The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,56
here?” Huxley asks him. I’m surprised that her face hasn’t softened by his presence.
“Clearing my name.” He takes a step closer. She doesn’t react. “I don’t remember anything that night. I was drugged.” He twinges in pain. Even though he came out of that night physically unscathed, having that complete loss of control probably left scars that nobody can see.
“I’m sorry any of this happened,” he says.
“I’m glad you’re okay. I can’t believe someone would do that,” Huxley says. “All this time, I thought…”
“No matter how wasted I get, I would never do that to you on purpose.”
I’m going into diabetic shock from all this saccharine. But it seems to be chipping away at Huxley’s rigid exterior. I decide to give them some privacy. I meander away to the neighboring stack and eavesdrop.
I said some privacy. Not all.
“Listen, I want to make things right,” Steve says. “How about we get some pizza? You know, and talk.”
My heart swells up, but I can’t tell if hers does, too. Seconds pass by in hours.
“I can’t,” she whispers.
His face droops like an old dog’s.
“Steve, I’m sorry for everything that happened this year. I am. I hope you forgive me for not believing you.”
“I do! Of course I do! You know that.”
“But I can’t go out with you.”
“Why not?”
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Wade?” Steve asks. He spits the word out, and the name hangs in the air. I guess for Huxley, it’s always been hanging out there.
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“I’m your boyfriend, too.”
“We broke up. I realize now it was under false pretenses, but that doesn’t mean I can just ditch Wade and run into the sunset with you.”
“Yes, you can. He’ll understand.” Steve takes a hard look at Huxley. “Unless you don’t want to.”
“I’m sorry, Steve,” she says.
“Do you love him?” Steve asks. I wait for her answer just as much as him.
“I don’t know.” She says it with authority. Why can’t I be that confident about my indecision?
“I never stopped loving you.” He takes her face in his hands. “Do you still love me?”
The faint ticking of the front clock pounds in my ears. I don’t understand. Why isn’t Huxley kissing him right now? They are Huxley and Steve. Look at what he’s doing to get back with her. No offense to Wade, but she can’t throw that away. You don’t erase history.
But she does. She pushes his hands off her face. “I’m sorry, Steve.”
Huxley walks backward, away from Steve but not yet able to turn her back to him. This can’t be how it ends. I remember the Steve and Huxley of yesteryear; there’s magic there. It’s still there.
“Huxley, give him another chance,” I blurt out. I feel my face burn a bright red as Huxley finds me one shelf over.
“You were watching us? Figures.”
“You guys can work it out.”
“Don’t ever do this again.” She’s almost growling. I don’t get how I inspire this much hatred from her, but I sure as hell don’t deserve it.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” Anger burns in her eyes.
“Why me?”
“What?”
“Why do you hate me?” I ask, taking a step away from the corner. “What happened with Steve is not my fault. Yeah, I may have broken you two up last year, but I got you back together. I got you guys in a good place. A great place—”
“I know, and I’m sick of it! I am tired of being a puppet in your twisted marionette play.”
“You aren’t!”
“You broke us up, you got us back together, now you’re working to get us together again. Anytime you come near me, it’s always with an ulterior motive.”
She has a funny way of viewing reality, and I guess from her skewed perspective, her theory holds some droplets of water. “We go back a long way, and I’m just trying to be a good friend to you.”
She spits out a laugh, and her perfectly structured eyebrow raises in suspicion. “You have no friends. We’re all just a bunch of schemes to you.”
***
I drag my fingers across the notecards taped to my mirrored closet door, the clues that can bring me closer to the Revenge Artist. Looking for…I don’t know. Something. The FIND ME notecard catches my eye. If I need to find a break-up artist, I need to think like one. How did I get into people’s lockers for my schemes?
I used a key.
The V56 key still resides in my desk’s top drawer. It can open any lock on school grounds. I fling it around in my hand, the rusty metal smell bringing