Free Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK by Betsy St. Amant

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.”
    “That will be lovely, dear.” Poor Mrs. Lyons flapped so hard I thought she might take off in flight.
    “And I—”
    “Next!”
    A guy from the football team and his ventriloquist dummy bumped Jessica into the wings. I winced. Those things always freaked me out. Jessica must have agreed, judging by the way she quickly fled the stage.
    The football player took his place on a stool and braced the doll on his lap. “Hello, everyone.” He used a high voice as he opened the mouth of the doll, but his own lips were clearly moving—obvious even from this distance.
    Marta and I exchanged glances. Looked like we were going to have to get
very
creative.

    Mystery meat again. High school was so cliché. I inched my way up in line at the cafeteria, debating the lesser of two evils. Gowith a veggie plate and be hungry later, or risk death by meat loaf?
    If that was even meat loaf.
    “So I hear you’re helping with the talent show.” Claire’s voice rang out behind me, a mixture of scorn and disbelief.
    I refused to turn and give her the satisfaction of my full attention, so I just slid my tray along the rails in front of the protective food covers. “Sort of.”
    “What do you mean?” She pressed in close behind me, as evidenced by a sudden waft of her designer perfume. Not a pleasant aroma when mixed with the smell of lumpy gravy.
    “I’m organizing a fund-raiser so the proceeds this year can go to a good cause.”
    “How noble of you.” Claire snorted.
    “Thanks.” Treat sarcasm with sarcasm—worked with Wes, anyway. I nodded when the cafeteria server offered me mashed potatoes and shook my head vehemently when she held up a spoonful of steamed spinach. At least here at school I had the freedom to choose what I wanted to eat without worrying about Dad following in my carb-lover’s footsteps.
    Claire’s tray clattered onto the rails behind mine. “I saw you watching the auditions. What did you think?”
    “Of what?” If she was fishing for compliments, I wasn’t about to bite.
    She nodded at the cafeteria lady to load her plate with the mystery meat. Brave soul. “My piece. I’m doing a fashion demonstration.”
    Why was I not surprised? I shrugged. “Sorry, I didn’t see it. We left early.” More like Marta and I ran for our lives after suffering through Jack Johnson’s bumbled misquoting of “The Raven.” I could just picture Edgar Allan Poe rolling in his grave.
    “We?” Claire frowned.
    “Marta and I.”
    Claire’s nose tilted toward the ceiling at Marta’s name as if yanked up by a marionette string. “Oh.” Disdain dragged the word out several syllables longer than necessary. “Well, whatever. You should have stuck around for the good stuff.” Claire accepted a dollop of congealed mac and cheese from the server.
    I bypassed it and went for the fruit cup, debating whether to defend Marta or let it go and avoid yet another showdown at Crooked Hollow High. “I think
good
is relative at this talent show.” Best to simply focus on the subject at hand