DEDICATION
To all my best girls,
because the best ones are like sisters.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Ranburne Panther Scavenger Hunt
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Acknowledgments
Back Ads
About the Author
Books by Rachael Allen
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
RANBURNE PANTHER SCAVENGER HUNT
You will complete the following 14 dares—one for every game the Panther football team won last year. All dares must be photo documented in order to count. The entire team must be present for each dare even if it doesn’t take the entire team to complete the dare. If and only if you complete every dare on the list, you may proceed to Catcalls in Slocomb where you can exchange the completed dare list for the Football of ’76. Ask for Destiny. Should you fail to retrieve the football before Catcalls closes at 3:00 a.m., you will be walking onto the field naked at Homecoming. Good luck.
In Ranburne:
1. Fill a condom up with water. Draw a face on it. Put it on Principal Corso’s doormat, and ding-dong ditch. (One person)
2. The egg-on-a-string trick. Hang an egg from a power line by a string and watch a car run into it. (Everyone)
3. Paint the David Bowie statue at Old Lady Howard’s corn maze. (Everyone)
4. Chair race through Walmart. (Everyone)
5. Get a picture of the team with the Ranburne Panther. (Everyone)
6. Go to the Dawsonville football field. Find that stupid rock they touch before their games. Pee on it. (Everyone)
In Nashville:
7. Visit the illustrious Delta Tau Beta fraternity at Vanderbilt. Have a beer with Panther alum TJ McNeil and take a picture of the legendary scar he got during a game-winning play against Dawsonville. (One person)
8. Go to LP Field and reenact the “Music City Miracle.” (Everyone)
9. Go to Centennial Park and jump in the pond behind the Parthenon. (Everyone)
10. Go to The Jackrabbit Saloon. Walk to the very middle of the dance floor and attempt to do the worm. (One person)
11. Go up to a girl who is totally out of your league, get down on your knees, and ask her to marry you. (One person)
12. Go up to a fat girl and tell her “You’re so beautiful . . . for a fat chick.” Bonus points if she throws her drink on you. (One person)
13. Hug a biker. Bonus points if he has a mullet. (One person)
14. Get a girl to give you her thong. (One person)
5:30 P.M.
MELANIE JANE
My hands grip the paper tight like it might evaporate. This is it. The Ranburne Panther Scavenger Hunt dare list. Our best and last chance at revenge.
Every kid in this town has been hearing about the hunt since before middle school, back when the idea of the high school boys doing an annual tear-up-the-town scavenger hunt seemed like the coolest thing you can imagine. Now that I am actually in high school with them, the football team has lost their heroic shine. But the hunt? It’s mythical.
“I still can’t believe I got her to give us the list,” says Ana.
“Do you really think we can beat them?” asks Peyton.
“I want to read it next!” squeals Liv.
“Here.” I smack the list down on the console in Ana’s car where everyone can see it. “It’s not going to be easy.”
It really isn’t, but after weeks of planning, we are so close I can taste it. I picture us holding that precious football, Weston having to walk onto the field naked at Homecoming, and I grin.
The hunt is football players only—a rite of passage the older Varsity players put the rookies through. Unless you count Destiny, the grizzled stripper who has apparently played the part of list keeper since the beginning of time, no girl has ever held this list before. That’s why it’s extra important that we beat them.
“I think we have a shot.” I read over the dares one more time. “But we’re going to need to plan this really carefully. I think we should go back to Ranburne. We can talk strategy on the way.”
The three of them nod in agreement.
Ana checks the clock on the dashboard. “It’s five thirty. Do you think the boys have already started? I can have us in Ranburne by six o’clock, maybe sooner.”
She shakes her black hair out of her eyes so she can check for oncoming traffic before pulling out of the parking lot across from Catcalls.
I frown at the list. “Actually, you know what? Let’s go to Dawsonville first. We can get the Walmart chair races out of the way and pick up all the stuff we’re going to need for the rest of the dares.”
Liv points to dare number six. “Oh! And we can go to Dawsonville’s football field while we’re there.”
“Uh-huh.” I feel my face tighten. There is no way I am peeing in public. On camera. I can’t think of anything less ladylike.
Ana grimaces as she changes lanes. “Some of those dares are really disgusting.”
“Right?” I’m so glad I’m not the only one who is freaked out over this peeing business.
“I mean, telling a girl she’s pretty for a fat chick? Getting a thong? I wonder if there’s any way we can modify them and still have it count.”
Yes. Modify them. Excellent idea! And let’s modify the one about the peeing while we’re at it.
“Some of those dares are going to be easier for us,” says Peyton. “Liv, you’re out of my league. I could totally ask you to marry me. And it’s going to be way easier for us to get a thong.”
“I wonder if she’d think that was cheating,” says Liv. “Maybe we should ask a boy to marry us instead of a girl.”
Ana snorts. “Yeah, but how are we supposed to find a boy wearing a thong?”
Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Especially in Nashville. “Maybe instead we get a boy to wear a thong? And, like, dance around in it or something?”
The girls all start cackling.
“That I could get on board with,” says Ana. “I have a feeling Destiny would be okay with it too.”
“Hey, how did you get her to agree to this anyway?” asks Liv. “When she told us no back there, I thought we were done for. What did you say to her?”
The atmosphere in the car changes. I had been wanting to know the same thing, but wasn’t sure how to ask.
“Oh, um.” Ana’s knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. “I just— We understand each other, that’s all. I was able to make her see why this is so important.”
Well, that was the vaguest answer in the history of the universe. None of us press her on it though. Something in her voice says not to.
“So, we still haven’t figured out what to do about the fat chick one.”
Ana. Always the master of changing the subject.
The car goes quiet again. Not in an uncomfortable way. Thinking quiet. We’re unable to come up with a way to put our own non-evil spin on this one, but we can figure it out later. I put the scavenger hunt locations into my phone, so I can maximize our efficiency. Luckily, everywhere we need to go in Nashville is only five to ten minutes apart.
And then Ana pulls into the Dawsonville Walmart, and I start barking orders like a drill sergeant. “Okay. Let’s get the supplies first in case they kick us out after the chair races. Peyton, you get the paint. You’re so innocent looking, no one would suspect you of vandalism. Does anyone mind buying condoms?”
“I can do t
hat,” says Liv.
“Awesome. I’ll get some flashlights.” I grin. “And a thong. That leaves string and eggs. Ana, can you get those?”
“Sure.”
The second the car comes to a complete stop, we scatter. Run to the entrance. Grab baskets. Like sweeping through Walmart in every direction as part of a covert mission is something we do every day.
We need to fly through these dares because I have no idea how far ahead the boys might be. One major advantage (other than our inherent awesomeness): the boys don’t know they have competition. The rookies do the hunt as one group, not competing against each other. It’s supposed to enhance team unity or something. Because I guess slapping each other on the butt all the time isn’t enough.
I throw four flashlights in my basket and rush to the underwear section. Granny panties, boy shorts, crazy lace contraptions. Thongs! There they are. I grab the most ridiculous one I can find, pink with lacy ruffles, and sprint to the front of the store. I hope I’m first. Not that it’s a race.
Except it is. Because Ana and I burst out of the aisles at exactly the same time, and there is one and only one checkout counter open. Our eyes meet, and we both know this is a showdown, and we go for it. I slap my basket on the counter just in front of hers, and she rolls her eyes like she wasn’t competing too. Victory is sweet. We laugh uncontrollably while the Walmart lady rings up our items and stares at us like we are mentally deranged.
Ana and I walk our “groceries” to the car, and Liv joins us a minute later. We have to wait a little bit for Peyton.
“Sorry,” she says. “There was one thing I had trouble finding.”
Um, I thought she was just getting paint, but whatever. We throw everything in the trunk, and then it’s back inside for chair races.
“The office supplies are at the back!” yells Liv.
A few shoppers turn to watch the crazy girls run past. We each grab a rolling desk chair, and Ana turns on her video camera.
“We’re going from here to the housewares aisle.” She barely gives us time to get into position before she shouts, “Ready. Set. Go!”
I kick off hard and pump my legs. Liv is my real competition. Peyton’s spindly legs were not designed for chair races, but Liv’s got some quads on her. Ana’s more concerned about getting good footage of the race than trying to win, so I think I’ve got this. Housewares is coming up soon. Just a few more kicks.
Liv puts on a burst of speed and passes me just as we reach the finish line, aka a selection of laundry baskets. Her chair keeps rolling as she pumps her fists in the air.
Peyton’s chair putters to a stop just past the finish line. “Maybe we should get out of here. Like, before they catch us?” She checks over her shoulder for authority figures.
“It’s too late,” says Liv, reversing her chair and kicking toward Peyton. “You’re already in trouble.”
“What?” Her brown eyes dart around the store.
Then Liv crashes into her, bumper-cars style, and they both fall apart laughing. Thankfully, no one seems to be able to recover from our weirdness fast enough to arrest us, so we’re able to get back to the car without so much as a lecture. The other girls are checking the list again, but I don’t have to. I know what’s next. And I am dreading it.
I pull a small pack of baby wipes from my purse. That was way too much physical activity for my sweat glands to handle, and now I feel positively gross. I wipe myself down while my friends crack jokes about my obsession with looking polished at all times. Friends. If you had told me two months ago that the four of us would be sitting in this car together, I never would have believed you.
1
Friday, August 7 (Seven weeks earlier)
PEYTON
No one here knows you’re a loser. Take a deep breath. Stand up straight. Smile.
And no one has to know.
I wait my turn for dance team sign-ins with dozens of other girls and try to ignore the feeling of being in a cattle line. If I can get through another day of auditions without passing out from fear, I will consider it a raging success.
The two girls in front of me were in my geography class last year. I should totally say hi to them. It would be easy. I’m going to do it, like, right now. Well, maybe in a minute. After the heart palpitations stop.
“Hi,” I finally say. I tuck a sheet of light brown hair behind my ear out of habit, then pull it out again so it won’t get a wrinkle.
They either don’t hear me or pretend they don’t. Awesome. I am off to an awesome start.
“Can you believe the routine from yesterday?” I say it a little louder, plowing through the jitters. “The choreography at the end was really intense.”
This time one of the girls glances at me over her shoulder before turning back to her friend. She can hear me—I just don’t have enough cool points to be worthy of her attention. This is the part of dance team tryouts I hate. The awkward-small-talk-during-breaks, all-the-other-girls-safely-in-their-cliques part. I sigh. Sometimes I feel like there’s this extra layer to the world of social interaction that’s invisible to shy people, and if I could only see it, I’d be able to make friends.
The summer before eighth grade, I did the thing from the teen movies where you have a summer transformation—the braces came off, I bought new clothes, I even learned how to use a flatiron. It didn’t work out the way it does in the movies though. It wasn’t like everyone suddenly noticed me. Well, Karl noticed me. This is the first thing I’ve tried to do for myself since I broke up with him. And I know it’s just making the dance team, but sometimes it feels like a test. If I fail it, I fail at being on my own.
It’s my turn to sign in, so I write Peyton Reed in my neat, clear handwriting and sit down on a patch of grass to stretch while I wait for the good part of tryouts—the dancing.
“We’re going to run through yesterday’s routine again,” yells Coach Tanner. “Make sure you’re where you can see one of the veterans, and remember, we’re just practicing right now. There’s no need to be anxious.”
Yeah, right. If you’re dancing and the coaches are watching, it’s part of the audition. I know they want to see how fast we learn, and I’m not going to disappoint. I hurry to join Liv Lambros’s group—she’s the only sophomore veteran leading her own practice group. She’s also the best dancer on the team.
“Hey! Are you guys psyched about how awesome this dance is? Because I am psyched!” Liv bounces up and down a little as she talks, her blonde curls fighting their elastic.
There is some awkward smiling/mumbling/head nodding.
“I am going to pretend that means you are all REALLY PSYCHED!”
I giggle, and she smiles at me. Score!
Then the music starts, and we’re all in the zone. Liv rattles off the eight count while she goes through yesterday’s steps. She has this amazing spark when she dances—she commands your attention even though some of the other girls on the team are better technical dancers. I pray the spark is contagious.
Yesterday, we mostly worked without the music, doing the steps at half-time until we had them perfect. Today we are at full speed. You never appreciate how fast a Beyoncé song is until you’re expected to do two double pirouettes during the first verse. The crazy thing is, at ballet class last week I was cranking out triple pirouettes no problem, but it’s different now because my feet have to be parallel instead of turned out. Plus, with hip-hop everything’s off center instead of straight up and down, so my center of gravity pretty much hates me right now. I try to keep up and do a pretty good job considering how long it’s been. I need to rebuild my stamina, though. Ballet doesn’t push me in the same way. By the second time through the song, I am panting like crazy. By the third, I decide Beyoncé is a sadist.
When the song ends for the third time, the coaches signal a water break, and I take the opportunity to flop on the ground. This would be a whole lot easier if I was still taking my other dance class. If I hadn’t cut hip-hop out of my life two years ago. I saw
a documentary about phantom limbs once. Someone loses an arm or a leg, and even though it’s gone, they still feel the pain of it, haunting them. Well, hip-hop is my phantom limb. I think about it. I dream about it. I pop sassy moves into my ballet routines without even meaning to, and if I hear more than a few beats of bass, I’m busting out spontaneous choreography.
And ballet is great, don’t get me wrong. But all I am is straight-laced and predictable and controlled. Hip-hop was my one outlet to be something else. To feel something different. So I’m worse than the phantom-limb people. Because if they had a chance to have their limb back, you know they’d take it in a heartbeat. And I’ve been living without a piece of myself for the past year because other people made me feel ashamed of it.
When the music starts again, I don’t worry about keeping up. I don’t worry about anything. I let myself go and maybe, just maybe, reclaim a little piece of what I lost. I can’t stop grinning. I forgot how much fun this could be. I feel a burst of energy I didn’t have before—there is more air in my leaps, more booty in my shake. When I get to the end of the song, I realize I may have gotten through the entire thing mistake-free. The best part: I don’t know because I was having so much fun I forgot to count my mistakes.
Liv bumps me with her hip. “Nice job, rookie.”
“Hey, thanks!”
She noticed! I am giddy for the rest of practice.
When we finish, I walk to the parking lot to wait for my mom. She won’t be off work for at least half an hour. I picture what Karl would say if he saw the way I danced at tryouts today. The things he said to me last year when I called him crying after the lock-in and told him I was having second thoughts about dance team tryouts replay in my head.
They dance like how strippers dance. I can’t believe that’s even something you would want.
I’m just trying to protect you. Women who do stuff like that are one step above whores. I don’t want people thinking about you that way.
You’re so shy—do you really think they’d pick you anyway?
The Revenge Playbook Page 1
