The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,47
all break-ups are orchestrated. Most just happen.”
“And all the couples I put together just happened to fall apart at the same time? You don’t think that’s a sign of something?”
He holds back from saying anything, but I see it weighing in his eyes, what he’s truly thinking.
“Or just the sign of a bad relationship engineer,” I say.
“Look, whatever happened happened with those couples. It’s out of your control. Maybe you should stop obsessing over them and focus on what you do have. Your friends, possibly a Bartlett acceptance letter, and your boyfriend. Just in case you forgot that last one.”
I’m not used to Fred putting up a fight. He’s stern, like a parent, not boyfriend-esque. The cursive lines on his forehead seem to be glaring at me. I wonder if those old ladies think our squabble is cute. Lover’s quarrel.
“There’s just too much evidence,” I say. “The football stuff, the email to Jake, the drugging. And don’t forget all those gifts from the so-called secret admirer.”
And that gets a reaction out of him. Not the one I wanted, though. “You have a secret admirer?”
Heat strangles my neck. “No, no, no. It turned out to be a break-up scheme.”
“Someone sent you gifts?”
Guys. They really know how to get jealous over the littlest things. “It was so manipulative. This person broke into my locker and gave me notes and gifts, like the candy hearts and the teddy bear and a mug with a rose in it. The Revenge Artist was messing with my head.”
The words sputter out of me as I get more desperate to prove my innocence, because I’m innocent. I can practically hear the pieces click together in his head. I didn’t want him to find out, but now that I said it, I think I did the right thing. Now he can see that this Revenge Artist is for real, that there is someone else out there messing with people. With us.
“So, that’s why you went to Mulwray’s. That rose wasn’t for me.”
“I was tricked.”
“By this so-called Revenge Artist.” His words are dipped in skepticism.
“I know what it sounds like. But people used to think the Earth was flat, too, and look how that turned out.” The lights flicker above us. It’s almost time for the show. “It was all a scheme.”
“And yet you still went.”
“I had to see who was messing with me. How did they get into my locker?”
“And yet you still went. Did you think there was a guy going to be waiting there for you?”
“Better,” I say softly. “There was you.”
That gets no reaction from him. His face remains a block of marble, and it’s the last thing I see before the theater goes dark. The overture booms from the orchestra pit, and people applaud. I want to see Fred’s face light up—it’s his favorite part—but I think it’s best if I focus on the show for now.
***
I wake up Monday morning ready for school. These next few weeks should be a cakewalk; they’re hammocked between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the full swing of the holiday season. I reach for my phone on my nightstand, and it takes me three tries. I check my email, then the surveillance camera. Only there’s nothing there, just blackness.
Somebody took my camera.
When I get to school, I beeline past groggy students and teachers. I almost throw our eighty-year-old music teacher into a wall. My feet clomp down the hall like an army march. Girl on a mission. She can’t be stopped.
Nothing appears out of place by my locker. The ficus plant is its normal fake self in the same spot I left it. I don’t care that I look suspicious. I squat down and shove my hand into the thicket of leaves, aching to make contact with plastic and metal.
And I do! A hundred dollars didn’t get flushed down the drain. The camera still works, but I soon realize that my pride is the one that’s been broken. I yank out the camera and find a sticker that says Nice Try over the lens. The sticker is a wrecking ball to the spirit.
Inside my locker, I discover a bonus surprise. I rip off a note taped to the inside of my locker, a spot you can only get to by opening the door.
A for effort, Becca. Don’t worry. I’m almost done. There’s just one couple I have left to destroy.
There’s no way I’m going to pay attention in class today. The Revenge Artist’s note won’t get out of my head.