The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,82
of him the entire time.”
Melanie pivots and gets right in my face. Her cool girl demeanor ices into a frigid glare. Any semblance of friendship we had this year has just gone poof. Not like we were really friends. At least when I became Huxley’s friend last year, I actually cared about her well-being. Before I ruined it, of course.
Melanie laughs to herself. I’ve heard that laugh a million times, but now it has an evil genius tone to it. “You didn’t have to tell me about any of your clients because your schemes are so freaking obvious. Once somebody decides to pay attention to you, it’s easy to watch how your plans work.”
“Why did you do it? Because I ruined your happy ending with Jake by hooking him up with a girl he actually likes?”
“We had a shot, you know? That’s how things were progressing. But then you swooped in and manufactured that stupid crossword puzzle game. And it worked. It actually worked.”
I feel bad for what I’ve done just a little. I know how much it sucks to have plans get ruined.
“I hated you,” she seethes at me. “That’s all you do. You meddle and you interfere and you tinker with other people’s lives. You thought you were helping people with your matchmaking, but you cause collateral damage wherever you go. You desperately needed a taste of your own medicine.”
Maybe I did, but not my clients, not my boyfriend. That’s the problem with trying to make things “right.” There is no right way things are supposed to go. You can’t just punish one person. The collateral damage is inevitable whether you’re trying to hurt or help someone.
“I suppose you’re going to tell him now. You’re going to tell everyone,” Melanie says, bruised but still maintaining her strength.
“Nothing of the sort. I’m going to make sure you pay back Jay every cent he lost in fantasy football. And aside from that, I have no interest in dealing with you ever again.”
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it. I don’t traffic in revenge.” I think about Jake turning on the Bunsen burner, how free he seemed. Besides, I think Melanie is living her own punishment. “It’s time to move forward.”
I get to Fred’s house early Christmas morning. My family doesn’t open presents until late morning. First off, we treasure days off and sleeping in. There is no greater pleasure than my internal clock waking me up at 5:45, then letting myself fall back asleep for another four hours. The Williamsons also exchange detailed lists of what we want each year, so there’s no surprise, no anticipation. Our Christmas presents are all foregone conclusions, something my mom always feels guilty about, as if only Mothers of the Year can pick out the ideal gifts for their children without any hints.
The Teplitzkys start opening their presents by eight, at least according to Fred. He told me this on November first, the unofficial start of the holiday season in his home. “My mom gets super into it the first week,” he told me. “Then by mid-month, she’s sick of it. Then after Thanksgiving, she catches her second wind. It’s kind of annoying.”
I can hear the ripping open of wrapping paper, the shuffling of mystery gifts in boxes, and the faint sound of Christmas carols wafting out of their house at 8:30 a.m. I ring the doorbell.
“Hello,” Mr. Teplitzky says with ample awkwardness. We’d only met once, and he just asked how many AP exams I was planning on taking. We don’t have much to chat about, especially not on Christmas morning when he’s wearing Santa Claus slippers.
“Hi. Can I speak to Fred, please?” I ask in a high-pitched, honor roll student voice.
His mom comes to the door wrapped in a robe with a pattern of dancing snowmen. “Becca?” She tries to sound pleasant. “You aren’t with your family today?”
“They’re still sleeping. It’ll only take a minute. Please.”
“We’re having family time,” Fred’s dad explains.
“Dad. I got it.” Fred shuffles to the front door in a Bartlett sweatshirt and mesh shorts. Goose bumps form on his legs from the cold. “You should come in.”
I step inside, and his parents go back to the tree with the girls. We walk into his TV room. On the coffee table is a giant jigsaw puzzle of a snowy landscape. I didn’t realize his family tried to emulate catalogues so much. I guess that partially explains why he’s so optimistic, why he always expects the natural answer. It’s a quality I hope can rub off on me again.
“Hey,” he says, patting down his bedhead.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your family’s Christmas. Thanks for letting me in.”
“It was freezing out there.”
But that wasn’t what I meant. I can smell his natural, soapy scent, and I’m flooded with memories of our eighty percent making out/twenty percent homework nights.
His eyebrows squiggle around his forehead as he gathers his next thought. It’s hypnotic. “Becca, what are you doing here?”
“I love you.” The words can’t come out of my mouth fast enough. “I wasn’t just saying it the other night. I meant it. I still do.”
A hint of a smile crosses his face.
“I know that’s not an explanation. I know it’s taken me a long time to say those words. I was scared. Things were just happening so fast, and I felt like I was losing control. And you know how I feel about control.”
“I sure do.” He crosses his arms. I’ve put up a compelling opening argument, but he’s still deliberating on a verdict.
“I love you, Fred Teplitzky.” I say the words with no doubts, nothing to hide. It’s freeing.
“What about the Revenge Artist?”
“She doesn’t matter. You do.” This is so hard. I just want to reach out and hug him already. I’m so close, but I may never get that again. And now I want to kick myself for all the times I took Fred for granted in the past.
“So, this was your master plan? Crashing my family’s Christmas?”
“No plan. Just me.”
He gives me a discerning stare, thinking over something. I wish I knew what.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen to us once we hit Bartlett. I just know that I miss you, I love you, and we’ll take it from there.”
“So, you got in to Bartlett?”
I nod. Excitement streaks across his face for a moment. Then back to Stern Fred.
“So, you came to my house at 8:37 on Christmas morning with an apology and a true declaration of love. What’s supposed to happen next? Am I just supposed to forgive you?”
“I don’t know. For once, I’ll let someone else pull the strings.”
Fred pulls me in for a kiss, and I’m right where I need to be. I stare at his eyes. Now I know what people mean by kind eyes. You can just tell. No matter what happens with us next year, I’ll always have those eyes to look at for support.
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you right back.”
We hug and stand there rocking for a moment. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” by Frank Sinatra plays in the living room. Our rocking transitions into slow dancing. My family was wrong. There is something to be said for Christmas surprises.
“Here’s the slow dance I promised you,” I say. I lean my head against Fred’s chest, and there’s no other place I want to be.
He tips my head up with his finger to look at him. “You said, ‘She doesn’t matter.’ You still think the Revenge Artist is a she?”
“Oh, I know she’s a she.”
He can barely restrain his curiosity. It lights up his face. “You figured out who it is?”
“I thought you didn’t care.”
“I don’t,” he says. He twirls me effortlessly, and now I wish I had been at the dance with him. “Well, maybe I do a little.”
He waits for an answer. His forehead scrunches into those tight lines meant for practicing cursive, ones I will continue to see next year. I run my fingers against them.
“Fred. Let’s just dance.”
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