The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,16

of Jay’s friends tells me.

“So, you guys liked her?”

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug, like this is only a big deal for one of us and it ain’t him.

“You don’t think any of your friends would try to break them up?” I ask.

“Like you used to?”

I take a deep breath. Yep, still hurts. “Exactly.”

“No. She was cool. It’s a shame about her being a Red Sox fan,” he says.

“So that’s why he dumped her?”

He struggles for words, which seems like a usual occurrence for half the guys at school.

“Nah. He liked her. I think he was mostly mad about the fantasy football thing. My man had built an amazing defensive line.”

“Right, right.”

The information I get doesn’t help me. I still have the same questions. Answers never used to be this difficult. But I haven’t met my match. Merely a person who successfully harnessed the element of surprise.

***

Theater Arts is one of those blow-off electives that, as a senior, you’ve earned. It’s forty-three minutes of watching televised plays and “analyzing” the performances. Our classroom is the school auditorium, which means comfy seats that put me to sleep faster than a rocking chair. Mr. Szymanski—or just Mr. S because you’re never going to pronounce that name correct on the first try—is two years away from retirement. He cares the least out of all of us. That’s why it’s such a shock—nay, offense—when he charges into class and slams his hand on the podium and yells, “You’re at an airport!”

My classmates and I trade glances and nervous smiles.

“Stand up,” he says in his booming, I-coulda-been-Zeus-in-a-past-life voice. His arms flail up in a similar directive. “You’re at an airport.”

It’s ageist of me to wonder if Mr. S has gone senile, but res ipsa kinda loquitor, dontcha think?

He adjusts his sweater vest over his gut and gives us a self-aware grin, a sign that his mental capacity is in check. He slams his hand on the podium, and I can feel the vibration in my chest. My back jolts straight against the cushion.

“One of your lovely parents complained to the principal about my teaching methods. Apparently, studying the great works of theater and acting giants in their element is akin to ‘watching a bunch of movies.’” He paces the stage with gusto. He’s delivering his best performance of the year. “And since my curricula must be determined by helicopter parents and not my twenty-eight years of experience, then so be it. We’re going to complete an improvisational exercise today. You will all create a fully formed character that you will act out in class. So—” He’s about to slam his hand but fakes us out, much to the class’s relief. “You’re at an airport.”

We stand up and stumble around like zombies, figuring out what to do. Laurence Olivier in Hamlet never had to go to an airport. Most of us check our phones, which is something I do at airports, to be fair.

“What is this? This isn’t theater!” Mr. S says. Looks like none of us can enjoy our senioritis, him included. “You must interact with each other! This is long-form drama. And you’re being graded.”

Laurie Henderson falls to the feet of two guys in the front row and launches into a story about her dead husband, complete with Southern accent. (I wonder who the helicopter parents belong to.) I pretend I’m a janitor and push a fake broom up and down the aisle. Acting isn’t really my forte. I’m more of a behind-the-scenes player.

One of my classmates, the sweet ginger Leo Garrison, charges up to me holding pretend bags of luggage, his face in a panic. “Excuse me! Do you know where Gate B13 is? Oh, no, I’m going to miss my flight! My wife is giving birth to octuplets right now!”

We stand there in an awkward moment, as it’s obvious my acting skills are limited. I look to him to keep our repartee going, but he’s got nothing.

“I’m just a janitor.” I sweep a pile of pretend trash into my pretend dustpan.

Leo bites his lip and casts glances at a preoccupied Mr. S. He’s busy watching Laurie, who’s now crying on the shoulder of an unsuspecting classmate.

“Well, thanks for your help,” he says. He stands there for an awkward moment, deciding if he should say something else before finally moving on.

And then I go back to sweeping. By myself. Kids slowly break out of their shells and interact with each other. I remain aloof, like a real janitor would, and get some thinking