The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,60

and walk-sprint toward my locker, but Wade’s power-walking skills surpass mine. I’m a little worried, but his eyes plead with me to stay. “Huxley is happy with me. Why isn’t that enough?”

“Enough for what?”

“Enough for you to leave us alone.”

“Steve just wanted to talk. They have unfinished business.”

“No. They don’t.” Wade doesn’t flinch. Emotions light up his face, and I feel like I’m being unmasked as the Break-Up Artist all over again.

“I love her,” he says. “I’m sorry if that’s not part of your plan.”

“Wade.”

“You have a boyfriend. I thought you would understand.”

I make a hard right, and it takes me a few steps to figure out which hall I’m in now. Away from Wade. That’s what counts. I do an entire loop through the school. Through the breezeway into the freshman corridor where I had my first classes, downstairs past the TV studio where I reconnected Huxley and Steve and the art room where Val and I would sneak to talk crushes, past the math hallway where I marveled at Mr. Calhoun drawing a perfect circle with a whoosh of his arm every single time, and past the auditorium, home to too many worthless assemblies that got me out of class. I know this place so well. It’s home, whether I like it or not.

I circle back to my locker and take a breather. I get this feeling, like I know bad news is waiting for me on the other side. A letter flutters to the floor once I open it. I check my lock, and no sign of break-in. The V56 key strikes again.

A corsage hangs on the coat hook.

Becca, have fun on Friday. There are sure to be fireworks. It’s a shame your relationship won’t make it to the final slow dance. Love, The Revenge Artist

“Now do you want to be involved?”

I watch Fred’s reaction as he reads the Revenge Artist’s latest note. I try to analyze his raised eyebrows, his slight cock of the head, a half-smile escaping from his mouth. All numbers in an equation that don’t add up.

“It’s interesting.” He folds the paper and hands it back to me.

“Interesting? That’s all you have to say?”

“Okay, a little scary.” He wipes ketchup from the sides of his mouth. We sit against the window at Wendy’s, which has a scintillating view of a strip mall parking lot.

I hold up the note for Val, whose hands got caught in a messy burger. “Whoa!”

Now that’s a reaction.

“This person is obviously certifiable,” she says. She wipes herself off with a napkin that’s already stained with ketchup and mayo. The messy spreads. “What do you think the plan is? Do you think you guys will be murdered and stuff?”

“Gee, Val, I sure hope not.”

I wait for Fred to jump in with concern, with a plan, with some key fact that I seemed to overlook in my investigation. Instead, he shakes out the last of his fries on to his tray. He dips them in his Frosty.

“That’s it?” I ask him.

“Well, I’m not going to dip them in Frosty and ketchup. That’s gross.” He shoves four in his mouth at once and washes them down with more Frosty. “Becca, you seem to be worried about this mystery person. I’m not.”

“And why not?”

“Because the only people who can break us up are you and me.” He shrugs. How can Fred feel so confident when he knows that even the strongest of couples can be broken up?

“This person is dangerous. Literally dangerous. We could be drugged or set up for a crime we didn’t commit or some dark secret of ours could be revealed.” I gesture to Val. “Or murdered and stuff.”

Another shrug. He steals two fries off my tray.

“Don’t you think if any of those scenarios comes to fruition, we would assume this Revenge Artist was the culprit and not each other?”

“That’s what the Revenge Artist wants us to think.”

He finally gives me a look that shows that he cares. “Do you honestly believe this person will outsmart us? Or, more specifically, outsmart you?”

The question hangs in the air like a thought cloud. Fred knows how to boil my crazy down to one singular statement. That’s what this latest threat comes down to ultimately. Who’s smarter? Me or the Revenge Artist?

“The Revenge Artist can’t get us to break up.” Fred’s greasy, Frosty-smeared fingers reach for mine. “We’re stronger than that. I love you.”

“Awww!” Val slurps the last of her soda.

Fred continues gazing at me, but flashes of frustration light up his eyes.