The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,50
locker. They are the enemy. Not me.”
“Dat was the straw that broke da camel’s back.”
“No. Those blueprints were the camel’s back. If it weren’t for the Revenge Artist, you two would still be together.”
“It don’t matter now.” Leo’s lip trembles. His anger sounds extra harsh coming through a rough accent. Doesn’t he get that that’s how you find a way into a guy like Dominick? You can’t just stroll up and hold out your hand and say, “I’m Leo. Let’s date.”
“I was trying to help.”
“No. You was tryin’ to plot.”
The grimace Leo sends my way gives me a creepy flashback to when the school found out I was the Break-Up Artist. People hated me for breaking up couples, and now I’m hated for bringing couples together. I just can’t win. Score another point for the Revenge Artist.
“Burn,” Laurie whispers to me.
“Oh, sod off.” I push her, and she stumbles back. “Oh no! Your teddy bear is on fire. It’s burning up. Oh no! Your hands! Your face!”
She’s not playing along. “Ha ha.”
“Laurie…” Mr. S says in his all-knowing, booming voice.
“Mr. S! That’s not fair!”
“Always stay true to the scene.”
“Ugh.” She flails her arms and deadpans: “Help me. Help me. I’m dying.”
I glance at Leo, hoping he enjoys our favorite pastime. He pretends to pull something off the wall. My heart sinks down into the boiler room. It’s a pretend fire extinguisher.
Our theater exercise finishes a few minutes early. Kids break from their sketches and instantly slide back to their normally scheduled selves. Leo and Laurie sit together, now besties until the bell rings. I spot one of my classmates, Garrett, in the back row, reading a textbook. He buttons his shirt to the top button and wears jeans that seem to be freshly sprung from the dry cleaners. When it was announced that he would be the salutatorian for our class, it surprised no one. When he was busted for possession of marijuana over the summer, that caught a few people off guard. Luckily, his dad’s lawyer was valedictorian of his graduating class.
“Hey, Garrett. Mind if I join you?” I plunk down in the row ahead of him and hug the back of my chair.
“What’s up?” he asks while skimming his book.
“I want to talk about drugs if you have a minute to spare.”
He shuts his textbook, and it makes that poof sound. “Are you wearing a wire?”
“Just my underwire.”
He eyes me with heavy suspicion, then checks his watch. I have two minutes to pick his brain. “I’m clean.”
“If I had a heart, that would warm it.” My chair creaks as I lean forward. “I have a hypothetical question about buying drugs. Let’s say I wanted to buy Rohypnol, do you know who would sell it?”
“You want roofies?”
“Hypothetically. I would think whoever sold them is part of the distribution network that sold you your stash. I’m not really hooked into the drug dealing side of our school, so I’m hoping you could enlighten me. Unfortunately, I wasted my youth stone-cold sober watching the Disney Channel.” I shake my fist in the air at lost opportunities.
“Are you sure you’re not already on something?”
“I know you’re the salutatorian, Garrett, but that’s no excuse to be acting like a number two.”
He purses his lips and makes a pinched face even pinchier. I probably wasn’t the first person to make that joke. I level with him. “I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble. I’m just looking for some answers.”
“I don’t know of anyone selling Rohypnol. I never dabbled in anything more serious than weed.” He shrugs his apology.
“You don’t know of anyone who may be selling it? Possibly? Even if you’re only forty-three percent sure?”
“Not that I know of. It may not even be a student selling it. Maybe some shady pharmacist wants to make money on the side.” He chuckles as he says it, not even believing the idea. “I don’t think anyone would advertise that they had roofies, not even if a kid casually asked for some. That stuff will get you thrown in jail so fast.”
Garrett gets up when the bell rings, but I stay there, lost in thought. He’s right. The Revenge Artist wouldn’t be stupid enough to roofie Steve directly in plain sight, under the watchful eye of smartphones. The mystery girl at the party was merely a pawn, someone who could cause trouble, then exit, leaving the trail cold.
The realization makes me go numb, pins and needles sprinkling across my feet and legs with each step. Could