The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,21
it. They have a great science program. You’re just an added bonus.”
Fred has an earnest look, and I mostly believe him, but a part of me suspects that I had a lot more to do with his decision than he’s admitting. He knows me well and knows that would really freak me out. But I know him better.
“It’s exciting,” I say.
“The guidance counselor is going to rush my transcript, and my teachers are going to send in letters of recommendations immediately.”
He waits for my response. His eyes search mine frantically, moving rapidly to decipher whatever my face looks like.
“So you’re good? Not freaking out?”
I think the walls are closing in. They’re slamming against my shoulders. “That’s so great! We’ll both be in Chicago. Potentially.”
“We can venture to the Loop whenever we want!”
“We can kiss underneath the Bean like some romantic cliché.” I push his floppy brown hair behind his ear.
“It’s going to be a great four years,” he says.
The words jolt me. Four years. It’s only been three months, and already we’re at four years. I feel my future fading into my present, creating one continuous strand. Fred is becoming a master at throwing curveballs. I’m the one who has to react in this duo. That’s my role, and it’s weird. But I suppose this is a relationship. I just wish we could enjoy the now.
“I love you,” he says. And there it is. Again. Probably not the last time, either. If the first I love you wasn’t obvious enough, then his new college plans made it official.
I am in a serious relationship. Apparently, a very serious relationship.
He smothers my mouth in a kiss, a deep kiss that rattles my bones. When he pulls away, one thing comes to mind.
“There’s a new Break-Up Artist,” I blurt out.
“Excuse me?”
“She’s good, broke up Bari and Jay. I think it’s a she. In like a rebelling-against-male-patriarchy way. I could be wrong.”
He goes back to kissing me, which makes me think he wants to shut me up. But now that it’s out there, what if this person is a better break-up artist than me? I keep wondering how this new person pulled it off.
“Jay’s account was hacked.” I sit up, and Fred falls to the side. “I checked out that fantasy football site, and I don’t even know how to get on it.”
“Who cares?” Fred asks.
“They were my clients. My first couple as an official relationship engineer.”
He caresses my cheek and runs his hand down my arm. There are other things he’d rather be doing, but I can’t let this go.
“This new person is good. She might be better than me.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Thanks for humoring me.” I lay back next to him so that our lips are inches apart again, and I can smell the faint traces of mouthwash he used when he said he had to go to the bathroom earlier.
“I’m not humoring you. It’s the truth. There is nobody better at that stuff than you because there is nobody who cares about it as much as you.”
“I care?”
“You care a lot.”
“Thanks,” I say tentatively. He lunges in for the kiss, and I get swept up by his slender, but strong arms. He pulls me closer to him, and before I let myself get rocked again, I wonder whether his last comment was as much an insult as a glowing recommendation.
Fred and fantasy football jumble in my head, and I can’t make sense of it all. It’s like trying to lasso a fly. Not like I’ve ever lassoed anything.
I need to talk this out and that requires Val. We don’t do “How are you?” Never did. A sideways glance from a random sophomore could be three hours of conversation. Our chitchat time had been reduced of late, thanks to Fred, but she was still there when I needed her.
And vice versa, of course.
I pull into her driveway and exhale a gust of relief at Val’s blue, scintillating car. She gets it washed at least once a week, and the insides look like it never left the lot. Mine has a layer of papers and bags (and fine, a few fast-food wrappers) on the floor that’s so thick a homeless woman scolded me in the parking lot of the library (okay, fine, Sonic).
I’m outside your house. Azucar? I text.
Val’s house is tucked into a semi-cul-de-sac, which is really the fulcrum between two side streets. All the cute boys would play hockey there in the summer when we were younger. We set up an Arnold Palmer