The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,5
red booth—Fred and I on one side, Val across from us. Val chows down on her single slice of vegetarian cheeseless pizza. Fred cuts our pepperoni calzone in half and gives me the bigger half. It’s our usual routine at a pizza place, but with an audience of one, this is probably the most annoying activity in lunchtime history.
“So, have you guys noticed that Jake McKinnon and Paulina Cory are a couple?” I stretch my smile as wide as it can go.
“Yes!” Val says. “They’re so adora—wait, that was you?”
I shrug in faux nonchalance.
“This is the second couple this year!” she says.
“That’s all?” Fred asks. “Seems like more.”
“Nope. Bari and Jay were the first. I had her become a sports junkie to get on his radar, and they’re still going strong. My track record is flawless thus far.” I knock on wood to be safe.
“Well, not flawless.” Val takes a dainty bite. Silence consumes our booth, and this time, we all feel it. Val realizes her epic mistake and covers her mouth. “Sorry.”
“They can’t all be winners,” I say.
“I heard about that crossword puzzle thing Jake made for Paulina. That was you?” Val stares at me, mesmerized.
“Guilty.” I catch Fred’s slight eye roll out of the corner of my vision. “What?”
“Nothing.” He takes a bite of his extra slice of pepperoni pizza. (“My emergency slice.”) Is it weird that I think he’s cute when he chews food?
“Nothing?”
He wipes his mouth. “Did you really have to go through all that to get them to date? Couldn’t you just fix Jake and Paulina up normally?”
“Define normal.”
“Introduce them. Be Jake’s wingman. Why all the elaborate plotting?”
“Because it’s what I do best.” And with that, I tear off a piece of his crust and toss it into my mouth.
Once we realize we only have nineteen minutes left of lunch period, we eat in silence. Priorities and such. Fred’s the fastest eater, even though he eats the most food. Val dabs at the extra sauce with her crust.
“You guys, college applications suck,” she says.
“I know!” I nearly knock over my Diet Coke, relieved to be talking about something.
“I hate the personal statements. I have to write four different ones for four different schools. You want three hundred words on why I want to attend your school? I don’t know. It doesn’t suck, I can afford it, I saw a cute guy playing Frisbee on the tour?”
“That’s exactly what I wrote, too,” Fred says. He’s always trying to make me laugh, no matter what.
“At least you didn’t have to write a personal statement, plus five shorter essays,” I say. I think about the Bartlett University application and shudder. My mom laid out the college application materials on our dining room table. Different piles for different schools, with Bartlett smack in the center. If I get in, it will all be worth it. All my studying and term papers and smattering of extra-curriculars.
“Six essays? Gross,” Val says. “You wrote them already?”
“I’m applying early decision, so I needed to get my application in by November first. That way I can find out if I got in by December fifteenth.”
“And it’s binding, so if you get in, you have to go. To Chicago,” Fred says, and he’s not reminding me. He knows where I’m applying. We haven’t had any big discussions about college. I know he’s applying to the University of Virginia. We’ve only been together three months. That’s too soon to start redesigning my life plan. We knew the implicit danger of embarking on a relationship our senior year of high school. I don’t want to think about not being with Fred next year. I push down the unease bubbling inside me. We’re living in the now, remember?
“Chicago’s only a thousand miles away,” I remind them.
“Only,” Val says. She’s also choosing to apply to East Coast schools. So, no matter what, this is the last year where I’ll get to see my favorite people every day. There is a countdown clock ticking away with nowhere near enough time, and things have to be perfect. I refuse to jeopardize our status quo.
“You guys are such downers. Anyone have good news to share?”
In between bites, Fred wipes his hands excitedly. “Look what I got!”
He reaches into his front pocket and pulls out two blue tickets.
“The Snowflake Dance,” I say with dread. “Do you really want to go to a cheesy dance with tacky decorations and a forty-something deejay trying way too hard to sound hip?”
“Yes. I very much do. I