The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,20

Is she genuinely happy for me? Every time I asked Val what she thought about Fred, and me and Fred together, she responded with an emphatic “Yes!” That’s Val, though. Outwardly supportive. Opting for cheerfulness over truthfulness.

“I hope Paulina realizes how lucky she is,” Melanie says.

“Yep.” I nod and yawn as the mid-afternoon doldrums catch up with me. “I’m sorry. I need my caffeine.”

“I know. I wish I could get it intravenously or something.”

I place my order and blush in front of the cute barista. He’s one of those guys who make multiple face piercings sexy.

Melanie joins me in the waiting area once she pays. “Jake is unbelievably happy. Totally smitten. It’s really sweet.” She shrugs. She’s low energy, no exclamation points. As much as I love hanging out with Val, I appreciate the slower change of pace.

“Don’t worry. It’ll pass soon.”

She gives me an odd look, and I notice the lack of irony in her voice. “He is always smiling now. Even after I whooped his ass in hoops. We tried to set him up with Paulina over the summer, but it didn’t work. After the last few years with his parents’ divorce, he needed this.”

“You’re really happy for him?”

“Of course. He’s my best friend.” She says it like it’s a fact, which it is, but you never hear of a girl being so happy that her friend is coupled off while she isn’t. Maybe it’s different because Jake is a guy. There’s no competition. “Weren’t your friends happy when you began dating Fred?”

The question lingers in my mind. Val was ecstatic, but she’s ecstatic about everything. I wonder if she has this whole con list in her head that she’s afraid to tell me.

”Extra-large Pumpkin Spice Surprise!”

I swipe my drink right out of the barista’s hands.

“And happy fall to you, too,” he says with a smile. And I, of course, blush.

“Maybe we’ll do it again some time,” Melanie says to me.

“We’re both coffee addicts, so probably.”

***

Fred and I hang out in his room doing homework that night. (Sixty-five percent making out, thirty-five percent homework. Ugh, test tomorrow.) It’s hard to concentrate, though, when Spider-Man keeps staring at us like a total perv from above the bed.

“Isn’t it creepy having the guy’s face right next to you while you sleep?”

“Jealous?” Fred tosses goldfish crackers into his mouth with aplomb.

I lean against his chest reading my textbook and taking notes, while he does the same. We stay like this for a good half hour, which is amazing for us, and it’s a nice quiet, a comfortable quiet. It’s one thing to be dating someone, but to share non-awkward silence is the real deal, a major hurdle cleared in any relationship. Now, does that equal love? I don’t know.

I hate not knowing.

Why can’t there be a love SAT? If you get a certain score, that means you’re in love. That’s how you’ll know.

Fred’s breathing constricts a little bit; I can hear his heart speed up in his chest. “Is something wrong?” I ask.

“I need to tell you something.”

I leap up instantly and prepare myself for this “something.”

Fred meanders to his desk. He opens up a drawer and pulls out a stack of purple papers.

“You’re applying to Bartlett?”

Fred sits in his blue-and-black desk chair and wheels up to the bed. “Yeah. I spoke to the guidance counselor. I decided to apply early decision.”

I nod that I heard, not that I understand.

“My dad actually went to Bartlett. He’s from Chicago, and we still have family in the city. A few weeks ago, he asked me if I’d thought about his alma mater. He’d never pushed it before. I didn’t tell him about you. It was like a cosmic coincidence.” Fred’s eyes go wide with excitement. I feign a smile, even though dread bubbles up inside me.

“The more I looked into it, well…it’s a good school.”

“A great school.” I should be happy. C’mon, Becca. Please be happy.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure if I could get the materials in by deadline, so I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

If only that’s what he had to be worried about. I fan my face. Suddenly, his Ikea lamp seems to have the wattage of a tanning booth.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a little hot,” I say.

“What do you think? Is this freaking you out? My mom joked that I was pulling a Felicity, whatever that means,” he says. “I’m not applying to Bartlett because of you. It’s a good school. My dad loved