Read Online Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK by Betsy St. Amant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Betsy St. Amant
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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.
Chapter Eight
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,
“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.
Chapter Eight
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,
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