Addison Blakely: Confessions of A PK Read Online Free PDF Page B

casserole.
    “Which isn’t too far away.”
    “Exactly.” I appeased him by adding more pepper before sliding the casserole into the oven then had an idea. I casually shut the oven door. “You know, if
you
cooked three nights a week instead of two then you could decide how much—”
    “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