The Revenge Playbook

by Rachael Allen

  He takes a step closer. The apparent safety of the open hallway is an illusion. I hate hearing him say my name. Seeing him smile that half smile like he didn’t tear my entire world apart. Like I don’t know what kind of person he really is. Part of me wants to run away and never look back. The other part wants to strap him to a medieval torture device until he tells me every last thing that happened that night.

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you,” he says. And just like that he’s gone. Not another look. Not another thought. Because even though he did what he did, everything is always totally freaking peachy in Chad MacAllistair land.

  Joining forces with Melanie Jane is worth getting even with him. Anything would be worth getting even with him. I text back:

  I’m on it.

  I know it’s kind of dumb. An inflated piece of pigskin isn’t going to counterbalance what happened to me—I don’t care if it is the Football of ’76. The scars I’m hiding are bigger than the ones you get from being called a slut or getting dumped by your loser boyfriend. A silly little revenge plot isn’t going to erase them. But the idea of being united instead of facing the great heaving darkness alone? That feels like it could change everything.

  I drive shakily to Jake’s to put in a couple of hours and pick up my pay stub before heading home—being the first sophomore with a license is one of the few perks of getting held back because of my English when we moved here in second grade. Shouts are coming from my backyard when I pull into the driveway, so I follow the noises through the grass along the side of the house. The kitchen window is open, and the smell of feijoada tumbles out—I can practically taste the black beans and pork trimmings. My embarrassingly PDA parents are drinking red wine and looking like they might eat each other instead of the food.

  I round the corner of the house and burst out laughing at the scene that is currently taking place in my backyard. Grayson is trying on an embroidered jacket, Toby is making dragon eggs, Isaiah is slashing at the air with a fake sword, and Matthew is filming it all with a digital video camera.

  “Ana!” they yell when they see me.

  I hop over and give each one a squeeze. These are my boys. My best and truest friends. They were there for me when I made the cheerleading squad in seventh grade—thus unexpectedly catapulting myself into the popular-kid stratosphere—and they are still here for me now, after my fall from grace.

  “How are we doing?” I ask, digging around in my bag for my new lip balm.

  “Pretty good,” says Grayson. “The first couple of episodes are going to be brutal, but after that we won’t have as many new props and costumes to make, so it’ll get a lot easier.”

  We have this year-long assignment for our broadcasting class: start a vlog and post a one- to five-minute video each week. Naturally, we decided to reenact Game of Thrones, Season 1, in one-minute episodes. We’re also posting clips of how we’re making some of the props and stuff.

  “Cool. Well, I can help out for most of tonight.” I grab a box of thumbtacks and carry it over to Toby. “What’s up, Tobes? Need some help?”

  “Sure.”

  He passes me a Styrofoam egg, and I get to work pushing in thumbtacks so they look like tiny scales. It’s monotonous work but not in a bad way.

  “Are we painting them today too?” I ask Toby after a few minutes.

  He doesn’t answer, so I push his shoulder. “Toby?”

  “Huh? Oh, sorry.” He rubs at his eyes. “Man, I’m tired.”

  “Why are you so tired? School just started. Are you addicted to video games again?” I tease.

  He fumbles with his handful of thumbtacks and almost drops them. “No, but I had to, like, assist a friend with something late last night.”

  “That’s the sketchiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  His face is turning redder by the second. “Oh, no. It’s nothing bad. It’s nothing bad.”

  I laugh. “What, are you a drug dealer now?”

  “It’s nothing bad. I just don’t want to tell you.” He goes back to his dragon egg.

  “Yeah, I’m just gonna assume you’re a drug dealer until you tell me otherwise,” I say. “You can’t bring something like this up and not tell me.”

  Toby sighs. “Well, it’s just that I have a new girlfriend, so I need to spend a lot of time with her. Cool?”

  Like with a question mark. Like he’s asking me if it’s cool.

  This time I force myself to keep the laughter on the inside. “Yeah. Yeah, that is very cool.”

  He gets this smug grin that is both goofy and adorable. “Thanks. For some reason, I just didn’t want to tell you.”

  This does not surprise me. I’m always having to convince one or another of them that they are not in love with me. I don’t mean for it to sound like I’m some great beauty. It’s just that I’m the only girl most of them have regular contact with, so it’s not all that surprising that at some point they have all confessed their undying devotion. Except Grayson. Based on the number of times he’s fought me over who gets to be Princess Daenerys, I suspect there is something he hasn’t told us yet.

  “You know, I guess it was a pretty jerk move to keep it a secret, so here’s how you’re going to make it up to me,” I say. “I have questions. About the football team.”

  Toby is one of their trainers (which is a fancy way to say “water boy”), plus he’s the kind of guy you just want to tell secrets to, so I have a feeling he hears everything.

  He snort-laughs. “You do?”

  I shrug and go back to thumbtacking my egg so as not to seem too interested. “Yeah, I mean, that stupid football, for instance. Do they really only take it out for games? I bet they take turns bringing it home at night and snuggling with it.”

  Toby rolls his eyes. “They don’t do that. But, well, there are certain special occasions they take it out for.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Well, you know they take it out for the scavenger hunt.”

  “Oh, yeah, everybody knows about that.”

  I am not exaggerating. For all their secret brotherhood BS, the football team can’t keep their collective mouth shut when it comes to bragging about the scavenger hunt. It happens every year the weekend before Homecoming, and the new guys have to get through an entire list of crazy dares, and at the very end they get the football. Oh, and if they fail, they have to walk onto the field naked at Homecoming. That’s weeks away though.

  “They’re taking it out next Saturday too,” says Toby.

  “Really? What for?” I manage to keep my tone disinterested (I hope).

  “This induction thing for the new Varsity guys. They’re doing it at midnight in this abandoned barn at Big Tom’s, and it’s supposed to be the ‘most badass thing ever.’ I’m not allowed to go.” He jabs a pin into his egg with an unnecessary amount of force. Then his eyes get big. “Hey, please don’t tell anyone what I told you, okay? The guys would kill me.”

  “Of course not,” I say, but the lie makes me feel like the worst friend ever. I have to make a getaway before the guilt becomes intolerable. “I think it’s almost time for dinner, so I better go. I’ll come back after though.”

  I wave bye to the rest of the guys and open the door to the kitchen—loudly so my parents know to stop making out. I’m greeted by a frenzy of licks.

  “Falkor!”

  When I was nine years old, I watched The NeverEnding Story for the first time and realized that my life would not be complete until I owned a luckdragon. You should have seen me at the pet store when the owner told me they didn’t sell those—I bawled the entire way home, against my dad’s entreaties that we buy a dog or maybe a guinea pig. I insisted nothing but a luckdragon would do and locked myself in my room with my book copy of The Neverending Story.

  Two weeks later, I got Falkor for Christmas. He was sixteen pounds of wiggly Great Pyrenees goodness, and he looked pretty dang close to a luckdragon. But my dad wasn’t finished there. We bought out the nearby Michael’s of all their faux
pearls and rhinestones, and my dad helped me build a custom-made harness that was a precise replica of Falkor’s back. You should have seen him holding the tiny pearls in his huge fingers, painstakingly applying each one as I directed. The harness was, and still is, a thing of beauty. For a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound Brazilian man, my father is quite the BeDazzler.

  I spent the rest of Christmas break dressed up like Atreyu, taking Falkor on walks around the neighborhood, pumping my little fist in the air.

  I scratch Falkor behind his ears the way he likes and drift over to the pan of pão de queijo (the Brazilian version of cheese bread) my mom just popped out of the oven.

  “Not yet, princesinha, they’re hot,” she says, squeezing me into a hug and kissing both cheeks.

  I pause, my fingers centimeters away from the one with the most cheese sprinkled on top. My dad winks at me as he snatches one up and bites into it.

  “Ah!” He drops it back on the tray.

  “Told you,” says my mom without turning around.

  I snicker and hand him a glass of water.

  “Thanks, princesinha. Hey, what do you have there?”

  I flip over the piece of paper I’m holding. “Pay stub.”

  “It’s a lot to keep your grades up and have a job.” He wraps his arm around me tight because I’ve been in the house for a whole thirty seconds and haven’t received one of his bear hugs yet. “I’m really proud of you, you know?”

  “Thanks,” I say without looking at him.

  If he knew what happened at that party last year, I wonder if he’d still be saying that.

  RANBURNE PANTHER SCAVENGER HUNT

  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 into 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)

  DARES REMAINING: 12

  7:10 P.M.

  ANA

  The boys could be anywhere. Leaving a prophylactic at Principal Corso’s house. Hanging an egg over any of Ranburne’s dusty streets. Driving up to the front of the school right now where they’ll catch us, and figure out exactly what we’re doing, and maybe—probably—murder us. The girls laugh as they cluster around the panther statue, Liv jumping onto his back while Peyton and Melanie Jane plant a kiss on each of his granite cheeks. I want to join in, but I can’t shake the dread I’m feeling.

  I attach the camera to a tripod and aim it at the panther. What happens if Chad figures out there are girls doing the hunt? And that I’m one of them? I sweep my bangs out of my eyes and force all thoughts of Chad from my mind. He’s probably at The Jackrabbit Saloon already working on getting drunk off his ass. I don’t have to worry about running into him. Yet.

  I set the timer and run at the panther, climbing on his back behind Liv. By the time the camera flashes, I’m smiling, but I know it’s not a very good one.

  “We need to get out of here,” I say, rushing back to the camera.

  My friends are still laughing, and I look up from where I’m dismantling the stand. “C’mon. I have a bad feeling.”

  That’s a good enough reason for Peyton. Melanie Jane and Liv shrug and hurry along behind us. They offer to help me carry the camera equipment, but I’m all right. Scooping ice cream all day gives me mad biceps. The girls decide the egg-on-a-string prank is next. I need to get us a safe distance from the school. To a road where we’re not likely to run into the boys. I turn out of the school parking lot. My head darts left. Then right. Is anyone around? Did anybody see us?

  Melanie Jane touches my arm. “Ana, calm down, no one is going to—”

  Peyton screams, and my heart almost explodes. Somehow, I manage to slam on the brakes in the middle of the intersection. A truck skids around us, and there’s the sound of a horn blaring, and I don’t know if it’s theirs or mine or both. The truck fishtails to a stop in front of a ditch on the other side of the road.

  “It was green! I swear the light was green!” I tear up almost instantly now that I know we’re okay.

  “It was. I saw it.” Melanie Jane’s voice is steady, calming my raw nerves. “The other car ran a red light.”

  The other car. I wipe my eyes and really focus on the shiny red truck, the back of which I suddenly notice is crammed with swearing boys. The taillights cast enough of a glow that I can make out cans of something (beer?) in their hands.

  “Go! It’s the boys! Go!” yells Liv.

  I floor it even though my hands are shaking so bad it feels like they might slip right off the steering wheel. The truck shrinks in my rearview mirror.

  Melanie Jane recovers first. “That was way, way too close.”

  “We almost got caught,” says Peyton.

  “We almost DIED,” says Liv.

  “I told you I had a bad feeling!”

  “Next time you have a bad feeling, I’m listening.” Melanie Jane shudders, and then wrinkles her nose. “Ughhh. I’m totally sweating now.”

  I smirk at her. “What’s the matter? Running out of baby wipes?”

  She narrows her eyes in a fake-mad kind of way. “You be nice or I’ll hide your lip balm.”

  She snatches it from the center console and waves it back and forth in front of her like a magician does before they make something vanish.

  “Go for it. I have at least three others in this car right now.”

  “You are one sick individual.”

  I laugh, remembering what it was like to be like this with her. My fingers finally relax on the steering wheel—my brain already figured out we’re safe, but sometimes it takes a while for the message to trickle down.

  Liv points out a good spot for the egg prank, and I park my car on the next street over because I sure as hell don’t want anyone taking down my license plate number. We traipse through the woods with our supplies (egg carton, string, video camera), and stare up at the power line that Liv has deemed ideal pranking material. The girls get started while I videotape.

  I thought it would be easy. Thought being the operative word. We break four eggs and almost get hit by a car trying to get the damn thing into position. Melanie Jane eventually throws a rock tied with string and makes it over the power line. She ever so carefully ties the string around egg number five, and we duck behind some bushes and wait.

  And wait.

  And wait. This. Blows. The moon is already out, and despite their drunken handicap, the boys are beating us, and I can’t do anything but sit here and hope a car comes along. I’m about to suggest moving to a busier street when Melanie Jane points into the darkness.

  “Look,” she says. “Lights.”

  The
lights get closer. And bigger. Holy crap, that is one big-ass truck. It tears past us, the egg exploding against its windshield. It slams on the breaks. Tires squeal against the road.

  Melanie Jane claps her hands together. “It worked. It really worked!”

  I squint at the truck through my viewfinder. “Is that like one of those monster-truck-show trucks?”

  Liv giggles. “Oh my gosh, it is. It’s like: come see Gigantor take on the egg. THIS. SATURDAY. ONLY.”

  She makes her voice deep and twangy, and we all crack up laughing. I watch the truck, waiting for it to drive away, possibly to the nearest gas station where the driver can clean off its windshield. Instead, I hear a door slam. Oh, shit.

  “You guys,” I hiss. “Someone’s getting out of the truck.”

  There’s a flurry of whispers and swearing around me, and then silence, thick and scared.

  “Y’all think that was funny?” a voice yells.

  I am 97 percent sure the voice belongs to a big, scary redneck, and 98 percent sure he intends to kill us all. I hear the scrape of work boots against the gritty street, and then he steps in front of the headlights, and my blood freezes in my veins.

  He’s got a gun.

  “I said.” Ah sayud. He cocks the gun with a terrible click-click. “Did y’all think that was funny?”

  No, please, no. It wasn’t funny at all. Please don’t kill us. And then he starts yelling about what he’s going to do to us, a symphony of threats and obscenities. The girls don’t move. They must be paralyzed with fear like I am. I stare at the gun while panic churns my insides. He’s waving it around when it happens. A flash of light. And then a blast, so loud I’m sure I’ve been shot. But no, he’s got the gun pointed in the air.

  The shot is what finally gets us moving. I tear my eyes away from him. I hear the gun cock again, empty shells clattering against the road, and I race through the trees with my friends, praying we all make it back to my car with our young lives intact.

  It’s only after we’re safely inside that I calm down enough to think about how dangerous that really was. And not just because of the gun. There could have been an accident. But they do this, year after year, hunt after hunt. Drinking and driving and hazing and racing and fighting. It’s a wonder the football team hasn’t killed anyone yet.