The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,49
parts of me on that scavenger hunt that were so personal.”
“I’m a professional. I do my research.”
“You researched me. Do you realize how creepy that is?”
When she says it like that, I guess so. But she still believes in fairy tales and crappy movies. In the real world, people need some help. “I didn’t mean for you to find out. Honestly, I thought you’d be flattered.”
“If Jake truly liked me, then why couldn’t he just ask me out regularly?”
That’s something I can’t answer. That’s not part of my job. If only she could realize that underneath everything, there is a guy who likes her. Isn’t that what matters? She just needed a hidden push.
“Paulina, listen—”
She doesn’t wait for an answer.
***
“You’re at a carnival!”
Slowly, kids begin leaving their seats, venturing to the far reaches of the auditorium. Mr. S slams his hand against the podium, and we pick up the pace. To my surprise, they’re actually getting into character and taking the assignment seriously.
I should, too, but I just can’t shake Leo’s cold shoulder. He won’t even make eye contact. Thanksgiving did not mellow him. My classmates are in full-on carnival mode. Leo leans against the far wall talking to Laurie.
I pass a swirl of scenes going on around me. It’s a parade of decent acting and awful accents.
“I’m looking fah some chowdah and beeah by Hahvard Yahd,” my classmate tells me in what he thinks is passing for a Boston accent, but really sounds like an old person with emphysema.
If kids are taking this seriously, then I can get into character, as well. I dust off my old Break-Up Artist British accent that I would use to Skype with potential clients. It was honed from watching ‘90s Gwyneth Paltrow movies.
“I’m sorry, love,” I tell my Boston cohort. “I’m not sure if I can help you. I need to find somebody.”
This is a little fun. There is something liberating about living someone else’s life for a few minutes. I strut down the main aisle, walking with the purpose and poise of a British publicist with flowing blond hair. Leo stands by and watches Laurie pretend shoot a pretend basketball into a pretend basket for what I’m guessing are some pretend prizes.
“Step right up! Step right up! Win a giant teddy bear!”
“Excuse me. I hate to interrupt,” I say. I stand up extra straight, as if I’m wearing four-inch heels. “I need to have a quick chat with my husband.”
“Husband? Oh, my!” Laurie says in the same Scarlett O’Hara drawl she uses every time. For a girl intent on being an actress, she has zero range.
“You wanna play again, sweethaht?” Leo says to Laurie in an exaggerated, yet convincing, Brooklyn accent.
“Ah guess ah should go two outta three.”
“While she plays, we can have a chat,” I say. Leo continues to throw shade my way.
“I nevah seen dis broad in my life.”
“Tell that to your seven-year-old daughter.” I nudge Laurie. “Penelope Bryce. She attends boarding school in Connecticut.”
“Well, mama always told me never to get in the middle of a lovers’ quarrel. Oh my! I’m getting the vapors!” Laurie fans herself.
“Do you even know what that means?” I whisper to her. Laurie turns her nose up and looks away.
“Stay,” Leo says. “You was hee-ah first.” He shoots me a glare that’s too real to be acting.
Laurie plays another round of the game. Leo telegraphs hate across his face. I don’t get it.
“I thought we had a great marriage,” I tell him. “But then you ran off to join the circus.”
“Carnival.”
“What happened? Is this about the business venture that went south?”
Leo bounces a fake teddy bear in his hands. “Went south? Is dat wut yous Brits are caulin’ it? Ya screwed me over from day one.”
“Screwed you over? How did I do that? There would be no bloody business venture without me.”
“You made me lie to close da deal.”
“No, I did not.”
“Yeah, you did. And once my bidness partner realized dat, he bailed.”
We’re both teapots filled with boiling water but are staying in character. I can’t believe Leo is acting so ungrateful. Laurie is transfixed and probably jealous that she’s not this good.
“Exactly how did I force you to lie?”
“Because I hate The Jessalyns!” Leo shouts, his Brooklyn accent weaving in and out. “I don’t sneak into clubs and order martinis. That’s not who I am, but dat’s who he thought he was gettin’. I could only fake it for so long.”
“You seem to be forgetting that someone shoved your, um, blueprints into his