The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,59
says with a pall of seriousness.
“To what?”
“Our master plan.”
Blood rushes to my face. “What plan?”
“You, me, Chicago. Next fall. Next four years. Get ready.”
I should be so excited. What girl doesn’t want to hear that from her boyfriend? Aren’t we always complaining that guys can’t commit? Yet Fred already has us down for the next four and a half years. He needs to stop pulling the rug out from under me. I like the rug where it is.
Nausea rolls up the back of my throat. Unease settles in. He said master plan. He maybe just meant college, but he still has a plan for us. I like having long-term plans as much as, or more than, the next person. But they’re more like vague aspirations. I want to be some sassy urban professional living in Manhattan or something like that. In that moment, the thought of a long-term plan, one that has concrete elements like Fred and Bartlett and four-year spans…well, it terrifies me. The future is supposed to be this cloudy, amorous bag of question marks, not a known quantity. Have we forgotten about enjoying the now?
If we were to have a plan, it would require me saying I Love You.
“Where’d your excitement go?” Fred asks. “You just deflated.”
Your plan freaks me out, I wish I could say. Why can’t I say it? I don’t want to pop this bubble we’re in. Relationships can be so strong, yet so fragile at the same time.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Fred slaps his hand on his forehead. “I’m an idiot.”
I shoot him a quizzical look. If that’s anyone here, it’s probably me.
“Here I am,” he says, “acting like a maniac over Bartlett when you still haven’t heard back.”
Now that he mentions it, I am nervous about what size envelope I’ll receive in the mail. “It’s okay. I’m happy for you.”
“I know you are, but I know how nerve-racking it is. Are you scared?” he asks.
“Kind of.” I know he’s referring to college admissions, though.
He wraps his arm around my waist. “You’re going to get in.”
“They reject the majority of applicants.”
“You are not the majority of applicants. You are so above and beyond in so many ways, they should be paying you to attend their school.”
“Tell that to my dad.”
Fred rubs his hand up and down my arm, dispatching goose bumps in his wake. It’s a nice moment, and I lean my head on his shoulder. The world dissolves around me, and we spend the quiet time together. I get this feeling of why I want to be around Fred. I love his smell, the way his calloused hands rub against my skin. Maybe this is what love is supposed to feel like. A lot of small moments rolled up into one umbrella feeling.
“Can you believe we’ll be in college next year?” Fred says. “My mom has been getting choked up over every little thing. ‘This is the last time I’ll make you breakfast. This is the last time I’ll have you help with the dishes.’ That one I won’t miss.”
“Everything’s changing,” I say. Whether we’re ready for it or not.
“It’ll all work out,” he says.
“I hope so.”
***
The next day at school, Wade pushes past kids taping paper snowflakes to any available wall space. He joins me on the main stairwell with anything but holiday or Snowflake Dance cheer. “I know what you’re up to.”
“Damn. Who told you that I was planning to go to fourth period?”
My body stiffens when I realize Wade isn’t letting up. Mr. Laidback California must’ve taken an East Coast frigid pill.
“Tell Steve that he had his chance.”
“So Huxley told you about our visit?” I ask.
“Of course. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”
Apparently they don’t. If Huxley had any interest in reconciling with Steve, she wouldn’t have spilled about their rendezvous. Not to her boyfriend. Not like it matters because I’m not the Break-Up Artist anymore, but that’s how you start to crack open a relationship. You slowly scrape away the trust two people had been building between each other. You create secrets.
“You need to stop.”
“Listen, if you and Huxley are meant to be together, then you will stay together.”
“Not when someone is manipulating us apart.”
“I haven’t done anything like that!” My voice carries down the hall. “Steve wanted to talk to Huxley. I helped make that happen. I don’t do break-up schemes anymore.”
“You know, I can have you banned from every Fairfax in America. Both our pharmacies and our superstores.”
I roll my eyes