The weekend had passed without a word from Violet, her curtains drawn in some sort of SIGN that Tate couldn’t decipher. Maybe she was feeling a little sheepish over her behavior, worried what he would think; if that was the case, he would put her worries to rest that afternoon.
At any rate, his weekend was more than a little consumed with thoughts of how exactly to punish the boy who had chosen his words and actions so indelicately with the flower, how to ensure that nothing of the sort ever happened again.
He had written two notes, one to Violet and one implying he was Violet, asking both to meet in a specific spot, and delivered them to the lockers of their intended recipients. It was a FOOLPROOF plan, mildly genius if he did say so himself: the note obviously not in her actual handwriting, should the kid feel the need to involve the authorities, and Tate had built in some insurance for that scenario as well. It couldn’t have been a more thoroughly planned act of revenge.
A SMART boy would never have accepted an invitation left in a note from a girl he’d try to screw over at a party over the weekend, but as fate would have it and as Tate had been counting on, Kevin was not a smart boy. He would be there, Tate could feel it.
Now, there was only a waiting game, a curious tension as he grew more anticipatory to see who arrived behind the abandoned custodial shed FIRST.