The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,58
approximately 24,793,833 flyers around school, or heard the dance committee’s lame jingle on the morning announcements every single morning, or read the twice-a-day emails to the student body about how alcohol and drugs won’t be allowed in the dance (duh, but like that will stop anyone). Yes, Ashland High is in a pre-dance frenzy. Girls are leaving school early on Friday to get ready for the event. This is what happens to kids in the suburbs. Dances are the only social events we have to look forward to. It’s a rare break in the social monotony and the four options we usually have on Friday nights:
1. House party
2. Movies
3. Driving around aimlessly and meeting up in parking lots
4. Watching TV with your parents
***
I step out of my car into the crisp December breeze and the hazy gray light that coats the sky. I can feel the buzz of this month swirling in the wind. The holidays, the dance, the college acceptance (or rejection) letters, the possibility of snow, the certainty of fake snowflakes. There’s so much going on, and it’s all capped off with a two-week break.
My love for the season takes a pregnant pause when I walk past Jake and Melanie. They sit on the trunk of his car, and Melanie consoles her despondent-looking friend. The kid has a permanent slump in his spine, and remorse twinges my heart. I don’t have to listen to their conversation to know what’s getting him down. This wouldn’t have happened if someone didn’t have a vendetta against me. And if I hadn’t opened my big mouth. Despite what Melanie thinks, I don’t believe Jake wrote that email. That was the Revenge Artist.
Melanie elbows him in the ribs, trying her best to cheer him up. It’s no use. At least he has a friend like her, someone who will put in the time and patience to make sure he’s okay. Bari and Leo also have their friends to cheer them up through the Snowflake Dance onslaught.
After school, I pick up my dress, which I’ll admit makes me resemble someone who could possibly be considered a knockout. It’s an emerald-green number that fans out around my knees.
I make a detour to Fred’s house on my way home. . I can only imagine the Norman Rockwell hijinks his family gets into for the holidays. Fred’s family is the type who enjoy spending time together and singing along to the radio on car trips.
He answers the door wearing reindeer slippers, and I hold up my emerald-green dress. “This is what I’m wearing to the dance. I thought the green would be festive, but not too obviously Christmas.”
His lips stretch into a smile equator splitting his face. He pulls me in for a kiss. I follow him inside and wait at the foot of the stairs. Fred pulls a department store box off his dining table and reveals candy cane socks and a matching tie. I almost feel embarrassed for him.
“I…like it.”
“This is my first and last nondenominational, vaguely generic, holiday dance. Go big or go home.”
Another glance at the tie and socks make me want to vote for the latter option. Yet I peer up at Fred’s beaming face, and I know we’re going to have a blast. If only the Revenge Artist could see us.
Fred juggles the fake fruit in the kitchen centerpiece bowl. He only juggles when he’s ultra antsy. Not his regular antsy self. That could only mean one thing.
“I have some news.” He juggles while walking to the stack of mail on the kitchen counter. He pulls a thick purple envelope from the top. I’ve heard a lot of talk about college admissions, a lot of conflicting views, but the one thing that everyone can agree on is that the thicker the envelope, the better the news.
“I got in,” he says quietly.
This is the part where I have to act like super-duper cheerleader girlfriend. Anything less will cause suspicion and hurt. I jump into his arms and do my best coked-out groupie expression.
“You got in! You got in!” I squeeze him tight enough to feel his rib cage. I sit on the staircase and pull him down next to me. “Bartlett took one look at your application and wrote a big fat Hells Yeah on it.”
Fred chuckles at that. He’s so elated he’ll laugh at anything. Then I laugh because his happiness is infectious. Then the celebration fades, and we’re left gazing at each other, absorbing the news.
“We’re one step closer,” Fred