The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,52
on our tests. It’s his way of saying he’ll give you a C if you don’t study next time.”
Val watches our conversation with intense interest.
“Interesting,” I tell him.
“Yep. Thanks, Val.” He gives me a half-wave, then scurries down the hall.
“He’s in my Intro to Business elective,” Val says, once he’s gone. She checks her watch. I’m now working with borrowed time.
“I shouldn’t have held back. I’m sorry. But it’s out there now. I know I shouldn’t be afraid to tell you stuff—”
“Actually, it’s okay.” Val rubs my forearm, and any sign of anger fades away. Just like that. “Forgiven, forgotten.”
“That was quick,” I say. I thought this would have to be a three-part apology.
“We don’t have much time left,” Val says. That hits me deep in the gut. I’m glad she realizes— “We only have thirty minutes left,” she continues.
“Right. Fred’s at Wendy’s. I’ll drive.”
Val hugs her books to her chest. “I’m going to eat in the cafeteria today. I have a test in sixth period, and I’m studying with some juniors at their table.”
“Oh. I can join you.”
“These girls have zero personality to begin with. And we’re studying for trig on top of that.”
I shudder. I went through trig last year, and it’s a period of my life I’d like to blank out. I don’t plan on becoming a mathematician or an architect anytime soon.
“You can study at the table,” I tell her. “Quentin is a math whiz. He’s basically getting me through AP Calc.”
“These girls know the material. It’ll be really helpful. If I go out to lunch with you, we’ll just talk the whole time. Which I love love love. But it can’t help my GPA.”
“Val, we’ve eaten lunch together like three times in the last month. What’s going on? Why do you care about studying all of a sudden? You got into college.”
“I want to end on a high note.”
What senior says that? Senioritis was coined to express how much apathy we feel toward school at this point. I try to nonchalantly stand in her way, leaning against her locker. The inside is a mash of papers tangled together like wires. I notice a Mulwray’s receipt sticking out in the bunch. “You’ve been to Mulwray’s?”
“Just once. It’s okay. Have you been?”
I can’t decipher her question, if there’s something behind the words I’m missing. “Just once, too.”
Val reaches around and shuts her locker, not making eye contact with me. “I should go.” She begins to speed walk to the cafeteria.
“I’ll go with you.”
She stops dead in her tracks. She hasn’t once taken off her smile, and it’s straining to stay on. “You go with Fred. Wendy’s is so much better than this junk.”
“I don’t care. I miss you.”
Her cheeks blush. “We’ll hang out later.”
“We can hang out now.” I don’t know about her, but I’m strolling to the cafeteria. We only have limited time.
She sprints to catch up to me. She gulps in a deep breath. “I don’t think there’s room at the table for you. It’s full.”
“So I’ll stand. What is going on with you?”
“Nothing!”
“Val!” She has to see it in my eyes. I don’t need to explain how cracked out she’s being.
“You should go with Fred. He’s waiting.”
“I don’t care. Tell me what’s going on.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “I’m your friend. I have a right to know.”
She throws my hands off her and shoots me a glare that can strip the paint off a car. “You have a right to know? Oh, so you don’t have to tell me about Bartlett or saying I Love You, but I have to be an open book? You can have all the secrets in the world, but I have to be your plucky sidekick? You get to have secret businesses and identities and relationships, and I’m supposed to just nod my head and play along? You don’t have a right to anything, Becca! You don’t control me. Something is going on, and I don’t want to tell you yet. You wouldn’t understand. I know that’s vague and ultra-frustrating to someone like you, but if you’re my friend, you’ll trust me. If you’re my friend, you won’t follow me into this cafeteria.”
And because I want to be a good friend, I stand there watch her walk away.
Val is the Revenge Artist. It makes crystal-clear sense, like when geometry postulates finally clicked for me halfway through the year. Only a best friend knows you well enough to properly mess with your head.
And that scrawny kid is