The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,3

at least once a day.

Fred and I are perched comfortably in the getting-to-know-you phase. There’s no pressure, just fun. So many of our peers feel this need to get as serious as they can as soon as possible. They let intensity guide their decisions. That’s just not us. I don’t see the need to rush anything. There’s a wisdom to enjoying the little things before you move onto the big things. Plus, we’re going off to separate colleges next fall, putting a full storm cloud above our relationship parade. I’m not ready for complications. I like the now too much. People underappreciate the now.

Despite this being my swan song at Ashland High, despite me being atop the totem pole in this place, I am stuck yet again with a crappy locker. Half of the lockers at this school have been redone and are practically brand-new. Sleek, shiny, spacious, clean. Mine is a relic, with scraped-off green paint that screeches each time I open the thing.

When I unlock it, staring back at me are candy hearts on a red, heart-shaped plate. KISS ME. I’M YOURS. MY GIRL. I know it’s just candy, but I can’t help cocking my head to the side and smiling. It’s a sweet gesture, but not over the top. Perfect for me.

“Well done, Teplitzky.”

“Hey,” he says, reaching through the crook of my arm. “I love those things.”

“I was never much of a fan.” I throw my arms around his neck and do as the first candy heart instructs. “Until today.”

Fred blushes and cups his hands on my waist. We’re totally being all gross and PDA-y, but whatever. One romantic gesture begets another.

“How did you figure out my locker combo?” I wait for an answer. I guard my combo like a nuclear launch code. Not even the classic “looking over my shoulder” would work. I’m not hiding drugs or a severed head in there; I just like my stuff to stay my stuff.

“Huh?” Fred reaches behind me and tosses the other candy heart in his hand. He flings it into his mouth. “What class were they handing these out in?”

“Funny.” I kiss him again.

“I didn’t even know you could buy candy hearts before February.” Fred is incapable of lying, and usually by now, he would assume responsibility for an act of cuteness. He reaches for the third one, but I block him.

He goes in for another kiss, but I forget to kiss him back. I’m too distracted by these little, sugar-infused hearts. How did they get inside my locker? Maybe the average girl would feel swoony. I feel violated. I don’t like surprises.

Fred pivots around me and steals the last heart. FIND ME. It sounds more like a challenge than a sweet nothing. He pops it into his mouth. “Tasty.”

The best part of being a senior is off-site lunch privileges. For the past eleven years, I’ve had to endure cafeteria food. Lines of cardboard-looking, premade lunches showcased under harsh fluorescent lighting. Food coated with way too much salt, even the salads. How is lettuce salty? Sure, I could’ve brown-bagged it if I really wanted to, but that always seemed like so much work. Now I get options. Now I can leave campus for forty-two minutes every day to recharge. See how great the now is?

“What do you feel like eating for lunch?” Fred asks. He holds my hand as we head to the senior stairwell, called that because it’s closest to the parking lot.

“Pizza?”

“I love the way you think.” He swings my arm up, up, and away. Fred checks his phone. “My friends aren’t coming out for lunch. They’re doing some last-minute homework in the library.”

“That sounds terrible.” I shrug it off for Fred, but my stomach tightens at the change of plans. Without his friends, lunch will consist of me, Fred, and—

“Hey, guys!” My best friend Val bounces down the stairs, her blond hair swishing at her sides. She’ll forever have the energy and enthusiasm of a talk-show guest. We make a nice balance.

I remove my hand from Fred’s grasp. “Ready for lunch?”

“Can you believe this is the last lunch of the last day of the last September of the last year of high school?”

As ridiculous as Val’s statement sounds, I feel a tight pull around my chest. Senior year is all about lasts. It’s just lunch, but it’s so final.

“We better make it count, then,” Fred says.

Val grabs my wrist, a new rush of excitement coming my way. “We will. Because this year, Becca and I