The Revenge Playbook

by Rachael Allen

  There are no other cars in the dirt lot next to the corn maze. Either the boys are gone or they parked on the street. We creep toward the cornfield with our flashlights off, tripping over rocks and each other. A few flickering mosquito lanterns sway in the breeze on Old Lady Howard’s back porch. In the feeble halo of light, I can see we’re alone. And based on the empty cans of paint and beer that litter the grass surrounding the statue, the football team has already been here.

  Melanie Jane approaches the goblin king and touches a tentative finger to his thigh. “It’s still wet,” she whispers. “We can’t be far behind now.”

  “Damn straight.” I clap my hands together. “They better watch their backs!”

  “Shhh,” hisses Ana. She cocks her head toward the house. “She’s probably still awake.”

  We circle around the statue, surveying their paint job in crisscrossing flashlight beams. It’s terrible. And I don’t just mean their technique—clumsy streaks of spray paint in black and silver with a little purple thrown in too—Panther colors. They’ve sprayed the words Panther Football Rocks across his chest, a purple penis directed at his mouth, a silver one at his butt, and does that say what I think it does? I shine my light at his crotch where someone has painstakingly painted the word Fag in skinny purple letters.

  Ana looks like she’s grinding her teeth into dust. “What do you want to bet Big Tom was behind this?”

  “How do you know?” I shine my flashlight at her, and she squints. Oops.

  “Because a few weeks ago he—” She catches herself. “It’s not my secret to tell, but let’s just say intolerance is one of his hobbies.” Her eyes are so angry, I swear they could split that statue right down the middle. “We need to fix this before I punch something.”

  Peyton rustles through her Walmart bags. “Here.” She holds out two cans to Ana. “Do you want black or silver? I also have—”

  “Those’ll work.” Ana takes them both, and eyes the statue in disgust. “I’ll be on hate-crime duty.”

  “Do you have any hot pink?” I ask Peyton.

  She grins. “Yes.”

  “Excellent. I know the goblin king didn’t have hot-pink boots, but I totally feel like he should have.” I bounce over and get to work on the wardrobe change.

  Melanie Jane drags a tree stump over so she can reach his face. Peyton alternates between photo documentation, shining her flashlight so we can see better, and throwing the trash the boys left into an empty Walmart bag. Oh, and turning her head to glance at Old Lady Howard’s house at five-second intervals because she is still peeing her pants over the thought of getting caught.

  I finish the front half of the boots, stretch, and check out Melanie Jane’s handiwork. She has somehow managed to cover different parts of his face with a bag while spraying so the paint looks almost like makeup. I move around to the back. Ana has painted over his entire cloak in black so you can’t see the penis anymore, and is just finishing up a huge silver equality sign on his back.

  “Nice,” I say.

  “You too.” She smiles at my pink boots, which I have to say do look pretty amazing.

  Ana paces around to the front and is about to black out Panther Football Rocks when I say, “WAIT!”

  She holds up her hands in confusion. “What? I didn’t realize ‘Panther Football Rocks’ was a critical message to share with the rest of the world.”

  I giggle. “Just black out the ‘Rocks’ part, okay? I’ll take care of the rest.”

  We exchange evil-genius eye glints. “Cool,” she says.

  I’m putting the final touches on David Bowie’s go-go boots, when I hear it.

  Music.

  Softly at first, and then it’s blaring through the yard over the outdoor speakers. Floodlights tear apart the night sky, and we blink like frightened mice. Old Lady Howard stands silhouetted in the doorway, nightgown billowing around her, silver hair reaching in every direction like it could snatch moths from the air and gobble them up.

  I think I hear Peyton whisper, “We’re all going to die.”

  “What are you doing?” she asks with a voice like rusty nails.

  Me? Is she asking me? I always thought her lazy eye made her look kind of sweet and discombobulated, but now I can’t tell if she’s looking at me, and it is absolutely nerve-wracking!

  Melanie Jane recovers before the rest of us and bravely approaches the wooden porch with the warped slats. “We can leave right now,” she says, her voice impressively calm. “We’re very sorry to have disturbed you. There’s no need to call the police or anything. We’re leaving right now.”

  When she stops talking, I catch a few words of the song. “. . . power of voodoo . . .” Wait. Is she playing “Magic Dance”? She is. I feel an odd sense of relief. Anyone blaring music from Labyrinth probably isn’t going to maim us or send us to jail. Right?

  We back away with slow, careful steps, edging ourselves away from her and in the direction of the car.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?” she shouts.

  I cringe and stop moving. “We were just going to leave, ma’am. If that’s okay.”

  She nods at the Bowie statue. “Did you finish the job yet?”

  I blink. Does she mean what I think she means? We compare notes with our eyes, all wondering the same thing.

  “You didn’t disturb me,” she says, leaning against the railing for support. “Them boys did. Hootin’ and hollerin’ like a bunch of banshees. And I ain’t gonna call the police neither.” She points a gnarled finger at Peyton, who nearly faints on the spot. “I seen this one picking up trash.”

  I close my eyes and thank the Lord that Peyton loves the environment.

  “You better make sure you’re finished, though. I don’t like people leaving a job half done.” Old Lady Howard creaks down the steps and out into the yard, where she circles the statue with eagle eyes. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Are you sure you’re done?”

  Ana and Melanie Jane nod furiously. When I say “Almost,” I think they are going to skin me alive.

  I pick up my can of paint and spray the word Sucks underneath Panther Football in bubbly pink letters. “There.” I smile and tuck the can of paint into our makeshift trash bag.

  “Anyone else?” asks Old Lady Howard.

  Peyton, who up until now hasn’t even touched the statue, takes a step forward. “Well, actually, um . . .”

  She removes a round container from one of the bags and approaches the goblin king with delicate steps. A lid pops off. Her dainty fingers reach inside. And she sprinkles the crystal ball on the end of his cane with glitter. GLITTER. Can you believe it?

  “That looks real nice,” says Old Lady Howard before she hobbles back into the house on arthritic knees.

  I throw my arms around Peyton’s neck. “Have I told you that I am in love with you?”

  5

  Thursday, August 20

  ANA

  I catch Grayson by the sleeve on the way to my last class of the day.

  “Hey, I don’t have work today. You want a ride?”

  He holds out his hands like Lady Justice. “Hmm. Riding the bus with the unwashed masses or getting chauffeured by one of my best friends? I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

  “Cool.” I squeeze him on the shoulder and head to class.

  It’s usually just the two of us on the days when I don’t work. The other guys have clubs or sports or whatever, but Grayson and I aren’t really joiners. Well, I’m not anymore anyway.

  I don’t see him in the hallway after the last bell. He isn’t in the parking lot yet either, so I sit in my car and wait. It’s safer that way. Standing around while the other kids pass me by is asking for trouble because you never know who’s coming out of those double doors next. I check my phone, but there’s nothing. He would have texted me if he’d changed his mind—and then I’d have to wonder if his body had been taken over by aliens. I guess I can give him a few more minutes. I flip on the radio and am hit with an insatiabl
e need for lip balm. I dig through my purse because there’s always at least one tube in there, and I swear I can feel the skin around my lips cracking. My fingers close around some Burt’s Bees Pomegranate. Whew. I run the lip balm over my lips, my eyes closing, a satisfied sigh escaping me. My obsession with non-dry lips used to crack Melanie Jane up. She called them my “Lip Balm Panic Attacks,” and the guys picked it up too.

  When my eyelids flutter open I finally see Grayson. And I know something is wrong.

  His shoulders are hunched, his backpack hanging from his hand and bumping against his leg as he walks down the stairs. Grayson is usually one of those ray-of-sunshine people. It’s the kind of personality I find annoying on most people but endearing on him. The closer he gets, the more I worry. His hair is messed up, and not in the artful, Grayson way, and there are splotches all over his shirt. They’re white and they look kind of like . . .

  I roll down the window. “Is that—?” I can’t even bring myself to say it.

  “It’s mayonnaise,” he says.

  I fall back against my seat in relief, but only for a second. “What happened to you?”

  “Big Tom and a couple of other guys jumped me in the bathroom.” He opens the door and sets his backpack on the floorboard. “They roughed me up a little and squeezed mayonnaise packets all over me. I’ll be fine.” He looks down at his shirt. “I guess I shouldn’t wear this in your car though.”

  He pulls his polo over his head, but his white undershirt sticks to it in the places where the mayonnaise seeped through, and I catch a glimpse of the angry red welts on his stomach before he can tug it back down.

  “Oh my gosh! Grayson!” I caught at least five places where they pinched and twisted his skin, and I didn’t even see that much of him.

  “I’m fine.” He sits down and smooths his hair back, and when he takes off his sunglasses, his eyes are red.

  I think I can actually feel my heart breaking. “You’re not fine,” I say softly.

  “Can you just take me home?”

  His voice has pent-up tears in it, and I know how horrible it is to cry where someone might see you, so I don’t say anything else. I drive to our neighborhood in silence.

  When I get to his driveway, though, I have a hard time staying quiet.

  “This is really screwed up. Has it happened before?”

  His lack of an answer means it has.

  “But they can’t keep getting away with this. You have to tell someone.”

  “You mean the way you told someone?”

  There isn’t enough air in the car. “I don’t—”

  “Oh, come on, Ana. We know you don’t want to talk about it and we’re all okay with that, but you can’t pretend like nothing happened.”

  Grayson would understand. I know he would. But I’ve gotten so good at hiding the old wounds that the thought of opening them again, everything fresh and raw, is overwhelming.

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  He pulls my hand into his lap and squeezes it. “I can’t either,” he says sadly.

  I can’t cry in Grayson’s driveway when he’s the one who got beat up at school. I’m pretty sure that would make me a bigger drama queen than Melanie Jane. I can’t cry in my own driveway either because one of my parents might see me, and they’d be all, “Are you okay, princesinha?” and then I might tell them what happened, and then they might disown me.

  I drive a couple of blocks until I’m halfway between my house and Grayson’s and halfway blinded by tears. Not telling is definitely the best policy. I learned that pretty quickly after. I only told two people. The first was one of the school counselors. It was the Monday after the party. They’re always saying how “the door is always open.” And “you can talk about anything.” The first part was true.

  I had knocked on the door even though it was, in fact, open. A small knock. Quick and light. An I-don’t-want-to-be-here, please-don’t-hear-this-so-I-can-turn-and-go knock. The counselor saw me before I could take more than a step away from the door.

  “Ana?” Damn.

  “Oh, yeah, hi.” I shuffled into the office and closed the door behind me. There was no way in hell I wanted anyone overhearing this.

  “What can I help you with?” Her smile was so big it hurt to look at it. I was a freshman cheerleader. School had just started. She probably thought I was there for a schedule change. What kind of problems could a girl like me possibly have? She’d know in a minute.

  “I needed to talk to someone,” I said to the coffee mug on her desk. “About something.”

  She frowned, but it still wasn’t nearly serious enough. “Well, sure. What do you need to talk about?”

  “I was at a party this weekend. And someone did things to me.” I somehow got the words out. My hands clenched into fists on top of my jeans. “I didn’t want him to.” I cracked open, and the pain spilled onto the floor.

  “It’s going to be okay.” She finally looked properly horrified. “Have you told the police or your parents? Have you been to a doctor?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

  This was the hardest thing. “I don’t really know. I mean, I know something happened. But it’s hazy. I remember . . .” That awful shot. Dancing. Euphoria. Lines between objects melting together like watercolors. His breath in my ear. Stumbling. A bed. Hands where I didn’t want them. Heavy eyelids. Dead limbs. “Things. Chad gave me a shot and after—things happened.” I sank my teeth into the inside of my lip, a distraction from the other kind of hurt.

  “Chad? Chad MacAllistair?” And it was like her whole face changed.

  I nodded. “I think he put something in my drink.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, I felt so out of it so fast. And I only had one drink.” One horrible-tasting shot that clung to the inside of my mouth.

  “Are you sure?”

  The question caught me by surprise. “Yes.”

  Wait. Did she not believe me? Was that what this was about?

  Her eyes were sharp. “But you said your memory is hazy. It’s possible you had more drinks after the first one?”

  It wasn’t, and I knew it. But did I? Really? There were bigger things about that night that I didn’t know.

  “I guess so,” I finally said.

  She nodded. “And maybe the first one was very strong.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  She nodded again like now we were getting somewhere. “So, you were with Chad and you were drinking. What happened next?”

  “Well, we were dancing. I started feeling really dizzy, so he said we’d go upstairs and get me some water. And then we ended up in this bedroom, and—” My voice cut off, and the sick feeling in my stomach became almost unbearable. I never realized memories could feel like physical things that tore at your insides. I took a deep breath and tried again. “He was kissing me, and I know he did other things too.”

  “And during this time, did you tell him no? Did you try to stop him?” Her voice was kind, but I had an uneasy feeling, like I was on a witness stand and she was the lawyer for the other team.

  The powerless feelings flooded me again. I wrapped my arms around myself. “I said no. I couldn’t move very well, I think because of the drink.”

  “And then you and Chad had sex?”

  That was the question that broke me. I started crying then, great big angry sobs that shook my whole chest. She handed me some tissues. It was a long time before I could talk again. “I don’t know exactly because everything went dark.”

  The ugly, broken thing was out there in the open. The part that made me want to never get out of bed again and turned my insides cold. Because how was I supposed to explain to my dad, the man who had taken me to mass every week since before I could remember that I didn’t know if I was a virgin anymore?

  The counselor held my hands and let me cry for a while. Then she was back to business. “I want you to think very carefully abo
ut what to do next,” she said. “What you’re telling me is you and Chad were drinking and dancing and then you went upstairs with him. You said no, but you didn’t do a whole lot to try to stop him, and you don’t actually know that anything happened.”

  Her words cut like a knife. When you put it that way, I sounded like a lying, conniving slut. She was twisting everything. “But—”

  She held up her hands to stop me. “I’m just saying to be careful. Chad’s one of the best receivers in the state. He’s probably going to get a football scholarship to a good college. Do you really want to ruin all of that for him over something you’re not sure even happened? Do you really want that kind of spotlight on you? It might be better for everyone if you could forgive him.”

  She had this look on her face like the right answer was clear, and I just needed to see it. And she was right about the spotlight part. I hadn’t thought about that. I couldn’t imagine everyone knowing. Facing that kind of judgment. But she was wrong about everything else and I knew it.

  It was all too much, and I felt like I was on my own. I found myself saying, “I’ll think about it.”

  Friday, August 21

  PEYTON

  I might as well be naked. The three-inch strip of skin between the top of my tight, black pants and the bottom of my cropped zip-up hoodie feels like it’s on fire. The sparkly dance top underneath pushes my girls up in a way that violates laws of physics and the school dress code all at once. That dream you have where you show up to school without any clothes and everyone stares at you? I’m living it. The girls at Friday Morning Fellowship are tearing me up one side and down the other with their eyes, and it’s all I can do not to run away and hide in the bathroom. They’re dressed as scandalously as they can be (some of them are probably hoping to catch a Christian boyfriend here, after all), but they have to adhere to the school guidelines or face the wrath of Vice Principal Crutcher, and I get to sidestep those same guidelines because this is the official dance team uniform.