The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,14
dirtbag would usually cave or give some tell. The girl keeps displaying the picture in question, and this time, I grab her hand when she passes and make a closer inspection.
“Get off!” she yells but gives up quickly. “What is it?”
I stare at the photo, taking in every pixel. The Photoshopping is so obvious only someone as hysterical as an angry girlfriend could miss it. Amateurs.
“Look behind that girl.”
“You mean that slut!” the angry girlfriend shouts.
“Yes. Her.” I point the screen at her. “What’s behind her? What’s that light?”
The girl peers closer. My calmness is rubbing off on her. “Sunlight?”
“Correct. It’s bright, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Like it’s the middle of the day or something.”
She nods, not getting it. The boyfriend sidles up to us to get a gander.
“And behind your boyfriend, what’s that reddish, purple-y thing?”
“Um, a sunset?”
“Correct again!” I nod with wide eyes, encouraging her like a kindergarten teacher.
“So, they were taken at different times of day?” she asks slowly, as it clicks for her. “This isn’t the same picture.”
I shake my head no. The boyfriend yanks the phone and holds it to his nose. “This is a fake photo! I’m innocent!” He high-fives his friend in the crowd, then swoops up his girlfriend in a kiss. I get nods of approval from the group.
Before going to third period, I stop by Mrs. Farley’s Honors English class. Kids get out their notebooks and pens. The girl sitting front row, center has all her supplies neatly arranged before her. I give a knock-knock on her desk. She looks up from her copious notes.
“You’re getting sloppy, Judy. Real sloppy.”
“Oh, hi, Becca. I have no idea what—”
I hold up my hand. I’m not getting a tardy over this amateur. “That was the worst photo doctoring I’ve ever seen. You couldn’t spend an extra ten seconds adjusting the light levels?”
Judy cowers in her seat. Her long French braid slinks off her shoulder. “Did they notice?”
“I noticed. And now they’re back together.”
“Come on, Becca! That’s the third scheme you’ve ruined.”
I was proud of myself for ceasing my Break-Up Artist career last year. I hurt people. I destroyed precious relationships. But I also created a whole new cottage industry. And just because I decided to stop breaking up couples for cash doesn’t mean the demand went away. So it’s only natural that some socially neutral entrepreneur, like this sophomore Judy, would try to follow in my footsteps. I don’t condone her actions at all, but I won’t let her make money off poorly executed plans either.
“It’s not fair,” Judy says, indignant like a spoiled child. “How can I run a successful business when you keep botching all my plans?”
“Then try harder.”
“But you’ll always outsmart me. Nobody does this better than you.”
I blush at the compliment. It’s nice being known as the best at something. When I was in junior high, I thought I’d be the kid who could run the mile the fastest, but I’m much happier with this superlative. Less sweating. No sports bra needed. I shake off the compliment and get back to business.
“I want to discuss Bari and Jay.” My hands clamp both sides of her desk, careful not to mess up her studious arrangement. “Were you hired to break them up? And don’t lie to me.”
Judy pinches her mouth into a tight pucker. “Why do you always assume I’m the bad guy?”
“Because you’re the new me. Or at least trying to be,” I say. “You were sloppy again.”
“I wasn’t sloppy. I didn’t break up Bari and Jay.”
I roll my eyes. It’s one thing to try her half-baked schemes on unassuming couples, but to mess with my business? That’s crossing the line. I think about plain lasagna noodles, sitting uncooked in a pantry. “Then how did Jay’s fantasy football thing get messed with?”
“Computer glitch? I don’t know. I didn’t do it. Seriously.”
For a Break-Up Artist, Judy is a terrible liar. Her voice gets squeaky when she’s being dishonest. To my mounting frustration, though, I hear no squeak. Judy is as innocent as her outfit.
I take my hands off her desk.
She shrugs her shoulders. “I guess there’s another Break-Up Artist out there.” She readjusts her glasses and smirks. “And it seems like she’s pretty damn good.”
“How do you know they’re a she?”
“I don’t. I just believe in using female pronouns whenever I can to fight back against the male patriarchy.” I shoot her a nasty look. “Honest.”
“Well, she’s not good. She’s sloppy. It’s disgustingly obvious that Jay got hacked, and some old video of rowdy cousins