The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,2
Mr. Potts’ class, where Model UN meetings are held.) And the final clue: Find me in haiku heaven. Locker ____. Three numbers. (Answer: Locker 575. Jake’s locker.) I’m not sure if number answers are allowed in crossword puzzles, but it’s 1 a.m. on Sunday night, and I’m exhausted.
Application: Put the plan into motion. The next morning, I slip the first clue into Paulina’s locker during third period. I used to use a special key from my Break-Up Artist tenure that could open any locker in school, but I prefer to be legit in my new operation. No more crossing the lines.
Celebration: IT WORKED! THANK YOU SO MUCH! YOU’RE THE BEST! WE’RE GOING ON OUR FIRST DATE TONIGHT!!—text from Jake one week later.
That’s how it’s done. I want my clients to be happy, but they don’t come to me—and pay me—for a wing and a prayer. Some people may criticize my methods as meddlesome or fit for a four-star general. But you can’t just go into battle and hope for the best. That’s matchmaking. Relationship engineering means doing everything in your power to know the outcome beforehand. People forget that, while love can be wonderful and life-affirming, it’s also one fickle beast. Thus, it is my job to tame the beast. And I mean that in a totally non-masturbatory way.
***
I try not to stare when Jake and Paulina stroll hand in hand in the hall two weeks later. I do that 1-2-3-look that forces me to glimpse rather than gawk. I need SPF 30 to handle the brightness emanating from Ashland’s newest bf/gf. They are a sight to behold, one of those couples that seem so natural that you don’t know why they weren’t together already. I admire my handiwork for a final 1-2-3-look before moving on.
“Hey there, creeper.”
An arm wraps around my shoulders. I yelp and jump about five feet in the air. The owner of the arm stumbles back, and I immediately blush with embarrassment. I should’ve noticed the scent of woodsy body wash and deodorant, the thicket of light brown arm hairs by his elbow, the red glob of a Spider-Man watch on his narrow wrist. It could only be one person.
Fred Teplitzky.
My boyfriend.
“Sorry,” I say. Fred remains close to the wall, in case I’m not finished freaking out.
“I forgot how much you hate surprises.”
“I like surprises when I know I’m getting a surprise. Opening a birthday present. That’s a good surprise.”
I give him a head nod, a green light for him to return to position. And so he does. I feel the warmth of his arm and chest, and butterflies burst out of their cocoons and flap around in my stomach. Usually, I hate PDA, but the excitement of seeing Jake and Paulina together has put me in a better-than-usual mood.
“I was not creeping,” I tell him.
“You are beyond guilty of creeping in the first degree. You really need to work on your 1-2-3-look.”
“Was I that obvious?”
Fred’s face seems to be made out of putty, molding into a thousand different expressions. His forehead crinkles into lines I could write cursive on. “Kinda. Then again, I was creeping on you, so that makes us equally disturbing.”
We pass a bulletin board still adorned with back-to-school language about applying yourself and how happy the school is to have us all back, even though it’s the end of September already. The o’s in “school” are pumpkins.
I glance up at Fred, into eyes that have the transparent glow of light blue. We’ve been together three months, and luckily, my neck doesn’t hurt yet.
It’s still weird to me that I have a boyfriend. I’ve never had a boyfriend or anything close to one, and now I do. We had some awkward, but enjoyable dates in May and June. We had no idea what we were doing, but that was part of the charm. Fred made it official on the Fourth of July. We sat on a blanket on the football field as fireworks exploded above us, and fireworks always make a moment seem more important, like it’s happening in slow motion.
Don’t worry. I haven’t gone full-tilt relationship zombie. While so many girls at school slip comfortably into girlfriend mode, I’m still adjusting. I can’t just tack “my boyfriend” on to all of my declarative statements so easily. This is a big life shift, and excuse me for still adjusting. I like to think the president of the United States still has to say to himself “I am the president of the United States”