The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,42

Thanksgiving. The doors nearly burst off their hinges with eager students ready to pig out, watch football, shop and not think about school for the next four and a half days. It takes me a good twenty minutes to leave the parking lot. My car crawls to the main road. I accelerate as fast as I can once I’m out of there. past streaks of the outside world. Val has a soft embargo on any conversation. She will acknowledge me in the hall, even mouth hi, but no stopping for chitchat. It’s not cold shoulder/you’re-dead-to-me.

That’s Leo. Today he sat as far away from me as he could in Theater Arts.

Yep, I need these four and a half days off. I need to relax, recharge, and rescheme. I won’t let the Revenge Artist get away with this. I have no business calling myself a savvy businesswoman if I roll over and allow my livelihood to be destroyed.

My car hums down my street, and I pull into my driveway where a freshly delivered cardboard box waits on the front steps. I pick it up and do this maniacal laugh that I warn myself never to do in public. This is just like Christmas. Better because I don’t have to thank anyone for this gift. Only the smart folks at Hi-Tech Industries. I toss the box into the backseat and drive off, revving the engine all the way down the block.

By the time I get back to Ashland High, the place is more deserted than a post-apocalyptic, pre-dystopian wasteland. Even though everyone’s left for the holiday, thus meaning I have free rein over the student parking lot, I still park in my normal space. It feels like a breach of social conduct if I park anywhere else.

I rip open the box and carefully take the camera out of its Styrofoam cocoon. The shape reminds me of an old-fashioned microphone, a chic black egg on a pedestal. I set up the network connection, and a few minutes later, I’m looking at footage of myself on my phone. I wave hello.

I sneak around back to the teachers’ parking lot. The orange glow of the waning sun bounces off the school’s windows. It’s a well-known secret that the door connecting the teachers’ lounge with the parking lot has a busted lock. The easier it is for teachers to fit in a quick cigarette between classes. My shoes squeak against the floor in deep echoes that remind me just how big this place is.

Three years ago, the school installed fake ficus plants around the halls to beautify the perimeter. They’ve turned into de facto trash cans sadly. I stick the camera in the plant across from my locker. I shove it between thick leaves but make sure the view is clear. And it is.

I stand in front of my locker and watch myself on my phone wave at the camera. I heart technology. The next time the Revenge Artist decides to leave me a present, I’ll be ready.

***

I don’t get to enjoy sleeping in on my first day of vacation. My mom barges into my room at 7:15. I bolt upright, my heart racing after being ripped out of a dream.

“We don’t have enough sides,” she says gravely from my doorway. “I was doing the math last night, and I woke up and realized that I only have four sides for nine people. That’s nowhere near enough.”

“Wait, so you did the math in your dreams?”

She rubs her arms, the memory vivid. “I woke up in a cold sweat. I don’t feel right hosting Thanksgiving with so few food options. And I think one of your cousins is vegan or gluten-free or both. I don’t know. The bottom line is I need you and Diane to go out and pick up some stuff right away.”

She tapes a grocery list on my alarm clock.

“Now?”

“Well, I guess you can have breakfast first.”

An hour later, my mom basically shoves her progeny out the door with cash and a detailed list. We take my car. Christmas songs have begun playing on the radio, which is so annoying. (But I kind of love it. Shhh, don’t tell.) Diane keeps glancing at me during stoplights.

“What?” I ask. A coy smile plays on her lips.

“I’m going to Nashville.”

“What?! Congratulations!”

Diane bounces in her seat. She flew down there for the day last week to meet with her potential team, so this isn’t a total surprise. But now it’s becoming a reality.

“I start in January, right after