sound track.”