The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,22

stand and made a kid-sized fortune. Lemonade was too passé, claimed Val. During especially hot days, we would wait with bated breath for the guys to take off their shirts.

No response from Val, text or otherwise. Maybe she’s in the shower. That would be the only reasonable excuse since she always has her phone on her. Literally. She sleeps with it nestled next to her ear so she can never miss a thing.

I knock on the front door, then ring the doorbell. Mrs. Hurst answers. “Becca!”

She squeezes me in a hug. Perkiness is a Hurst family gene. As is stick-straight blond hair.

“Is Val home?”

“No. She’s out with some friends.”

“She is?”

I didn’t know a sentence could sting so much. She’s out with some friends. Who aren’t me. I feel cheated on.

“She should be back soon,” Mrs. Hurst says with a forced smile, perhaps also finding it odd that I was not included in a Val-friend thing.

My phone buzzes with a text from the girl of the hour.

Meet you there in 20.

“I’m going to meet up with them,” I tell her mom. I don’t know why I need to save face in front of her.

***

I find Val on a plush orange couch sipping from a polka-dot mug. I order a latte and sink in beside her.

“Who were you hanging out with before?” is the first thing out of my mouth, and I reek of jealous girlfriend. I tack on a laugh after I say it, to show how little I care about the answer.

“It’s a study group for my history presentation.”

“Oh, that’s so funny. I wonder why your mom didn’t say ‘study group.’” More laughing takes over. I must be so obvious, but then Val joins in with me, so maybe we’re just having a good time. Like friends do from time to time.

“Dottie’s being a little dotty,” Val says of her mom. “She still calls texts instant messages.”

“Classic Dottie.”

“Classic Dottie.”

“One latte extra-large Pumpkin Spiced Surprise.” Pierced Barista sits my drink on the coffee table. I recognize one of the quotes on his tattooed arm from my poetry unit last year. John Keats, maybe?

As I watch the barista walk back to his station, I notice an Ashland couple on a nearby couch canoodling. Not one of my own doing. I guffaw at the sight and shudder as I sip my drink.

“Is Cecilia and the Freshman still a thing?” I ask.

I wait for an answer before I realize Val’s on her phone. It dings with a new message that cracks her up. I sip my drink awkwardly, hoping that she returns to our conversation someday.

Val cranes her neck to check it out. Cecilia Rhodes canoodling with her boyfriend, a freshman named…something. I don’t know it because he’s a freshman. I stopped trying to remember names starting with the sophomore class. My brain can only retain so much Ashland gossip. Besides, freshman drama is so trivial and boring. Were my people and I that annoying when we were freshmen? Doubtful.

Cecilia has about three inches on him, and his arm can barely fit around her shoulder.

“They’re kind of cute,” Val says, swirling her drink.

“Yeah, in a Boinking the Babysitter kinda way.” He looks so young. “It’s creepy.”

“He’ll grow.”

“Eventually.” Cecilia doesn’t seem to care that she’s licking whipped cream off the finger of a kid who’s been potty trained less than a decade. It’s only a three-year age difference, but those are a pivotal three years.

“Leave them alone.” Val flicks her wrist at me. It’s unlike her to care this little. She chuckled at the cougar jokes students used to make to Lelaina Ryder last year. “She’s a sweet girl.”

“And a cradle robber.”

“She can’t help that they like each other.” Val seems to tense up for a second. “She’s happy. Doesn’t that matter?”

“I guess.” I take a sip of my drink, and it soothes me. “I hope she’s ready for the ridicule. Which I would never do. I’m just saying. Get ready.”

“Speaking of couples, sorry about Bari and Jay?” Val asks. She dumps four Splendas into her drink.

“It wasn’t Bari’s fault. She was set up.”

“So, you’re what? Going to clear her name?”

I want to, but that wouldn’t fix everything. She’s still a Boston fan. I could never change that. I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe if we prove fantasy football wasn’t her fault, it would be a start. A step closer to reconciliation. After all, she was born into a Boston family; she couldn’t control that.

“They still have a chance,” I say.

“Becca, I’m going to