The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,43

the new year.” She gives me another creepy glance. “This is our last holiday season together, B.”

“Oh, so you’re never coming back?”

“You know what I mean.”

I do. Another change. Another countdown. I should be a pro by now, but the thought still strikes me. A nothing car trip to the store will be a special occasion in the future.

“I’m excited for you,” I say.

“I’m excited for you.” She pulls into the grocery store parking lot, and we can’t find a spot until we reach the back row by the clothing donation drop-offs. Looks like my mom wasn’t the only person to wake up in a cold sweat this morning.

I check in on my surveillance camera at the school, just in case the Revenge Artist had any holiday spirit. It’s become yet another thing I can check obsessively.

“What’s that?” Diane peeks over my shoulder before wiping her nose on my coat.

“Research. And gross.”

I reach behind me for the empty box and let her read all about the wonderful features of the I-Spy Professional Grade Surveillance Camera.

“The Revenge Artist has been going around breaking up my couples, and she deserves to be caught and tarred and feathered and shamed.”

I think Diane would be proud, but she tosses the empty box into the backseat. “B, don’t waste your senior year on this stuff. Let’s go buy green beans.”

I catch up to her, sidestepping shoppers with overflowing grocery carts. “This person is dangerous.”

“Drunk drivers are dangerous. Terrorists are dangerous. Getting into a car with Dad after he gorges himself on bean burritos is dangerous. The Revenge Artist is merely a thorn in your side.”

“Who needs to be stopped.”

“Right.” Diane grabs one of the last available carts and strides into the produce section. I follow behind. We pick up green beans and slivered almonds and fight a strong old lady for the last of the frozen cranberries. No matter what, my mom will never serve canned cranberry sauce. “It’s just not right,” she told us in her grave voice.

I have Diane push our cart to the ice cream aisle. “We can’t serve pie without ice cream,” I say. “What would the pilgrims say?”

We round a ravaged endcap of Entenmann’s cookies and bang into someone’s half-full cart.

“Diane?” the guy asks. Unlike the other shoppers, he’s young and cute, and his sly smile seems familiar.

“Brock?” my sister asks back. And that’s when I remember Brock, the mechanic who fixed her car. I wasn’t used to seeing him without grease stains and a uniform. He’s a totally different person in a corduroy jacket and khakis, a makeover done right. Diane seems to notice this, as well.

“Doing some last-minute shopping, too?” he asks.

“Y-yeah.” Hints of red brighten her cheeks. “I didn’t recognize you in normal clothes.”

“I’m going to my grandma’s house, so I have to look nice.” A dimple pinches the side of his mouth. “How’s your car running?”

“Good. Good good.” Diane brushes a hand through her hair and fans it out. “I’m checking my odometer religiously. Once I hit 3,000 miles, I’m getting the oil changed.”

“Good.” Brock holds up a can of cranberry sauce. “Hey, do you remember in high school when we had to do that Thanksgiving food drive for spirit week? We got points for cans of food we donated. Were you there for the tomato paste standoff?”

“Yes! I totally remember that! You were there?”

“I was there. I also gave a sophomore a black eye.”

“Oh, those sophomores were ruthless. We were seniors. We couldn’t let them win.”

“Of course not.” He scrunches his brow and shakes his head.

Wait, are his cheeks getting red, too?

Realizing I’m still here, Diane turns to me. “Before your time, there was this food drive as part of spirit week and you got points per can you donated.”

Brock jumps in, his face lighting up. “And somebody much smarter than us found these cans of tomato paste that sold for twenty cents a can, making it the cheapest points you could get.”

“But everyone figured this out, so on the last night of the drive, kids from all four grades raided the store at the same time. It was a mob scene, a hundred times worse than this.” Diane waves a hand around at our current location.

“Kids were battling for these cans. Like, fists flying.” Brock and Diane crack up, falling on to their carts. “And we won. The seniors won, as they should have.”

“Good times.” Diane and Brock share a look of pure nostalgia, and something else perhaps.

I wonder what memories I’ll be reminiscing