The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,18
to me, unrequited crushes. What’s the point of longing for someone and doing nothing about it? My dad told me that goals should be attainable; otherwise they’re just wishes, and there’s no genie around to help you out. It seems like most people would rather have the drama than the guy, if only to make their lives feel more interesting.
“You want to go out with Dominick?”
“Yes.”
“I can make that happen.”
“You can or you’ll try?”
“I have a good track record, so let’s go with can.”
Hot guys want to date hot girls/guys. But Leo is cute, and I think cute can go a long way. I’m not trying to rewrite hundreds of years of dating biases here, but I think if you approach the situation the right way and keep enough control, then anything is possible. The thought of Leo and Dominick together is mega-adorable. The big, cool senior and his sophomore sweetheart. I can picture it.
“I’m sure there’s like a thousand guys who he’d rather be with. You can’t just take off my glasses and turn me into a hottie. He won’t be interested.”
“You have lots of great qualities, and I am a great strategist.”
“Oh! Maybe this will help.” He reaches under his seat and pulls out his worn notebook.
My hand snaps over my mouth instantaneously. I don’t even know what my reaction looks like—a mixture of gasp and guffaw—but whatever it is, my fingers shield Leo from my first impression. Inside are beautifully drawn sketches with immaculate detailing and shading…of Dominick Salsano.
Dominick paying attention in class, daydreaming in class, dozing off in class. There’s a set of him leading some type of club meeting, and another of him playing soccer in a well-fitted uniform. Leo is like a seventeenth-century paparazzi.
I feel awkward. Five minutes ago, Leo and I were barely acquaintances; now I’ve learned too much too fast.
But I can’t let him know that. I’m all smiles and whatever about it. I basically strong-armed him into admitting his secret feelings. The only thing I can be right now is supportive.
And they are well-drawn.
“They’re nice,” I say.
“Maybe we can use them?”
No freaking way. Not a chance. Not a fraction of a chance. This isn’t some cheesy romance where Dominick would be bowled over by a gesture like this. If anyone saw that Leo had a notebook full of Dominick sketches, he would be labeled a weirdo and burgeoning serial killer. That’s the type of high school gossip that follows you for life. I quickly throw the book shut.
“You know what? Maybe…maybe once you two are dating for a while, a long while, then you can show them to Dominick as like an anniversary gift. But for now, I say let’s keep this a well-guarded secret. Just stick this in your locker and forget about it.”
Leo nods, lockstep with my plans. “Okay.”
“And why don’t you stick it in your backpack now? Like right now.”
“Me and Dominick,” Leo says once the notebook is stowed away.
“You excited?”
“I don’t know.” He drums his fingers on the chair’s arm. His reluctance makes me more interested. I like the challenge, and the more I talk to Leo, the more I like him. So if dating Dominick will make him happy, then I want to help.
“All Dominick has is a popular outer shell. Once you make it past that, he’s just like you or me. Same wants, needs, interests.”
Leo weighs the information but then shakes his head. “He’s just so…unreadable.”
“I can help you read him.”
“Not to mention unattainable…”
“I can help you attain him.”
“And impenetrable…”
“I can help you—” I stop myself. “I’ll let you handle that one.”
“Forget it, Becca,” he says, hard. Firm. Any sign of interest that lit up his face before has been yanked back. By fear, insecurity.
“What are you more scared of? That he says no or that he says yes?”
Laurie strolls up the aisle, her Southern debutante dead set on crashing our party. “Hi, there! I’m sorry. You look familiar.”
“I have a familiar face,” I say.
She gasps and retrieves a fake something—a candle maybe?—out of her pocket. She glances between me and the candle, which I’m now thinking is a photo possibly. Actual tears well up in her face. “I finally tracked you down.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mama said she gave you up for adoption during the war, and I’ve been searching all these years for you—”
“What war?” I ask. Leo and I trade glances. “What year are we in?”
Laurie ignores me, continuing with her monologue and melodrama. Golden Globes or bust, apparently. “And here you are, plopped