The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,38
ways, and I take a detour to my locker before stopping by the cafeteria. I may as well make my afternoon book swap now instead of having to rush to sixth period. The hallway is completely still, and the murmured cacophony of several teachers’ lessons being taught at once provides a background buzz.
But I’m not alone in this hallway. Inside my locker sits a coffee mug with a long stem rose flopping out onto my books. I dig inside the mug, and there are more candy hearts. FIND ME.
I pull out a note written in lush calligraphy, just like the last missive.
It’s our time, Becca. No more secrets. Mulwray’s. 7 p.m. Tonight. Don’t forget the rose.
My heart thumps in my ears. I grip the note like it’s a winning lottery ticket. My secret admirer strikes again, but this time, there’s an end point. One loose end in my life I can tie up. I will get answers, whether this guy likes it or not.
***
So here’s my battle plan:
I’m going to walk into Mulwray’s, find this secret admirer motherfella, and promptly tell him that I do not appreciate his advances. They are the antithesis of swoonworthy. I’m going to demand he explain how he’s been getting entry into my locker and why he followed me on my excursion to Fairfax. I’m going to ask him if he’s not noticed the six-foot-one comic book aficionado that’s been on my arm for months. And then I’ll throw lukewarm coffee in his face for good measure.
Mulwray’s resides in the old part of Ashland. Back in the thirties, it was hopping with stores and a park, but now the old downtown is desolate. The few stores that have survived seem like hostages. Mulwray’s is trying to re-gentrify the neighborhood and bring in the cool kids looking for retro downtown charm. It’s an uphill battle, to say the least. I appreciate that my secret admirer didn’t choose a more popular place like Azucar.
I park in the train station lot and walk down the main road to the coffee shop. A cocktail of emotions battles for dominance. Fear, excitement, dread, anger, curiosity. I can’t tell which will win out. It’s like when someone tells you not to click on a disturbing picture. I know it will scar me and singe its image upon my brain forever, but that may be better than never knowing.
The scent of ground coffee beans wafts through the air. I stop just before Mulwray’s begins. This is it, Becca. There is no turning back. A car screeches down the road, and I jump five feet in the air.
I spent the rest of the day attempting to solve this puzzle. I played process of elimination with the guys at school. Is there some senior who’s been pining for me from afar for years? (Eh, probably not.) Is Val’s skeevy ex-boyfriend Ezra looking for another shot? (No, if he’s smart.) Don’t tell me this is all the work of some horny freshman. After much thought, I’ve narrowed possible suspects down to…pretty much no one.
About ten cars have passed me by now. I clutch the rose against my chest. It’s go time. Whatever happens happens.
I inhale a gust of coffee and tire air and enter Mulwray’s. I scan the tables looking for my secret admirer, but all I see are older people and a group of college students. I flip into scavenger mode, searching all around. There’s a fake fireplace in the middle of the shop, and I tiptoe around it.
That’s when I see him—it must be him—sitting alone with a cup of coffee reading a book. He’s beautiful, like the guys featured in candid shots in college catalogues that you secretly hope you’ll run into if you get into that school. He has curly hair gelled into place and pouts his lips as he reads. I take a step forward, then I freeze. My head clouds in a dusty panic.
What am I doing here?
“Hey there, stranger.”
I whip my head around, and my boyfriend gets a clump full of my hair in his face.
The track lighting twinkles in Fred’s eyes. His smile overpowers me with its warmth.
“Hey,” Fred says. He looks concerned. That’s when I remember I’m creeping around a fake fireplace.
I can’t say anything at first. Nerves and a slew of other emotions have taken my voice hostage. The only thing I can do is laugh. My loud cackle is meant for awkward small talk, not a quiet coffeehouse. I get deluged with equal parts