Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK (3 page)

Luke was leaning against the water fountain as promised, one ankle hooked over the other. It was like a scene from a
90210
rerun, and the corny factor of this entire rendezvous hit me full force.

I stopped in front of him, my textbook held defensively across my chest. “Hi.” I wanted to crack a hero joke about his rescue earlier but couldn’t think of one fast enough.

“Hi there.” He grinned, slow, and it fluttered my stomach a little.

But not as much as Wes’s smile. I tried to tamp down my disappointment. It wasn’t Luke’s fault. Speaking of Wes, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing. He was eighteen, according to the folks at the church, so he obviously had graduated before moving here—or maybe dropped out. He didn’t look like the college type, and I didn’t think he had a job—not by the way he always seemed to show up at the used bookstore or coffee shop every time I did. His dad, Mr. Keegan, had been in our church congregation several years. All that time of nodding and smiling hello on Sunday mornings, and I never knew he had a son. How was that possible?

“Need an escort to your next class?” Luke straightened, moving a step closer to me and jerking me out of my long-lashed, leather-scented daydream.

I blinked. Did he really just say
escort?
I bit my lower lip, instincts torn between accepting his offer—which was sweet in a Disney Channel movie sort of way—and getting the heck out of Dodge before this sudden friendship took a wrong assumption. Slowly, I shook my head. “Luke, I really don’t—”

He eased my book from my white-knuckled grip, and before I could argue, shouldered my tote bag. “Where to?” He started walking before I could answer.

I watched helplessly as my books went without me. “Wrong way.” I pointed over my shoulder to the west bank of classrooms. “Spanish.”

“Thanks for clarifying.” Luke smiled as he turned and passed me, now heading toward my next class. “Are you coming, or am I just taking your books for a walk?”

I laughed, despite the knot forming in my gut. Nothing wrong with being—what had he said? escorted?—to class. Besides, if Austin was lurking somewhere, at least this would ward off another immature mating-ritual attempt on his part. I caught up to Luke in a few quick strides and led the way to Spanish.

The look on Claire’s face as we passed the open door of her history class made the entire ordeal worth it.

“How was school?” Dad asked his most-overused question between mouthfuls of spaghetti. He always chose pasta on his nights to cook, the cheater. Even bachelors can boil water.

I twirled a few noodles onto my fork, wishing he’d taken the time to make real sauce instead of the jarred variety. The spices were never as good bottled. “It was fine.”

“Get any test scores back?” He picked up a second piece of garlic bread, and I fought the urge to remind him he was watching his carbs.

“An A on a quiz in English.” Thankfully, after Ms. Hawthorne’s glowing reviews from last year’s teachers. Anything less would have been awkward.

Dad nodded in approval. “Congratulations. Who is your teacher this year?”

“Ms. Hawthorne. She’s new this year. I think her name is Karen. No, wait. Kathy.”

He coughed violently into his napkin.

“You okay, Dad?” I rose halfway from my chair, unsure if I should pound him on the back or call 911. What was that rule about if they’re coughing, they’re breathing?

Dad cleared his throat, lowering his napkin to his lap. “Fine, fine. Just went down the wrong pipe.” He sipped from his water glass. “Well, congratulations on the A.”

“You already said that.” I thought about raising my eyebrow at him, but he was already absorbed in sprinkling what looked like the rest of the parmesan cheese onto his plate. So much for his diet.

A sudden
tink
sounded at the living-room window. I glanced over my shoulder then back. Dad frowned, setting the empty cheese canister on the table. “That better not be those neighborhood kids again.” He started to stand, but I beat him to it.

“I’ll handle it, Dad. Finish your dinner.” Maybe by the time I came back, he’d find a topic to discuss other than school. I edged into the living room and peered behind the curtains out the front window. Darkness peered back, save for a shadow under the street lamp across the road.

A lone shadow.

The spaghetti flipped in my stomach, and it had nothing to do with the bland sauce. “It’s a stray dog, Dad. I’m gonna run it off.” Not a complete lie. I pulled open the front door and stepped onto the porch before he could answer.

The cool night air chilled my arms, and I rubbed them with my hands as I crossed the street, my heart pounding so loud I was sure the entire neighborhood would hear it and call the police on charges of disturbance. Wes waited just outside the circle of light pooling on the concrete under the lamp.

“Took you long enough.” He straightened from his slouched position beside the pole but didn’t take his hands from his jacket pockets. Still, I felt his imagined embrace with the same intensity I did most nights in my dreams. And from the look in his eyes, he was thinking the same.

But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t blond, I wasn’t a skank, and my belly button was safely tucked away under my thick purple sweater.

“What’d you do, throw a rock from twenty yards?” I snorted like I wasn’t flattered. It shouldn’t matter what he did for me or thought of me.

But it did.

A lot.

He shrugged. “I’ve got a good arm.”

“Then why are you slumming around Crooked Hollow instead of playing for the pros?” It was sarcasm, my usual defense against Wes’s see-right-through-me gaze, but this time it didn’t bounce off the chip on his shoulder as usual. Instead, his eyes flickered, like it ricocheted right into his heart.

The flicker disappeared as quickly as it’d happened, and he shrugged again, a flirty light replacing the uncertainty of moments ago. This time my stomach twitched, and I wished for the safety of the flicker. It didn’t do nearly the same to my poor insides. Good thing I hadn’t gone for the second helping of noodles.

“Professional sports teams tend to frown on jail records.”

“What? You’ve never—” The words froze on my tongue, and I swallowed them, cold and hard. I had no idea if he’d been arrested before. Actually, the things I truly knew about Wes could be counted on maybe one and a half hands—and that was if he was telling the truth about the number of his tattoos. I sort of figured he was lying about that one.

He took a step toward me, his jacket opening slightly at the neck and revealing a hunter-green pullover. “Never what?”

“Nev–never mind.” I hated that I stuttered. Poodle Girl probably never stuttered. Then again, she might not have all the motor skills I did, so it could be a poor comparison.

He laughed, the sound husky and warm. “You really think I’ve been to jail? Give me some credit here, PK.”

I hated that label, but the nickname he’d twisted it into somehow caused more flutters than aggravation. I shrugged. “How was I supposed to know? You’ve only been here a few months.” More like four months and three days, almost to the hour, but who was counting? “Anything is possible.”

“You’re easy to tease.” He reached and tweaked my hair, and the nerves on the back of my neck tingled as if I’d been electrocuted. “What else do you believe about me?”

That you’re not anything like what you seem
. But I couldn’t say that out loud, so I rolled my lower lip beneath my teeth and shrugged like I couldn’t care in the least.

His eyes sparkled beneath the lamplight, and he tilted his head, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. “Here’s a secret, Addison. It’s not all true.” He took a step closer.

I edged backward away from him, my heart screaming at me to go the other way into his arms. Somehow I just knew if I made that first step, they’d open welcomingly, like they did for Poodle Girl.
Stop it, Addison. Wes is trouble. You’re not that girl
. But something in his eyes convinced me I could be.

“Addison!”

In the time it took me to look toward my father bellowing from our front door, Wes sidestepped out of the light puddling on the sidewalk and into the shadows.

“Coming, Dad!” I turned back to Wes to say good-bye, but he was gone. Poof. Only the subtle hint of leather and aftershave teasing the wind convinced me I hadn’t dreamed the entire encounter in the first place. I stood there like an idiot, searching the darkness for proof I wasn’t crazy, until my dad’s persistence beckoned me home.

I trudged up the front walk with my hands hooked in my jeans pockets, positive Wes’s gaze burned into my back with every step. I refused to reward him with the amusement of a backward glance—wherever he was. It was okay. He’d be back. The thought brought equal parts relief and anxiety.

Dad held the screen door open for me as I hurried inside. “You shouldn’t mess with strays, Addison. It’s dangerous.”

Don’t I know it.

Y
ou’re still going to meet me at the library during study hall, right?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose against the headache pounding at my temples as I waited for Claire to finish applying her lip gloss in the bathroom mirror. No amount of caffeine seemed to help me wake up today.

After my impromptu, clandestine meeting in the street last night, I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts of Wes swirled through my mind, and no matter how many times I tried to count sheep, I ended up counting motorcycles and tattoos. What was wrong with me? Was it possible to have a midlife crisis at sixteen? Guys like Wes had never appealed to me before. They just made me want to hand them a button-down shirt and a bottle of hair gel and tell them to get over themselves and lose the drama.

But Wes was different. Something about his outer persona and his eyes didn’t match. The difference screamed “faker,” but not in the obnoxious, plastic way of someone trying to be something they weren’t. No, Wes’s image shouted something else, but I couldn’t make out exactly what.

Not with my legs turning to mush beneath me every time he smiled. Talk about hard to focus.

“Yes, for the tenth time, I’ll be there.” Claire smacked her lips twice before putting her tube of gloss back in her purse.

“And you know where the library is?”

“Addison.” The raking of the zipper on her purse punctuated her frustration.

“Sorry, just making sure.”

“You underestimate me.” She swept past, and the bathroom door nearly hit me in the shoulder as I followed her toward her locker.

“I know. But that project is due for Mr. Black’s class Monday, and we’ve barely made a dent in it.” Biology, ugh. Not my favorite subject and usually the messiest. What teacher assigned such a big project that was due so soon after the start of school anyway? It should be illegal—and this coming from a girl who actually enjoyed school most days. I could only imagine what the less-than-studious types were thinking. Probably nothing PG.

“You’ve never even made a B in your entire life. What’s the big deal?” Claire wiggled her fingers in a wave as we passed Austin’s locker, and he nodded at her but winked at me. I turned my head the other direction and continued, ignoring Claire’s pout.

“Yes, I have.” I think. It would have been in elementary school, but it still counted. I wasn’t perfect—regardless of what my dad thought.

A shadow nestled on her face. “I said I’d be there.”

“I hope so because you know I can’t come up with a cell model by myself in time—”

Claire held up one hand so fast she almost hit me in the nose. “I’ll be there.” She fiddled with her combination and yanked open the door. Someone had taped a flyer advertising the annual end-of-the-semester talent show on her locker, and already a penciled mustache and devil horns adorned the photo of last year’s winner.

I pulled it down and handed it to her, knowing she wouldn’t want that on her door. She barely even glanced at it as she shoved it inside her locker. “I’ll bring you a pop, okay?” A little extra bribe couldn’t hurt. I didn’t trust Claire’s motivation much these days. A fact, sad but true. High school had changed my friend, and I missed the middle-school girl who used to invite me over for sleepovers and always gave me the biggest brownie. I couldn’t even picture Claire baking anymore, not without a designer apron tied around her waist and her manicured hands protected by plastic gloves. My sandbox buddy was long gone, lost somewhere beneath two layers of makeup and freshly waxed eyebrows.

“Sure. Whatever. See you in a bit.” She banged the door shut and left without a wave.